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

Chapter 10 - The Family Way

"Why, darling, I don't live at all when I'm not with you."

—Ernest Hemingway, A Farewell to Arms

Marisol awoke with a jolt to the sound of an animal braying. She sat up, sucking in air through her nose, and peered through the dark into an unfamiliar bedroom. What was that noise? A dog, but not quite a dog. A wolf? In the downstairs parlor?

She blinked away the sleep and reached out a hand to check that Melody was sleeping soundly through the ruckus, exhausted from their journey. After working all day with Mr. Martin to finish the movie soundtrack, Paul had collected Marisol and Melody for the 350-mile trip up the M1 to Rembrandt, the house on the Wirral that he had bought for his father and stepmother. It was after dark when they arrived, and Jim and Angie had met them with tea and sandwiches and warm northern hospitality. Paul and his father were still sitting in the back garden, smoking and catching up when Marisol put Melody to bed in this upstairs guest room and fell asleep beside her.

She brought her watch to her face, trying to read the small face by the light of the moon through the gauze curtains. Half-past three, and it sounded like a circus train was unloading downstairs. Car doors slamming, the front door opening and closing, whooping and laughing, and an animal in deep distress.

After a final glance at Melody, Marisol swung her feet to the chilly wood floor, slipped on her kimono over her short purple nightie, scraped her hair back in an elastic band, and opened the door to look for Paul.

She found him in the downstairs front parlor, with a room full of people and luggage and a large Alsatian literally climbing the walls. The animal circled the room, dragging a leash, pausing in each corner to leap up the wall as high as it could, with sharp, agitated barks.

An immaculately dressed and made-up young blonde woman clung to the arm of a startlingly handsome man dressed in velvet with a menthol cigarette burning between his fingers. Beside them, Paul's brother Mike looked up from the luggage he'd just brought inside. "Arr ay, sorry love, did we wake ye girl?"

Paul turned around, his face lighting up when he saw Marisol. He bounced over and pulled her down the last few stairs with his fingers threaded through hers. "Come 'ead, love, I've someone for you to meet."

Over the fracas, he shouted in her ear. "T'is my friend Tara and his friend Suki."

Tara raised his chin in her direction and said something in a soft voice that Marisol couldn't hear.

"You remember me telling you about Tara, don't you love?" Paul was still shouting above the barking of the dog. "He owns the Dandy in Chelsea, where I've started buying me clothes."

Paul nudged her forward. "My lovely bride to be, Marisol Hemingway," he said, and was it her imagination, or did he slightly exaggerate her last name? She gave Tara what she hoped was a warm smile.

"Tara owns a sports-car dealership as well," Paul continued. "And Suki here is a fashion model."

Of course she is, Marisol thought, pulling the kimono tighter over her rumpled nightie. She wished she'd at least glanced in a mirror before wandering into this scene.

"We've all heard loads about you," Suki said.

"You remember Michael," Paul added, offhandedly.

Mike wore a dazzling smile, and, inexplicably, a crash helmet. "Wat is, sis!" He took off the helmet and kissed her on both cheeks. "Welcome to Rembrandt."

"Oh! Hello again...this is...um...such a nice surprise..." Marisol stammered, a hand to her chest, holding her kimono closed.

"Tara's been keen to meet you for months," Michael shouted over the dog. "When I rang me arl fella and Paul answered, I said we simply must drive up, la."