I've got arms that long to hold you
And keep you by my side
I've got lips that long to kiss you
And keep you satisfied (oh)
Marisol was making lunch in her grandmother's kitchen when the first odd thing happened.
Three days since her date with Paul, and despite having her number since the day they met, he had yet to telephone her. Granted his schedule was frantic, but no word from him after such a romantic night together gave her a twinge of disappointment. It wasn't hard to put it out of her mind though, with Margo and the twins around. There wasn't much time to think about Paul, or even Dan, which was likely the point of Margo's visit.
Margo stood at the kitchen island, slicing ingredients for chicken salad and complaining about the lack of fresh avocados at the market.
"Maybe you and Nick should move back to California, with me." Marisol was at the counter squeezing lemons for a fresh pitcher of lemonade, her niece Sophie standing on a chair beside her, cataloging every move.
"Oh, we will...eventually. Nick's requested a transfer to Travis Air Force Base. But don't tell Mother. I don't want to give her the satisfaction of knowing she's won another round."
Marisol dropped a squeezed lemon half onto the counter.
"I can have it," Sophie said, reaching for the pile of lemon rinds.
"Go ahead then," Marisol said, hiding a smile. "It won't hurt you."
The two-year-old popped a large piece of pulp into her mouth and immediately spit it out, eyes watering and face puckering. She sputtered and sank into a squat on the chair, hiding her face with tiny hands.
Margo turned from the stove at the sound of Marisol's laughter. "Are you tormenting my daughter?"
Sophie peered up at Marisol, wearing a look of betrayal.
"Sorry pumpkin. But your sister loves lemons, don't you Luce?" Marisol said.
At the sound of her name, Lucy wandered over and pulled herself up onto the chair. She picked up one of the squeezed lemons and touched it to her tongue, smacked her lips and offered it to Sophie, who touched it tentatively to her own tongue and shuddered.
"See, it won't hurt you. Your sister is right this time, but don't do everything she does, or you might end up under a china cabinet."
Margo chuckled at the shared memory. When they were small Margo had somehow scaled the china hutch to reach a bowl of candy on top. When Marisol tried it next, she brought the entire piece of furniture to the ground, breaking every one of their mother's best dishes, as well as the china hutch.
"I can't believe Mother didn't kill you for that," Margo said.
"I can't believe I didn't die before she had the chance." Marisol opened an overhead cabinet and pulled out a canister of sugar. "What sort of woman hides candy on top of a hutch where her daughters can't reach it?"
"The same sort of woman who hides the key to the liquor cabinet when they become teenagers."
"Right! It's like she thinks we have no ability to self-govern."
Tiring of the lemon peel, Lucy dropped it and stretched across the counter to the radio. Seconds later there was a crackle of static followed by the treble-heavy, tinny sound of Paul's voice coming across the airwaves. "I've got lips that long to kiss you, and keep you satisfied, ooooh!"
"Oh come on." Margo pulled a face.
Laughing, Marisol said, "I take it as a sign. A sign that I should kiss that boy again at the first opportunity."
"A sign that you're demented." Margo tapped a finger against the side of her head.
The twins clasped hands and wiggled on the chair to the music. "No chair dancing, ladies." Margo took each girl by one arm and set them on the floor.
The song was still playing when their grandmother appeared holding a newspaper. "What is the name of your young man's singing group?"
"The Beatles," Marisol answered slowly, her mind a little stuck on the phrase 'your young man.'
"I thought so." Grandma adjusted her eyeglasses and began reading. "During the first of two scheduled appearances by chart toppers The Beatles last night, a steward helping to control the crowd was bitten by a girl." She peered over her glasses. "Turn down that loud music, pet. It over-stimulates the twins."
Lucy and Sophie darted around the kitchen after the dogs like pinballs in an arcade machine. Marisol switched off the radio and Grandma cleared her throat and continued.
"Organizer Mr. Arthur Whitehead said he had about 20 stewards linking arms around the stage. 'One of them was bitten during the performance on the top of his arm by a girl, and some youngsters even crawled under the stage,' added Mr. Whitehead."
"The Beatles are turning girls into animals. It's another sign," said Margo in a mock spooky voice.
After lunch Marisol dressed the twins in sweaters and took them out in the back garden, hoping a few rays of sunshine would burn through the heavy cloud cover. She had confiscated a large bed sheet from the linen closet and the three of them were holding it by the edges, flipping it into the air and dashing underneath, letting it flutter down on their heads. There was endless giggling and rolling around in the grass. The girls were so easy to entertain at this age.
The back door opened and Ramsay and Lily tumbled into the garden, dragging the sheet from the girls' heads and turning their game into a doggie tug of war. "Hey! Give it back, Grandma doesn't want that sheet torn up!" Marisol gave chase until she spotted her sister standing on the patio holding a small vase of yellow daisies, a wry smile on her face. She crossed the grass, her eyes fixed on the flowers.
"If you hadn't let him put his tongue in your mouth on the first date, these would be roses," Margo said, handing her the vase.
The card read: "Thank you for a fab evening – Yours, Paul."
Sign number three.
Marisol was sleeping soundly when Margo banged into her room late that night in a decidedly sour mood.
"You need to tell your boyfriend we don't accept calls after midnight," Margo hissed.
Marisol sat straight up in bed, pushing her hair from her eyes. "What? What boyfriend? Is Paul here?"
"He's on the phone," Margo huffed. "Does he know what time it is in England?"
"Of course he does, he's English. You're not making any sense." Marisol pushed past her sister and hurried downstairs to the sitting room to find the receiver dangling off the end table.
"Is your sister in a strop about me ringing so late?" Paul asked as soon as she said hello.
"She'll get over it."
"How are you, pretty girl?" His voice was wonderful on the phone—deep, warm, melodious. It made her feel deep, warm, and melodious.
"I got the flowers, they're lovely."
"I wanted you to know I was thinking about you. I've been wanting to ring you up, but we're on the road at all hours. The rest of the world is sleeping and we're just getting to the next hotel."
"I'm on holiday. You can call me whenever you want." She felt herself flushing at how eager she sounded. It was true, though. She didn't mind one bit waking up to the sound of this particular male voice.
She curled her legs under her, settling back against the cushions to listen to Paul's animated account of his recent shows and the growing frenzy of the fans. Just this week someone broke into their dressing room between sets and nicked all the buttons off their shiny grey collarless suits. In another town, fans blocked the theatre entrance and the Beatles had to climb onto the roof using scaffolding and descend through a trap door.
The crowds were growing with every performance. "It must be how footballers feel when they come out and hear the crowd screaming for them," Paul said. "It's such a rush, it never gets old."
They talked about Marisol's first flying lesson two days ago, which consisted of doing the safety walk-around, performing the preflight checklist, and sitting next to Nick in the cockpit, observing everything he did before and during takeoff. He showed her what all the gauges meant and taught her nerdy pilot sayings like "Time to stop thinking like a land animal and start thinking like an air animal" as they held short of the runway. At altitude he briefly turned the controls over to her, then he took over again for the landing. She was still flushed with excitement over the experience and had her nose stuck in her flight manual at every opportunity, getting ready for the next lesson.
"I called to let you know I'll be in London on Wednesday, and I'd like to see you again if you're free," Paul said when there was a lull in the conversation.
"I'd like that," Marisol said, happily imagining the night to come. She slouched sideways, slinging her leg over one arm of the chair, wincing when her foot tangled in the cord and sent the telephone clattering to the floor.
"What was that?"
"I dropped the phone."
He laughed. "Ta-ra love. Cheers. See you Wednesday."
She said goodbye and reached for her Learning to Fly manual, far too excited now to sleep. She was two chapters in before she remembered that she'd promised to babysit the twins at Margo's London flat on Wednesday evening. Margo and Nick were celebrating his birthday, and it was her grandmother's monthly Garden Club night. She'd have to break the date with Paul. Marisol picked at a loose thread of the afghan on her lap, already missing the sound of his voice.
Margo and the twins returned to London the next morning, and that night Marisol installed herself in the sitting room with her flight manual, her journal, a book of short stories by Virginia Woolf, and a chilled glass of wine, long after her grandmother had gone up to bed. It was only to keep the phone from waking her grandmother, she told herself, and not that she was sitting around waiting for the phone to ring, obsessing over a man.
Shortly after midnight, Marisol snatched up the phone midway through the first ring.
"That was quick," Paul said, sounding amused.
"Mmm. I just happened to be walking by on the way to refill my Chablis."
"I wish I could be there, having a glass of Chablis with you."
"Me too. But listen, about Wednesday, I forgot that I have to babysit the twins in London that night. It totally slipped my mind--"
"Fantastic!" Paul cut in. "That'll be great, I'm dead good with kids."
"You want to help me babysit?"
"A night in with the girl I fancy? Don't mind if I do," he said.
Paul arrived precisely on time at the Hampstead Heath flat, dressed in jeans and a grey sweater under a tweed jacket and holding a box of chocolates for Margo. "Dead sorry for getting you out of bed last week," he told her.
"The husband is always the last to know," Nick said, reaching around Margo and shaking Paul's hand. Nick and Paul chatted about London restaurants while Margo finished getting ready. Trader Vic's, a California-based chain of Polynesian-themed restaurants, had just opened a new location in the London Hilton and Nick and Margo were meeting friends there.
The twins had been fed and bathed and dressed in their pajamas and were ready to party as soon as their parents stepped out the door. Unlike Dan, who never seemed to know how to interact with toddlers, Paul jumped straight into the fray like a lion tamer. He built a tent between the two living room sofas using sheets, string, and clothespins, and Marisol rounded up blankets and pillows and a bowl of healthy snacks. They crawled inside the tent with the girls, making funny voices for their stuffed animals and making eyes at each other over their heads. Paul was as patient and enthusiastic as a preschool teacher. Marisol momentarily wondered if he was simply being amiable to impress her. Then she told Lucy to "get your sister's toes out of your mouth and eat your raisins." Paul threw back his head and laughed with such gusto that she realized he was truly enjoying himself.
When the girls got antsy, Paul chased them around the flat, jumping out from behind furniture and making them scream with delight. This turned into a rousing game of hide and seek and ended with ring around the rosy. Marisol went into the kitchen to wash the girls' drink cups and snack bowls. When she came back, Paul had taught them to say 'Guten Morgen, Mama' and they were sitting on the sofa working on 'Gute-Nacht, Papa.'
"Why are you teaching my nieces German?" Marisol asked, joining them on the sofa.
"Because this is the best age for them to learn a second language," Paul said reasonably.
"Yes, but why German?" she persisted. "They haven't even learned to speak the English language yet."
"Oh, I dunno, it's the other language I know best. And who knows, maybe they'll grow up and decide to annex Poland."
"What?!"
"Nah, just kidding. Forgive and forget."
Marisol stared at him for a minute and burst out laughing.
"I was wondering how long it was going to take to get you to laugh like that," Paul said, smiling.
"All it took was a little inappropriate ethnic humor." She giggled, remembering something her father had once said. "How does every English joke start?"
"I dunno, how?"
"By looking over your shoulder," she said, slapping him on the knee.
"In Liverpool, that is dead true."
Finally exhausted, the girls fell asleep like bookends on either side of the sofa, with Paul and Marisol between them sharing a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc and a plate of cheese and bread and pears while they watched television.
Nick and Margo returned just as Roger Moore narrowly survived being held prisoner by rebels in the mountains of Mexico, ensuring The Saint could continue stealing from the rich and keeping the loot for himself for at least another week.
'You're welcome to stay, watch television, whatever you kids do nowadays," Margo said, as Nick carried the girls off to bed.
"Why thank you, ma'am." Paul drawled, in a credible American accent. "I reckon we'll ride the subway down to the five and dime and have ourselves a milkshake."
Margo gave a little well-fancy-that smile and left them alone.
Outside on the balcony, Paul lit a cigarette while he surveyed the neighborhood. "Primrose Hill is over there." He gestured with the cigarette. "Parliament Hill is that way. I've worked it out exactly where we are. Fancy a walk?"
It was one of those overcast autumn nights when the sky glowed without the benefit of moonlight. A heavy dome of white clouds reflected the lights of the city back to the ground, casting a peachy gleam over the streets.
They walked up Heath Street for twenty minutes, eventually turning down a muddy track into a little forest. It felt like they were going through a tree tunnel. Marisol clung to Paul's hand. "Where in the world are you taking me?"
"To a secret garden."
"I'm pretty sure I just saw a bat."
"Nah. Twas only a flying squirrel."
"It was hanging upside down. Roosting, I believe you'd call it."
"Oh that? Merely a blackbird. Drunken blackbird."
She giggled, still feeling the effects of the half bottle of wine. "How can you tell if a blackbird is drunk?"
He patted her arm. "When it hangs upside down, pretending to be a bat."
They entered a gate on the left that led to a spiral staircase. At the top, Marisol couldn't believe her eyes. They were on a long raised walkway, overgrown with vines and exotic flowers, a sprawling complex of colonnaded terraces and wonderfully dramatic gardens. The twisted vines and naked rose bushes gave the architecture an eerie quality in the reflected light that took her breath away. At one end was an ornamental fish pond, but they quickly found the best spot— a little alcove with a bench and sweeping views of London and the Heath.
Marisol joined Paul on the bench, delighted with the tranquil, secretive feel of the place. The air smelled of jasmine and wisteria and dozens of other flowers she couldn't have named. She leaned her head on his shoulder, gazing out at the stunning garden and vista. "I can just picture a bride and groom under the arbor over there," she said dreamily.
"Planning your wedding?"
"Mine?" She made a scoffing sound. "Er, hardly."
He pursed his lips. "Sounds like there's a story there."
"I suppose everyone has a story." She tilted her head to look at him, her gaze lingering on his perfect profile. "I bet you've never had your heart broken."
"You would lose that bet." He lit a cigarette.
After a respectful moment of silence, she asked, "Do you want to talk about it?"
He shrugged. "It was a long time ago." After a long draw on the cigarette, he began. "Her name was Susan. She had long dark hair and these slanted, almost Oriental eyes. Lips that tasted like cherry bubblegum. Every day we'd meet at the playground where all the kids would gather after school, sneak away and snog for a couple of hours. I fell for her like a ton of bricks." He blew out a breath of smoke. "Then one day I showed up at the playground and found her on the double swing with my mate Ivan. Hot and heavy one day and then 'Poof!' out of nowhere, no explanation, she's just gone."
"Ouch." Marisol shook her head sadly. "How long had you been together?"
He tapped the ash from his cigarette and considered the clouds before speaking. "Four days," he said dramatically.
Marisol snorted a laugh, then gave him a shove. "I thought you were being serious."
His look was incredulous. "I am dead serious. How can you laugh right now?"
"Four days?" she said dubiously.
"Were you ever fourteen? Nothing will ever hurt that bad again. No girl could ever be so cruel."
Fourteen. She remembered Paul saying he lost his mother at that age. She brushed her lips against his cheek. "Susan is a damn fool."
He nodded. "I know that's right."
"I bet she's sorry now."
"No, but Ivan is. He married her."
"Hmm," she said, with a little smile.
He peered at her, his head cocked to one side. "So what's your story? You look like you have one."
There was no way she was going to start talking about what happened with Dan and ruin this night. Maybe some other day, when the timing was right. As if there is a good time to morph from someone who seems to have it together into a blubbering, sobbing, mascara-streaked wreck of a mess, right in front of your date's eyes.
She sighed. "It's a typical story. Girl meets boy, girl loses boy and runs away to grandma's house in England."
"Go on. He must have been stark staring mad to let you get away."
She chewed her bottom lip. "I don't think he meant to do it."
He put his arm around her and kissed the top of her head. "Well. Heartbreak isn't fatal, you know. You recover eventually or you learn to live with it."
"Like a dog with three legs."
"Exactly like that."
Marisol watched him smoke for a minute before taking the cigarette from his hand and examining it.
"You smoke?" he asked, sounding surprised as she brought it to her lips.
She took a small drag and quickly handed it back. "Still no," she said between coughs. "It's no better than the American ones."
"Loads of British things are better than American, though. British lovers, for example, off the top of me head. But not necessarily smokes," Paul shook his head and took a drag from the cigarette. "Don't start. Terrible habit." He tilted his head back against the stone wall and blew a ring of smoke over their heads.
She watched him, noticing the tiredness around his eyes. "Is it getting to you, all the traveling and madness?"
"Yeah, sure, the travel is a drag, but it's the way it has to be right now. We have to do this to make it to the top, to be the best bloody rock 'n' roll band in the world."
"Is that what you want?"
He looked startled, then grinned. "Of course. I've never understood that question. I've had this feeling all my life. I thought everyone had it."
"What feeling?"
"All my life I've had this yearning...it's like I'm a tent, straining at the stakes, longing to be a kite...I don't know how to put it into words, really."
She smiled. "You just did, beautifully." She entwined her arm with his and leaned against him. "I guess that feeling is what separates you from the normal, average mortals who aren't going to make it to the top."
"You mean those poor, non-obsessed wankers who don't spend ten hours a day practicing guitar until their fingers bleed?"
"The ones who sleep in their own beds 365 nights of the year."
"What a drag it must be to be mortal." He smiled.
"What a drag it must be to be an earthbound kite," she said, returning the smile.
They talked and talked, until a gust of wind blew an eddy of leaves around their feet and she shivered. "It's getting right cold," Paul said. "Must get you home and warm you up."
On their way out of the park they crossed a small stone bridge and followed a winding path that led to a reflecting pool with a fountain in the center. Paul whistled as they walked, a melody she'd never heard before. He strayed from the path to gather a handful of small white and lavender blooms and presented them to her with a flourish.
"Freesia," Marisol said, breathing in the delicate scent and arranging the flowers into a bouquet.
"All we need is music."
A rusty gate squeaked in protest as they left the park. Paul stopped suddenly, eying a lone Volkswagen Beetle parked at the curb. He let go of her hand and circled the car, fingers trailing along the leather sunroof. As he rounded the car once more, he checked up and down the quiet street of closed restaurants and stores.
"Mari, help me with this, I don't want to wreck anything."
She watched him from the sidewalk, mouth agape. "What are you doing? Because I'm fairly certain the requirements of my Visa preclude breaking and entering."
"They can't hang you for it. Only boosting the ambiance. Give us a hand."
Marisol let the flowers flutter to the sidewalk. "I'm an accessory to a crime."
"It's only a crank mechanism. Everything has its way, remember that, Mari, it's crucial." He smiled at her over the top of the car. "Do you trust me?"
"Apparently."
They slowly edged back the leather roof until there was a small opening, and Paul indicated for her to stop tugging. He reached into the car and, to her amazement, clicked on the radio and tuned the dial through a scratch of static.
"You don't need an ignition key for the radio?"
When his head reappeared he was wearing a huge grin as the opening bars of "Strangers in the Night" began to play. With the volume sounding as loud as it would go, he rounded the car, grabbed her hand and pulled her back through the gate. They reached the stone-framed pool with its gurgling fountain and stopped. Paul shrugged out of his jacket and placed it over her shoulders, drawing it closed in front of her. It smelled of tobacco and Paul. "May I have this dance, my lady?"
When she nodded, he wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her close. She slipped one arm around his back and kept her other hand between them, feeling his heart beating against her palm. In the near distance, a dog began to howl, which they found hilarious. They danced and giggled until "Strangers in the Night" turned into "Chances Are."
"I love this one," Marisol said, leaning against him, burrowing her face into his neck, their bodies swaying to the music. She hadn't slow danced with anyone in who knew how long, hadn't been held in a man's arms in months. It felt as safe and right and wonderful as she remembered. When she lifted her face he kissed her lips and they didn't stop dancing.
They danced and kissed until "Chances Are" turned into a news bulletin. A Vickers Viking aircraft from London to France had crashed into a mountain, killing all onboard.
They pulled apart, gazing at each other, wide-eyed. "How horrible," Marisol said. "I wonder if it was because of weather, or some sort of navigational error."
Paul's brow furrowed as the news continued. "Are you quite sure about these flying lessons of yours?"
"Nick won't take me up unless the weather is perfect. Visual flying only to start."
According to the radio broadcaster, another Vickers turboprop crashed earlier in the day en route to New Delhi.
"Two in one day, what terrible news," Marisol said. "Are you nervous about flying?"
"No more than anyone else, I suppose. Once when we took off from Speke in Liverpool, the door fell off into the River Mersey. We thought we were going to get sucked out."
"Well, that just goes to show the airplane didn't need even need all the doors to be airworthy, right?"
"If you say so."
"My Papa Hemingway survived two plane crashes in Africa. His sightseeing plane crashed and then the rescue plane crashed and burned on takeoff. I was about ten years old. The papers said he'd been killed, my father was frantic. Then we get a telegram from him. I will never forget the words: 'Worn out from these kites falling all over Africa. My luck, she is running very good'."
"Jesus."
A car turned in at the end of the street, splashing them with light. They dashed back to the Volkswagen. Marisol slid her arms into the sleeves of Paul's coat and waited while he switched off the radio. She helped him inch the sunroof closed. He gave it a pat. "Good as new."
Marisol collected the flowers and tucked them beneath a windshield wiper. "Thank you to whoever owns this cute little Beetle."
Illuminated in the headlights of the approaching car, they reached for one another's hands and set out into the windy night.