Above Us Only Sky (Paul McCartney/Beatles Fan Fiction)

Chapter 4 - Where Is Paul McCartney Hiding?

Marisol's mother left for California on a Wednesday morning, and the telephone in Sussex rang ten hours later.

"So tell me about your plans," Marisol's father said. "Your mother says you're delaying the wedding in favor of cohabiting with that Englishman."

Cohabiting, her father said. As if they were zoo animals. And "that Englishman"? As if he could somehow forget Paul's name.

Marisol knew immediately he had been put up to the call by her mother. And did she ever work fast.

"Mother's oversharing again." Marisol checked her watch. "And is she even home yet?"

"Marcus fetched her from the airport half an hour ago. She's worn out from all that rigamarole."

Marisol made a commiserating sound and stretched the phone cord across the kitchen so she could reach the kettle. She was going to need a strong cup of tea for this.

"She's concerned about you. We both are."

"Daddy, we haven't finalized our living arrangements yet. We've only been here a little over a week. Mel and I are all settled in here at Grandma Bellamy's house."

"And what are his plans, do you know?"

"His plans?" Marisol repeated. She lowered the phone from her ear for a split second, checking that she could still hear the music coming from the front room. She'd left Paul on the sofa, busy plucking chords on his acoustic guitar. "Regarding what?"

Her father cleared his throat. Marisol waited out the awkward static-y silence as the Transatlantic phone line crackled. "Regarding life in general and marriage to you in specific. Your mother made the observation there's been no mention of a wedding date."

Marisol fought the urge to groan. She wanted to protest that her father was prying, but she knew he was only concerned about her. About Melody.

"We haven't decided on a date exactly, Dad. We only know we want to be together. That's the crux of our plan so far."

Her father harrumphed. "That's all well and good, Daughter, but there is a child in the equation, and when the media gets hold of this story..."

An intense, stabbing headache began to pound at the middle of her forehead. "I know, Dad—"

"—your name will be plastered all over the papers when they get wind of this. A Beatles baby, an unwed mother, and with your last name? They'll be digging up all sorts of dirt on the entire Hemingway family."

Marisol yanked open a drawer, looking for headache powders. Her father was right, of course, and it was only a matter of time before the British press discovered Marisol and their secret Beatles love child. Just two days ago the Daily Mail ran this blurb: "Paul McCartney was spotted canoodling with a mystery blonde in the wee hours of the morning at the newly opened Scotch of St. James, a hangout for London's elite." The fans at the gate questioned Paul about Marisol whenever he brought her home, although with the ongoing construction they hadn't brought Melody with them yet to Cavendish. And just tonight Paul had driven miles out of his way to lose a carload of fans who had trailed him from London. Sooner rather than later, they would be headline news.

"Daddy. I understand you're concerned. We—"

"The paparazzi over there are brutal. They're the worst in the world, do you know that?"

"Yes, Daddy. I know. We don't want that either." She discovered a package of Phensic headache tablets, checked the expiration date, and tossed it back in the drawer.