The next morning the Beatles were smuggled out of the Deauville Hotel in a bread van and taken to nearby Star Island, an exclusive community of lavish houses and private docks with a guardhouse to keep away uninvited guests. They were given a sumptuous mansion for the week with a full staff, an Olympic size swimming pool, and a private dock.
Buddy brought fishing poles and bait and taught the Beatles and Neil to fish from the end of the dock. He baited everyone's hook since the Beatles refused to do it. "Boody! Boody!" they would cry, in their Liverpool accents, and Buddy would hook their bait and unhook their fish.
Marisol was sitting next to Paul, swinging her legs off the dock, when he caught his first redfish. He reeled it in, laughing with glee, and had no idea what to do from there.
"I thought you grew up on a river, City Slicker," Marisol teased, unhooking the fish for him.
"The only fish we've ever caught was from a chippy and already fried," Paul admitted.
They were still fishing when two young men who looked about the same age as the Beatles cruised past in a speedboat, waving to the group on the dock.
"Where ya going, mates?" John shouted. "Give us a go!"
The two young men waved again and turned the boat around, angling toward the dock. They introduced themselves as neighbors from two houses down. Jack was tall, tan, and blonde, dressed in shorts and a University of Florida T-shirt. The driver of the boat, Sam, was stockier with dark hair and wore a Hawaiian shirt over bathing shorts.
John spotted a pair of water skis inside the boat and confessed he'd always wanted to learn to ski. Sam said, "Come aboard, we'll show you how," and for the rest of the afternoon everyone went out in pairs and learned how to water ski. Paul was the best, Marisol decided. He took to it immediately, but John and Cynthia were also both very good. Ringo seemed to have the most fun, although he was constantly falling down. John got furious when he saw someone photographing him from another boat. He skied close and carved a wall of water in their direction, drenching everyone in the photographer's boat.
"Most impressive for a beginner," Marisol told him when he got back to shore, still fuming and grumbling about bloody photographers.
Marisol took a turn skiing with Paul, then rode in the boat with the neighbor boys while Paul and George skied together. She took a few pictures of them with Paul's camera before tucking it away in her beach bag to keep it dry. Jack sat on the back bench seat with Marisol and tried to make conversation with her over the noise of the boat. He asked her where she went to school and quickly turned the conversation to University of Florida football, while Marisol tried to keep her eyes from glazing over.
Suddenly George shouted and crashed into the water and Paul let go of the tow rope seconds later. Sam circled around to pick them up.
"Ey up! We nearly hit a fookin' shark!" George was yelling.
"A manatee," Jack said. "They're harmless."
"The fook they are! I was almost bloody eaten!"
Sam cut the motor and pulled the skis into the boat and lowered the ladder for George and Paul. Marisol stood by the stairs with a big smile and a towel for Paul. He wasn't smiling back. "It was a manatee, really," she said.
Paul took the towel, rubbed it across his hair, and looked pointedly at her chest. "Do you have a coverup?"
She looked down at herself. "What? No...I just finished skiing, I didn't bring one."
"Well, you should have done." He wrapped the towel around her shoulders, covering her chest. Then he pointed to the bench and told her to sit down.
She almost laughed, thinking he was joking, but he didn't look at all amused. So she sat on the bench, and Paul joined her as Sam started the engine and made for the dock.
"Did you have fun?" she asked him when they were underway.
"Yeah, great. Got my sunnies?" Marisol pulled his sunglasses from her beach bag. He put them on and ignored her for the rest of the ride.
George helped the neighbor boys tie up the boat at the dock while Paul muttered his thanks and stalked away. Marisol followed him, trying to figure out what had changed his mood. Was he that scared of the manatee? She didn't have to wonder long. As soon as they were out of hearing distance of the others, Paul whirled around to face her, jabbing a finger in her direction.
"Were you encouraging him?" he demanded.
"What? Who?"
"You know bloody well who. Florida."
"Who the hell is Florida?" Marisol asked, genuinely confused. "Oh...the one in the T-shirt?"
Paul pushed his sunglasses onto his head and narrowed his eyes at her. "Don't be coy. That wanker was giving you a pull, he was, and you took a fancy to it."
"Are you serious right now? And you saw all this from the water while you were skiing?" She studied his face, thinking he would burst into laughter at any minute and tell her he was pulling her leg. His stare never wavered. "Oh come on. We were only making conversation, and Florida...er...The Wanker...only wanted to talk about stupid boring football."
She stood there, stunned, watching him storm away toward the house. He had a few words with Neil, and the next thing she knew, the neighbors were motoring away.
Marisol wandered into Paul's bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed, listening to the shower running in the adjoining bathroom. There was no satisfaction in the knowledge that Paul felt jealousy over her. It was hard enough for them, dealing with the distance and the months of not seeing each other. Making him jealous was not something she had ever intended to do. The water stopped and she sat nervously, chewing the pad of her thumb, trying to reason why Paul had gotten so wound up over another guy talking to her. It could only be because he was insecure about their relationship. Hurt was often at the core of anger. They never really talked about how they felt about each other. Maybe it was time for that to change.
Paul walked out of the bathroom, toweling dry his hair. The sight of him, standing in the doorway, naked and tan and steamy from the shower, almost made her gasp. When he saw her he let the towel hang loosely in front of him, his eyes fixed on hers.
It felt like someone lit a match inside her, and she closed the distance between them, drawn to him like a magnet. "How could you—" she began.
"I'm sorry I—"
They both stopped. "You go," Marisol said.
"I'm sorry I was hard on you. I was overwrought watching you with that wanker." He paused. "Now you go."
"No, I just...I don't know how you could think I would ever be interested in...Wanker...when I know that you exist in the world. I'm crazy about you. You must know that."
The towel dropped to the floor and Paul pulled her into his arms. His mouth was on hers, and the only thought in her head was that she was holding this perfect naked man and couldn't get close enough to him.
Paul's hands were everywhere. He peeled off her bathing suit and as soon as she stepped out of it he lifted her off her feet and she wrapped her legs around his waist. He backed into the bathroom and spun around, kicking the door closed and setting her on the counter. A sweep of his arm sent a row of toiletries skittering to the floor.
"I'm so crazy about you too, baby," he said, gripping her neck, his palm warm, his thumb pressed to the wildly beating pulse in her throat. It was a possessive hold, different from the Paul she knew, like he was a stranger again. A sexy stranger manhandling her, and she was willing to let him do whatever he wanted to her.
The room was bright, a window open, curtains barely moving with a breath of a breeze. She heard voices and laughter from outside, a floor below.
"We'll have to be fast," he mumbled, kissing her. "They'll be looking for us."
His hands gripped her face, and his tongue slipped against hers. She felt light-headed with how good he tasted. "Yes," she said. "Fast."
His hands slid down her body, cupping her bottom, pulling her to the edge of the counter. She felt his erection sliding against her, and with the slightest step forward he started to slip inside.
He groaned and tucked his forehead into her neck. "Give me a second."
When he straightened, he reached a hand behind her and braced himself against the mirror. "You feel so fucking good," he said, pulling out slowly before pushing in again. "So good. I want us to be together. Like this. All the time."
"I know." She wrapped her legs around his waist and curled her fingers into his damp hair. "I know."
His hips rocked against hers, building into a rhythm. "Tell me what you want," he growled, gazing into her eyes.
"I want it rough," she said, breathless. "Manhandle me."
He gripped her hips tightly and slammed into her, grunting each time his hips met her inner thighs.
More voices outside the window. She thought she heard someone say Paul's name. "Hurry," she said.
She leaned back, bracing her hands on the counter, tilting her pelvis so that his hips rubbed against the most sensitive part of her with every thrust. The warm feeling deep inside her grew, hotter and tighter until she cried out, falling apart all around him.
He followed, his movements growing more frantic, and finally finishing with a muffled groan against her neck.
Someone was knocking at the bedroom door. Paul set her on her feet and stared down at her, rubbing his thumb across her lower lip. "Tell me how good we are together," he said. "Tell me you're my girl."
"Yes. So good. Amazing. And I am." She bit her lip, her brain in a fog, not sure if she was answering the questions in the right order because when he stood there naked in front of her all of the synapses in her brain got crossed. She pressed her hands on either side of his face and kissed him to make sure he got the message. "I'm your girl," she assured him.
He nodded, apparently satisfied, and pulled on a soft pair of jeans without underwear. Marisol hated when he did that because she'd be thinking about it the rest of the evening until she could get her hands on him again.
The chef who came with the mansion had apparently been busy cooking since they caught their first fish that morning. They were treated to a banquet of grilled fish, roasted potatoes with peppers and onions, grilled corn on the cob, and freshly baked bread. After all the swimming and skiing and sun, not to mention the sex, Marisol was ravenous. This was the best meal she'd eaten since she'd been in Miami, and everyone else seemed to agree. There was a lot to be said for staying in a mansion with a private chef.
Exhausted from all the time in the sun, no one wanted to do anything more strenuous after dinner than getting up now and then to change the channel on the television set. They lounged around on sofas watching The Outer Limits and The Children of Spider County.
In the back of the room, Neil sat patiently going through the mail. Heavy sacks of mail sent to the Deauville Hotel had been rerouted to the house on Star Island and Neil was sorting the letters and packages into four piles. Brian insisted the boys spend time each day going through the mail and answering some of it.
Bored of the television, Marisol joined Neil at the table. "Want some help?"
"Sure, sure."
She pulled a pile of letters out of a sack and began sorting them. After thirty or so letters she noticed one addressed to Paul from Sacramento, California.
"Hello there, neighbor. Neighbor who is writing to my guy."
Neil pointed to Paul's stack of mail, but Marisol got up and walked behind the sofa, holding the letter in front of Paul's eyes. He blew out a plume of smoke, ignored the letter, and pulled her hand down across his chest, rubbing the pad of his thumb across her knuckles. "Hey," she said, "can I read this one? It's from California."
"I don't give a shit about the mail," Paul said.
"Hmmm. I guess that's a yes."
She sat on the arm of the sofa and tore open the light blue envelope.
"Dear Paul McCartney,
When will you be mine?
I lie in bed and imagine kissing your face. Kissing those lovely lips. I don't know if you've ever been kissed the way I want to kiss you."
Marisol drew in a breath. "Oh, my," she whispered.
"What is it, love?"
"Oh, nothing," she murmured. This letter was hotter than anything she'd ever written to Paul. She read on.
"I long to be everything for you. The mother in me wants to nurture you and give you a peaceful life, the daughter in me wants to sit at your feet and learn from you and the lover in me wants to kiss you and caress you until the end of time.
I wonder if in a past life I was your mother. Or maybe your favorite pet. Because that is how much I adore you.
I want you forever just a heartbeat away. I want you always sighing in my ear.
My life stretches endlessly ahead of me and every dream waits to come true with you.
All my love forever, Lisa"
Marisol must have let out an involuntary gasp because something piqued Paul's interest enough to pull the letter out of her hands. He read it silently, handed it back, and lit another cigarette from the first one.
"How does it make you feel, inspiring that sort of adoration?" Marisol asked.
"How does it make me feel? Like somewhere out there is a sixty-year-old parolee posing as a twenty-year-old bird trying to mess with me head. Or else it's John, messing with me head."
John glanced at them briefly and looked back at the television.
"Ssshh!" George said. "Can't hear."
Marisol lowered her voice. "Is that really what you think?"
"That's how I keep my sanity."
The next day brought more bright sunshine and warm, even weather, and the offers to the Beatles continued to roll in. A millionaire manufacturer offered his luxurious houseboat to the Beatles. A family loaned them a 60-foot speedboat and let Ringo drive. Ringo promptly smashed it into the dock, bending it all to heck. No one seemed to mind. A car dealership lent each Beatle his own MG to drive around in.
They tooled around Miami Beach, dashing into the occasional record store and coming out laden with albums. They drove onto Key Biscayne and took pictures of the lighthouse and frolicked in the surf. Paul and Marisol went snorkeling and came eye to eye with a manatee, then came home and fished for dinner off the dock.
That night the Beatles saw the American rhythm and blues group the Coasters perform at a local club. Paul was thrilled, telling Marisol the Beatles had been performing Coasters songs since the early days: "Searchin", "Three Cool Cats" and "Besame Mucho" were staples of their Cavern Club performances and the Beatles performed all three songs in London when they were auditioning for recording contracts.
They stopped at the Peppermint Lounge on the 79th Causeway, where they surprised the hundreds of teenagers who were there dancing. The crowds began to surge and the visit was cut short. Mal and Buddy and Neil frantically shoved the Beatles and their companions into their limousine and spirited them away to the safety of Star Island.
On Wednesday another car dealership provided them with larger luxury automobiles. That night they watched Elvis Presley's movie "Fun in Acapulco" at a drive-in theatre from the comfort of a Lincoln Continental, while noshing on popcorn and soda and ice cream sandwiches.
All over the U.S. people were aware of the Beatle invasion and everybody was talking about them. The newspapers were printing news about them, radio and television stations were reporting all the latest gossip about them and their music was played by deejays on just about every station across the country. Paul had been spotted with a mystery blonde. Their press agent denied all romantic rumors involving the three single Beatles and speculated the mystery blonde seen with Paul was either John's wife Cynthia or George's sister Louise.
The day before their return home the Beatles relaxed by the pool, reading to one another from newspaper clippings a Capitol Records man had sent down from New York.
They read about how their American "invasion" was being talked about as the most sensational and successful in the history of show business. They had broken all records in attendance and box office take wherever they appeared.
Police protection was being doubled in New York in anticipation of 10,000 fans expected to gather to watch the Beatles transfer from their Miami airplane to their flight to London on Friday.
Their American merchandising branch had shipped more than two million dollars worth of Beatles paraphernalia to department stores in its first week of operation.
A recent survey of disc jockeys showed that five Beatles recordings were already in the Top 25 records being played on the air, all over America.
They read about all of these fantastic things, their voices casual and cool, calm and collected.
Ringo spoke up. "Catch this one, mates. Unconfirmed report here from a Buckingham Palace source says that the Queen herself might confirm a batch of knighthoods on us!" He began to laugh uproariously. He pointed to the others. "Sir John! Sir Paul! Sir George!" He pointed to himself. "Sir Ringo!" The others joined in the laughter.
"Foony. Very foony." John said.
"Do you think we'll be bowing to this lot soon?" Marisol heard Neil ask quietly.
"It's likely we will," Mal answered.
On their last night together, Paul and Marisol escaped into their bedroom early. They made love, cuddled, and whispered in the dark, avoiding the inevitable goodbye.
"I've gotten used to falling asleep to the sound of you breathing. I don't know how I'm going to fall asleep tomorrow night," Paul said. He was cradling her head to his chest, trailing his fingers through her hair.
Marisol sighed and pressed a kiss to his neck. She'd never had a week like this with anyone. It was going to be a big adjustment to go from this forced togetherness to not seeing Paul again for who knew how long.
"We could have this every night when you come to England," Paul continued. "When is that again? Have we settled on your move-in date?"
"You know that I would be there if I could," Marisol told him. "What's your schedule like? Are you going to be in one spot or all over the place?"
"We're going right back into the studio to start recording the movie soundtrack. Filming starts in a couple of weeks. Long days, but we'll be in London every night."
Marisol cherished moments like this, before they fell asleep, her head on Paul's chest, his sleepy, husky voice rumbling in her ear. She wanted to keep him talking forever. "A new album already? Have you written any new songs?"
"Yeah, I've got a couple on the boil. Always got a couple."
"When will you have time off again?" She was thinking of inviting him to visit her in California, waiting for just the right moment to ask him.
"We're playing five nights at the Empire in Liverpool the last week of March. Then we have a four-day Easter weekend off."
"That's my spring break from school. Easter week."
"Is that right? What do California coeds do for spring break?"
"I don't know, some of them go to Mexico or Southern California or Palm Springs."
"Then you'll be the envy of all your friends when you come to Liverpool for spring break."
As packed as Paul's schedule was, the two of them ending up with the same week off had to be some sort of sign. But seeing him in Liverpool, potentially meeting his father, that was a rather big deal. "Are you serious?"
His hand settled on her neck, squeezing gently. "I've rarely been more serious in my life."
She smiled against his warm chest, thinking it over. She could be with Paul in Liverpool while he was free and later take the train down to see her grandmother, maybe fly home out of London. It was barely over a month from now. They could do this. "Then I am, as you would say, chuffed to bloody bits about spring break in Liverpool."
Paul laughed. "As you should be."
He tightened his arms around her and they drifted off to sleep, dreaming of soft sandy beaches and warm ocean breezes for one last night.
The next morning everyone was in a flurry of last-minute packing and tagging bags and making room for all the new clothes and souvenirs they had bought in Miami. Paul and Marisol said goodbye at the house, a very brief kiss and a hug at the last minute. They had run out of private time. "Easter week, baby?" Paul confirmed.
"I'll be there," Marisol promised. It was an awkward goodbye, in front of Buddy and his other officers, with Brian, Mal and Neil watching and the others already in the limousine. But maybe Paul wanted it this way. In London in December, Paul had escaped from the room while she slept, leaving only a note. In Florida, they had both pretended like they had all the time in the world until it was too late for a tearful goodbye scene. Maybe that was his plan all along. In any case, she knew that he would miss her. The look in his eyes as he turned around in the limousine, watching and waving until they reached the main road, told her all she needed to know.
Marisol's taxi arrived ten minutes later. Her Pan Am flight to San Francisco left from the same terminal as Paul's Pan Am jet to New York. The terminal was packed with girls, all swarming the New York gate. She made her way to her gate at the opposite end of the terminal, checked in at the counter, and stood at the window, watching departing flights, trying to distract herself from the ache in her heart. It was still a favorite pastime, "plane spotting." She loved everything about aviation: the colorful livery of the airplanes, the uniforms of the flight crew, the excited passengers climbing the airstairs and turning to wave goodbye to friends and relatives.
She'd been standing by the window for ten minutes when the commotion of the fans grew louder and closer, and suddenly she was surrounded by a mob of dozens, then hundreds of girls, all chattering and squealing and pointing at a 707 taxiing to the runway.
A girl of about fourteen next to Marisol looked at her and smiled. "Who is your favorite Beatle?"
Marisol laughed a little, remembering the first time she'd been asked that question only six months ago by Neil's little sister when she'd had no idea what the question meant.
"I like them all, but there's something about Paul," Marisol confessed, her voice a little dreamy.
"The girl's eyes grew round. "Me too! I'm a Paul girl too! He's the cutest. I saw him at the hotel on Miami Beach when they were running through to the ballroom. He looked right at me and winked!" She looked back at the airplane, adding softly, "Nobody believes me, but he really did."
Marisol sighed. "Oh, I do, honey. I believe you." Oh, Paul. You terrible flirt.
The girl's eyes suddenly filled with tears. "But now he's gone and I will probably never ever be this close to him again." She looked completely filled with despair. "It's the saddest happiest week of my life."
Marisol's arm went around the girl's shoulders. She gave her a squeeze. "They'll come back. Think positive." She couldn't believe she was having this conversation, with her arm around a total stranger who was professing to be desperately in love with her boyfriend.
They watched the 707 taxi into position at the end of the runway, hold for a moment, then thunder down the runway and lift into the sky. The noise of the departing jet was drowned out by the screams and wails of hundreds of girls at the windows.
"I'm in agony!" someone beside Marisol wailed. "I want to die!" said another. "I'm moving to England!" another girl cried.
Even after the crowd began to disperse, some of them quietly wiping at tears, some of them openly sobbing, Marisol stayed at the window, watching the 707 become a tiny dot headed north.
Soon she would be on a different jet headed west. Paul would transfer planes in New York and fly east, and every minute, every mile would take them farther and farther apart.
She would be back at school on Monday, trying to somehow get caught up, and going through the motions of her daily life, dreaming the next six weeks away until she would be with Paul again. In Liverpool. She laughed to herself, imagining the conversation when she told her mother she was flying to Liverpool, the land of dockworkers, thugs, and at least four of her favorite people in the world.
The goodbye still hurt, especially when it came from Paul's lips. Her whole body ached at the memory of watching Paul drive away after that last whispered goodbye. Only one thing made it okay. She knew it wasn't the last goodbye. She knew that for a fact.