Jim McCartney gestured for Lainey to have a seat at the kitchen table while he busied himself with putting the kettle on and opening a box of digestive biscuits.
"The kitchen is where it all happens, you see." Paul pulled out a chair for Lainey. "The front room is only for when the priest comes to visit. Which means never."
"We're getting a bit overwhelmed with the post, Son," Mr. McCartney said.
"I know Dad. You can toss it all as far as I'm concerned." Paul poured himself a large glass of water at the sink and gulped it down.
"Now, Son, you need to get on with it. There's a fairish load of the stuff upstairs."
Paul filled another glass with water and took a seat at the table next to Lainey with a sigh. He picked up a stack of black and white photographs. "These Mike's?"
"Yes, they turned out rather well, I'd say."
Shoulder to shoulder with Lainey, Paul began sorting through the photographs. "Our last gig at the Cavern Club."
Lainey's eyes widened. "No freaking way. That's a gold mine right there in your hands."
Paul glanced at her. "You've heard of it?"
"It's famous." She peered at the photograph in his hand. "I think I've even seen some of these before."
"Ee aya, I think not, bah gum," Paul said in a broad accent. "I 'aven't even seen them meself."
"What kind of accent is that?"
"Yorkshire, duck."
"Charming."
"How's the garden coming along?" Paul asked his father.
Jim looked out the window. "Hunky-dory. We'll have our tea outside and take a gander. The dahlias and snapdragons are putting on quite a show."
Paul turned to Lainey. "When I was a lad, Dad used to send our kid and me into the street with a bucket and shovel to bring back horse manure for the garden. Then Dad became secretary of the horticultural society and Mike and I had to go door to door trying to sign people up."
"Did you no harm. Boys should be busy," Paul's father said, opening the door to the garden.
Paul lowered his voice. "Ya know, I worked like a bastard when I was a kid, for some reason."
Lainey hid her giggle behind her hand. "And you still do."
"But now at least I'm getting paid for it."
Three kitchen chairs were carried into the back garden, arranged in a half circle before a bed of flowers. They drank tea and nibbled on chocolate biscuits while Paul and his father entertained Lainey with stories of Paul's childhood.
"We didn't have a car, you see, but we would have adventures on foot, walking to nearby towns on the weekends, taking the train into the country for holidays."
Mr. McCartney kept the conversation lively with intuitive questions about Lainey's family and Paul's latest successes with the band. It took only a few minutes for Lainey to discover where Paul got his eyebrows, his smile, his way with words and his charm.
"Do ye mind if I show our lass some of the family photo albums?" Paul asked when they'd finished their tea.
"Course not, Son, and while you're at it, sort out that sack of letters."
At the top of the stairs Paul turned right and led Lainey into a tiny bedroom facing the street. The only furniture was a single bed, a wardrobe, a small desk and a green wicker chair. A huge sack of mail rested just inside the doorway.
Paul pulled the sheer curtains aside and pointed across the street. "Me first girlfriend lived across the way. We used to signal to each other with flashlights."
"That's cute," Lainey said with a little smile.
He turned to face her, tilting his head. "Are you still cheesed off?"
"What does that mean? Angry?"
"Yes. Angry, bent, cheesed off."
She lowered her lashes, pretending to study the floor. "I've had a week to think about it, but you should have let me know what you were planning all along. It felt...manipulative."
"You know it isn't like that. I want to be with you for all sorts of reasons. We sort of mesh, don't you think?" He laced his hands together in front of his chest to illustrate.
She shrugged, still not meeting his eyes. "I don't know. It could just be the novelty of it."
His hand slid underneath her hair, cupping her neck and pulling her close. He rested his chin on the top of her head. "You were only gone for one night but I missed you like mad. I was sweating bullets that you wouldn't show."
"I promised you I would." She took a deep breath, letting his tobacco woodsy scent envelop her. There was no way she could have stayed away knowing that he needed her and wanted her. But he didn't need to know that.
He massaged her neck for a few blissful seconds before planting a kiss on the side of her hair. "Well, I'm chuffed you're here. We'll make it a good weekend together, shall we?"
At a loss for words, her heart tripping, Lainey could only nod as he pulled away.
"Right. Listen, love, would you mind sorting out the post for me? Just hold out anything I should respond to." Paul crossed the room, lifted the sack of mail and poured it onto the middle of his tiny bed.
"You're joking, right?"
He glanced over his shoulder from the doorway. "I'll go fetch a photo album."
"Wait! You want me to open your mail? How will I know if it's something you should respond to?"
He waved the question away. "You'll know. And it likely isn't."
Lainey sat cross-legged in the middle of the bed and sifted through the pile of letters, selecting a light blue air mail envelope and sliding her fingernail beneath the flap.
"Dear, darling Paul,
To think that I, Harriet West, live on the same planet with the Beatles, breathe the same air as the Beatles, see the same sun, moon and stars as the Beatles. Oh! It's just too much!!
Fondly and forever, Harriett W., Manchester"
Short and sweet and to the point. Perhaps the writer didn't expect a reply. She placed it in a "reply not necessary" stack and opened the next letter.
"My dearest Paul, I was in the scullery when I heard you singing 'Love Me Do.' I rushed to turn the wireless up, tripped, lost my shoe, and broke my toenail. Now I can hardly walk as my foot is hurting so bad. So I think that your autograph would compensate for my disablement."
Ouch. Definitely needs a response.
Lainey was opening the fifth letter when a large brown leather photo album bounced on the white coverlet, scattering letters and postcards. She looked up to see Paul standing in front of her, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
"Chuff me. Your lovely long legs in the middle of my bed may be the sexiest thing I've ever seen. In my entire life."
She tried to ignore what his words did to her pulse rate. "Listen, you. Why did you tell your dad I'm your girlfriend?"
He sat beside her on top of the newly sorted letters. "We've spent nearly every second of the last week together, 'aven't we? And when we're not together you're on my mind more'n me hair is. You're my girl, aren't ye?"
She looked down, smiling. "You're sitting on the action pile."
"There's no action in the post," he scoffed.
Lainey held up the latest letter and pretended to read to herself. "Hmm. 'Dearest Paul, the pregnancy has been confirmed.'" She glanced up. "Is that enough action for you?"
Paul snatched the letter from her hand, scanned it and tossed it over his shoulder. "Fooney, Lainey. Very fooney."
He crawled over the pile of mail to the pillows and stretched out, patting the small space beside him. "Come join me for a bit of a stroll down memory lane."
Lainey lay beside him with her head on the pillow, heart pounding. Even though she felt more wary of him now, more convinced that he would ultimately break her heart, being this close to him and not being able to rub herself all over him was agony.
He drew his knees up and propped the photo album open in front of them. Inside were pages of black construction paper, with tiny paper corners glued to the pages to hold the photos in place. The thought of Paul's mother painstakingly arranging every picture of her beautiful young family, not knowing how little time she had left with them, almost broke Lainey's heart.
Paul as an infant in his mother's arms, Mary holding new baby Michael with Paul grinning at the camera, Paul and Michael and both of their parents sitting on a hillside, Paul and Michael dressed in Scout uniforms.
Lainey rested her head on Paul's shoulder as he turned the pages. "Beautiful family," she murmured as he neared the end of the book.
He flipped back to the first few pages and freed a photograph of Mary with her arms around Paul and Michael. "I was round about four years old here. This will do."
"Paul. We need to talk about this. I need to tell you the latest news about George and John."
He blew out a long breath as he considered her words. "Right." He closed the album and tucked the photograph into his shirt pocket. "Neil has arranged a hotel room for you. Let's go there and sort it all out."
They bid goodbye to Mr. McCartney ("see ye in a bit, Dad!") and walked out into a warm, sunny day. Sea birds wheeled above them, reminding Lainey how close they were to the river and the ocean.
Women sat in kitchen chairs in tiny front gardens, keeping one eye on children playing as they called back and forth to each other. Everyone waved hello to Paul and Lainey. A milk truck motored down the street, bottles clinking, the driver waving at them.
Paul stopped in front of a little boy struggling to work a yoyo. "Aye up. Can I see it?"
The little boy handed it over wordlessly, watching as Paul wound the string and announced his tricks. "Walk the dog. There it is. Like that. Now around the world." Getting warmed up, he whirled the yoyo around his head like a lasso.
Lainey took the little boy by the shoulder, pulling him with her a couple of steps away from the maniac with the new toy. "Someone's going to get hurt," she said to Paul, "and it's going to be you."
A squeal of brakes and a huff of exhaust, and they looked up to see a double decker bus pulling to a stop at a nearby shelter. "Keep practicing, kid!" Paul shouted, tossing him the yoyo and grabbing Lainey's hand.
They raced to the bus, paid the driver and clattered up to the top deck.
"Have any sunnies?" Paul asked, squinting against the glare.
"I might, if I knew what sunnies were."
"Shades. Sunglasses."
Lainey rooted around in her handbag and held up a pair of oversized Jackie Onassis type black glasses. "Here."
Paul jammed them on his face without even looking at them. "Ta, love. Bloody 'angover." He slouched down in the seat, head back, face tilted to the sun.
Long streets of red-bricked terraced houses with slate roofs and chimney pots gave way to a mix of housing and industry. Minutes later the scenery changed again to a river of traffic roaring between stone buildings, flats and busy shops covered by old awnings.
"Penny Lane!" Lainey announced. She raised up out of the seat to get a better view. "Ha! There's a shelter in the middle of the roundabout!"
"Right you are. No flies on you."
"And a bank, and a barber, and—"
"Pol! Pol McCaahtney!"
Paul raised his arm to a group of girls on the sidewalk as the bus rumbled away in a sooty cloud of exhaust. "Hello girls!" he yelled, without even looking up.
In spite of the ridiculous sunglasses, Paul's hairstyle was unmistakable and he seemed to draw more and more attention as they approached the city center. Each time he heard his name, he raised a hand in greeting, even responding "Hey what?" to someone who shouted "Hey, Beatle!"
At a bus stop a male voice yelled "Macca!" and that got Paul's attention. He twisted around and shouted at a grinning young man on the street below. "Aye up, Ivan! All right?"
"Who's the pretty lady on yer arm?"
"That's our lass!" Paul yelled as they lumbered away.
Lainey noticed a couple of girls in their late teens chasing the bus for a block until it stopped again. They scrambled aboard and clambered to the top, flouncing down in the seat in front of Paul and Lainey.
"Pol! I knew you'd come home eventually." The smaller of the girls, a slender brunette, struggled to catch her breath.
"Hello there," Paul said, raising the glasses and squinting in the sunshine.
A curvy blonde spoke for the two of them. "She's Val. I'm Betts. Is George around?"
"Nope, sorry."
Val pulled a little Beatle doll out of her purse and handed it to Paul. "I made it meself."
"You don't say? Thank you, love." He handed the sunglasses back to Lainey, held the doll next to his face and made a campy grin.
Betty and Val looked at each other and giggled.
"I love your songs," Val said. "Sometimes I think you've read my diary because the words are dead straight from my heart."
Paul raised an eyebrow. "Which song is that?"
"P.S. I Love You," Val said, a flush creeping across her cheeks.
"We try to write about universal things, you know. About a boy meeting a girl and the crazy way love makes you feel." Turning to Lainey, Paul reached up and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. "You know what I mean, love?"
Lainey gave a little gasp, hoping that no one else heard it. She tried not to look as though she was tingling all over from his touch. And his words. The urge to fan herself was almost overwhelming.
He put the doll in Lainey's clammy hand. "Can you put this in your purse for me, love?"
The blonde gave Lainey a withering look while Val took a big breath, composing herself. "I'm thinking of moving to London so I can talk to you."
Whoa, Lainey thought. Way to put it right out there. She felt like she was at a ping pong match watching this conversation.
Paul shook his head. "That's not a wise idea. I won't have time to see you."
"I need to talk to you."
"Then talk." Paul sat back, waiting.
Val clamped her mouth closed.
"When do you suppose George will be back?" Betts asked.
"I've no idea, love."
"If I lived in London we could talk," Val said.
"Talk to me now."
Val wriggled in an uncomfortable silence.
"Talk!" Paul yelled.
"Sshh!" Lainey said, squeezing Paul's shoulder. She was beginning to think he was in no shape to be meeting fans today.
"This is our stop," Paul said, reaching for Lainey's hand. "Bye girls."
True to his word, Neil had arranged a hotel room and the key was waiting for them behind the front desk. Key in hand, Paul slumped against the back of the lift, closing his eyes. "Sorry, babe, I know I'm not myself."
"You look like you could use some sleep."
He opened one eye. "Are you trying to lure me into your bed, Miss Spencer?"
"Absolutely. You know me, always trying to lure y—" The sentence ended in a little whoop when Paul unexpectedly leaned across the lift and yanked her by the wrist. Lainey stumbled against his chest, gasping a breath of air just before his lips lowered to hers. His hand in her hair held her head still as he kissed her, open-mouthed, hot and hungry.
He really was the most amazing kisser. Worth traveling to England for. Worth traveling fifty years back in time for. Worth risking a broken heart for.
One hand squeezed her bottom, pulling her hard against him. She made an involuntary sound of protest, surprising because she was lost in him, needing his kiss like she needed to breathe.
"Shh." He pressed her face against his shoulder. "Just...shh."
The elevator shuddered to a stop. His arms were strong and tight around her. "Paul?" She wondered if she should remind him they were getting it on in the elevator of a hotel that only had five floors.
"Yeah." He squeezed her tight and then loosened his hold. "I know." A ragged breath. "Reckon we should behave until we have this little talk you've been threatening."
Behave. Right.
The door slid open and Paul released her. She stumbled into the hallway, dazed and reeling from his kiss. That kiss. So this was how it was going to be. "Save my mum and I will kiss you breathless." All right then. Seemed like a fair deal.
The room was spacious and well-appointed and, like most things in 1963, smelled of old cigarette smoke.
On top of the dresser, a bottle of scotch whisky and several old-fashioned bottles of Pepsi-Cola were lined up next to two water glasses wrapped in paper. Paul looked at the whisky and grimaced. "Not tonight."
Lainey's backpack was lying at the foot of the double bed. "Thoughtful fellow, your Neil."
She sat on the end of the bed, pulling her backpack into her lap.
Paul walked toward her with a gleam in his eye. "Let's get comfortable. We have a lot of talking to do."
He took the backpack from her lap and placed it on the floor. He stood between her knees and lifted one of her legs, sliding off her sandal. He ran his hand slowly down her leg as he lowered it to the bed. His eyes never left hers while he repeated the process with her other leg, her other sandal.
Lainey gathered her hair in one hand, pulling it off her damp neck. "Hot in here," she managed to say.
With a little smirk, Paul left her sitting barefoot on the bed and threw open a window, letting the drone of traffic and the trace of a breeze into the stuffy room. "Better?"
She let her hair fall back down as the air drifted over her skin.
Paul dove into the bed, landing with his head on the pillow. "Come here."
Lainey crawled up beside him. "We sure spend a lot of time in different beds."
"You say that like it's a bad thing." He pulled the photograph out of his pocket. "Let me see the ring."
She hesitated a beat and he rolled his eyes. "Jayzus, Lainey, I'm not going to separate you from that bloody ring. I want to see if the picture of my mum's face will fit inside."
"It will. I can see it will. There's no need to mess with the ring until we're...I'm ready to go."
He blew out an exasperated breath. "All right, have it your way." He placed the photograph on the table next to the bed. "Tell me about George and John."
"It's not good news."
He turned his head on the pillow, searching her eyes, as if the secrets of time travel were held there. "Go on."
"I checked as soon as I got back to the hotel in 2012. Both of them are still gone, and neither of them lived a single day longer."
She paused, letting the information sink in. "And this is where it gets weird. Since I went back in time and messed with things, both George and John died of something completely different than what they died of in my memory."
"What are you on about?"
"I told you how John died, remember? What did I tell you?"
Paul grimaced. "That he was murdered by an obsessed fan. December, 1980."
Lainey reached for his arm, squeezing it. "The date hasn't changed, but John Lennon dies in a sailing accident in December, 1980."
"Fookin 'ell." He rubbed a hand across his face and sighed. "So what is it, Lainey? We sign a contract with God or the devil before we're born and we're only allotted a set number of days?"
"I have no idea."
"I don't really believe in this predestination crap, that we don't have choices. Maybe you should talk to John and George again."
"Oh. So you think there's no rhyme or reason to why we couldn't add a day to their lives? You think I just have to be persistent enough and we can keep them alive?"
He tapped his thumb against his bottom lip. "Are you saying that if you go back and convince my mum not to ignore the pain in her breasts the way she did for years that she'll simply die of something else on the same exact day?"
"I don't know, sweetie." The endearment fell from her tongue. It felt natural somehow, calling him her sweetheart. She wanted to hold him, comfort him, ease his worry over his mother.
"I still want to try, if you're willing," he said finally.
Lainey nodded gravely. "I agree. Of course I'm willing."
"Thank you, sweet Lainey." He pressed his lips to her forehead and settled back on the pillow, his breaths fanning her cheek.
"But I don't really know what to say to her, Paul, as a stranger. I'm afraid if I show up out of the blue she'll just think I'm crackers and ignore anything I say."
"I've thought it through, love. I know exactly how to handle the situation. It will have to be on Monday, while my Dad is at work. We'll write a letter and sign it from your mother." He paused. "What's your mum's name?"
"Julia Spencer."
"A common enough name. My mum won't recognize the name but she'll assume she can't remember every patient she's ever taken care of. Here's what we're going to do..."
Lainey listened carefully as Paul explained his plan, how Lainey would say her mother was a patient of Mary's and had moved with her GI husband to America, but she had never forgotten the nurse who helped her through a difficult labor and delivery. Hence she had sent Lainey to look Mary up when she visited relatives in Liverpool. Paul and Lainey would write a letter and sign it from Lainey's mom, filled with details about a sister's death from breast cancer.
Lainey chewed on the side of her thumb, thinking. "We can say something like, losing my sister at a young age has made me a crusader and I'm telling every woman I know to take it seriously, get checked early and often, don't ignore the signs."
"Yes. Yes! That's it, you see how this can work, don't you?" His beautiful dark eyes were so intense, so beseeching. This meant the world to him.
"I promise I'll do the best that I can....but I don't know if that's enough."
He let his head fall back on the pillow, his eyes drifting closed. "I know, babe."
She leaned over and placed a kiss on his lips, and his arm went around her, pulling her to his chest. "Thank you, sweetheart," he said softly.
"You'll have to give me more details about your mom."
"Mmm," Paul said in a sleepy murmur.
"Like for example, did she work in a hospital? Or what areas did she visit, because she could ask where my mom lived in Liverpool."
She rubbed her palm across his chest, thinking of possible loopholes. Mary was a clever woman, Lainey would have to be sharp.
"And am I supposed to be the baby that was delivered? Maybe I have to manufacture a younger sister or something?"
There was only the sound of slow, even breathing.
"Paul?" She shifted enough to see his face, relaxed and peaceful in sleep, dark eyelashes resting against his smooth, unlined skin. He really was the best thing that she'd ever seen. To quote Bob Dylan. She snuggled her face into that sweet space between his neck and his shoulder. He sighed in response and shifted his head a little, as if her hair tickled him.
She held herself still, letting him sleep. Like an ear worm, the words to that delicious Dylan song ran through her head, desirous and anticipatory, a song that wants to reach out and grab your hand, make you stay the night:
Stay lady stay, stay with your man awhile
Until the break of day, let me see you make him smile
His clothes are dirty but his hands are clean
And you're the best thing that he's ever seen
Stay lady stay, stay with your man awhile
Paul's breathing changed to a soft snore, his heart beating steady and slow beneath her palm, and in that moment the only place Lainey wanted to be was pressed up against his body in a big brass bed, forgetting the time of day, forgetting the year, forgetting about tomorrow. To simply be there in the present/past. Staying awhile.