In Your Atmosphere (Paul McCartney/Beatles Fanfiction)

Chapter 2 - I'll Follow the Sun

"When they shake their heads, it makes you want to faint," Lizzie whispered.

"Are you serious?"

Lizzie nodded gravely. "So which one do you fancy?" she asked again, tucking a strand of hair behind one ear and leaning closer to help her decide.

As the girl nuzzled against her, Marisol had a clear memory of little Lizzie as a flaxen-haired, slightly chubby five-year-old shadowing her around her grandmother's garden. "Well, let's see..." She studied the photo. They were all quite attractive once you got used to the strange haircuts.

"I can't possibly choose," she said finally. "Who is your favorite?"

Lizzie threw a glance over her shoulder at Paul, then beckoned for Marisol to lean in close. "Paul is the cute one," she whispered.

"I can't argue with you there," Marisol whispered back, handing over the magazine.

Molly grinned up at Paul. "Ringo is my favorite!" she said, giggling.

Paul wrapped an arm around the girl's neck and scrubbed his knuckles across her ginger hair, making her squeal. "Rubbish, I know you fancy me most."

While he patiently entertained the girls' chitchat, Marisol watched the English countryside unfolding outside her window. Neatly trimmed hedges partially hid cozy cottages and larger country homes set back from the road, and patchwork hills rose in the distance over sheep-coated fields. Hills that reminded her of home.

This was the first autumn of her life that she wouldn't be in Northern California when the first white wine grapes were ready, Marisol realized, the familiar ache of loss spreading through her. She had planned to study creative writing at the University of California in Davis, where her fiancé Dan would've begun his senior year in the viticulture program. After his graduation they had planned to return to Sonoma Valley where he would help manage her family's small vineyard and winery.

Their lives were planned, right down to the number of children (four) and the Australian Shepherd they would adopt and name Sydney. She would write children's books about Sydney. Dan would be renowned for his bold Bordeaux blends. They would vacation in Cinque Terre and stroll hand in hand through the vineyards overlooking the Ligurian Sea.

Then on a rainy night in early Spring she'd been yanked from sleep by an insistent phone and the balance of her life changed. She'd grieved for Dan for months before calling her grandmother in gulping tears. "All I do is cry," she'd sobbed. "I think I need to see a psychiatrist."

Without missing a beat, Grandma Bellamy responded, "You don't need a therapist; you need a holiday."

Her mentality was: Don't wallow, even in the face of terrible tragedy. Grandma Bellamy had survived the London Blitz only to lose a son to scarlet fever. It was one of life's worst calamities, but she had demonstrated to the rest of the family that life must go on.

"A chapter in your life has closed," her grandmother had said. "Now it's time to see what's behind the next door."

Before the tears on her cheeks had dried, Marisol was on the phone with a Pan Am agent. It made perfect sense. Margo had recently moved with her two-year-old twins to London to be close to their father, an Air Force pilot based in the UK. And Marisol's childhood friend Angela was a student at London University.

In Sonoma, every sight and smell and every song on the radio reminded her of Dan. In England, she could help her sister with two lively toddlers and spend precious time with her grandmother and less time in her own head feeling sorry for herself.

Gradually the scenery turned more remote and wild, until Neil maneuvered the car into a parking area fronting a secluded stretch of beach. He drove to the end, angled the car in the last spot and looked over his shoulder. "All right, Macca?"