The tall, classically pretty woman from the photograph answered the door with a toddler on her hip. She didn't seem at all surprised to see a stranger on her doorstep holding a vase full of daisies. Paul's fond memories must have been true. Tokens of appreciation from a grateful community to a kind, capable nurse in post-war Britain were likely a common occurrence.
Five minutes later Lainey was seated on a beige sofa in a tiny but immaculate front room smelling of tobacco and lavender, holding a warm cup of strong English breakfast tea. Worn throw rugs were scattered over clean wooden floors. An upright piano stood only feet away. Above the fireplace hung a small pastoral painting of children playing. Framed black and white family photographs lined the mantel.
A four-year-old Paul McCartney in grey shorts and a pullover sat near Mary McCartney's feet, running two metal die-cast Dinky toy trucks up and down the wooden floor, while two-year-old Michael crawled all over his mother like she was his personal jungle gym.
"Tell me about your mother, dear. How is she?"
Lainey took a deep breath and forced herself to concentrate on not blowing the story she'd begun to tell Mrs. McCartney. What she really wanted to do was kneel down and squeeze the chubby cheeks of the adorable little boy with huge eyes playing on the floor in front of her.
"Oh, she's fine. Of course she misses all the people she knew here and especially wanted me to stop by and tell you how much she appreciated all you did for her."
"That's terribly kind of her. What did you say your last name is?"
"Spencer." At least that part wasn't a lie.
"And how long has your mother been gone?"
"Hmm. Five, six years?" Lainey bit her lip, hoping the questions didn't get more specific.
"During the war, then. Such a chaotic time."
Michael slid from his mother's lap to the floor and reached a chubby hand for the red fire truck that had rolled tantalizingly close. Paul snatched it away just in time.
"Paul, give your brother one of the trucks."
Lainey saw Paul's lips tighten, but he surrendered the toy. Then he looked up, his huge eyes resting on Lainey's face, and she couldn't help smiling at this beautiful child who would one day have the whole world at his feet. He continued staring at her until she gave him a little wave and he blinked away as if bored with her.
"I'll fetch more tea," Mrs. McCartney said, reaching for Lainey's cup. Michael toddled after her, still clutching the red fire truck.
"What's yer name?" Paul asked her the moment his mother left the room.
"Lainey. You're Paul, aren't you?"
He nodded and flashed those big brown eyes at her. "Your hair is pretty."
"Oh!" Lainey said, surprised. Was a four year old Paul McCartney flirting with her? "Thank you." This child was precocious from the very start. "Your mom is very pretty too."
He nodded and examined the underside of the green truck in his hands.
"She loves you very much, you know that?"
"Except when I'm naughty."
"I'm sure she loves you even when you're naughty."
"'Cept when I break things."
"Even then."
"'Cept when I break the rules." He hunched his shoulders up to his ears and began to giggle, and it was such a Paul giggle that Lainey couldn't help giggling back.
"My brother is without pants," Paul said, holding his stomach and giggling harder.
"What does that even mean?" Lainey asked. Was this the most adorable little boy in the world? She could spend all day listening to that laugh.
Mrs. McCartney returned with more tea, Michael once again attached to her hip. "Did you have a silly pill, Paul?"
"Silly pilly," Paul repeated. The giggling stopped and his eyes narrowed as he watched his mother settle onto the sofa with Michael on her lap. Abandoning the truck, Paul climbed onto the piano stool. Legs swinging, little brown leather shoes not quite reaching the floor, he stretched to the far left and began plunking every black key from the bottom of the keyboard to the top.
"He's adorable. They both are."
"He's a whirlwind," Mary said, but her face glowed with pride. "If only I had their energy."
They both watched Paul for a moment, his left hand moving up to the high notes. "He seems to be left-handed," Mary said, her brow knit with concern. "I've been encouraging him to use crayons with his right hand, and he gets so frustrated with me. But it will save him a lot of bother and frustration later on with the school masters if he'll use his right hand."
Lainey wondered what Mary would say she knew her first born was destined to become the most famous left-handed bass player in the world. "I imagine he'll figure it all out and do just fine with his left hand," Lainey said. She could tell by the tilt of his head that Paul was listening to every word they said.
Then to Lainey's surprise, he began to play Chopsticks. She turned to Mary with a smile. "He's very musical."
"He gets that from his father."
"Does your husband teach the boys?"
"No, He wants them to learn it properly, from an instructor, when they're ready."
Little Paul's ears seemed to perk up. "I can play piano already, Mother," he said in a perfect British accent. Lainey almost laughed. So Paul hadn't really picked up the Northern accent until he'd gotten around the other kids at school and wanted to fit in.
"Yes, you're doing quite well, Son."
Michael clambered off his mother's lap and toddled over to his brother, pulling himself up to the piano. He lifted his fat little hands and slammed them down on the keyboard. A split second later, Paul's arm shot out, and little brother plopped onto his diaper clad bottom and howled. Paul blithely turned back to the keys and started Chopsticks from the beginning.
Lainey's hand flew to her mouth, but she quickly realized the baby's only injury was to his pride. She had to bite her lip to keep from laughing at the family dynamic playing out in front of her eyes. Big brother had clearly had enough of little brother infringing on his toys, his mother, his audience.
Mary scooped up baby Michael and soothed him before addressing her older son. "James Paul. You owe everyone an apology."
Paul stopped playing, his face the picture of innocence. "But I'm not sorry, Mummy. He shouldn't bang on the keys, Dad says so."
Mary took him by the shoulder and guided him off the stool. "Use your words from now on. Upstairs. Off you go."
Paul's face reddened, but he obediently slid off the piano stool and headed for the doorway. Then he stopped. "It's not fair, Mummy. And I need the sand glass."
Mary sighed. "That's fine Paul. Use gentle hands."
At the fireplace, Paul lifted a large hour glass from the hearth, flipped it over and carried it carefully out of the room, watching the sand trickling through as if mesmerized. Lainey heard his little leather shoes clumping up the stairs.
"He knows he can leave his room when the sand runs out," Mary explained wearily. A working mother, with none of the modern conveniences Lainey had grown up taking for granted. No wonder she looked tired.
"They're very sweet boys," Lainey reassured her. "Typical brothers, jealous for your attention."
"Paul is so much like his father. He's never happier than when he has an audience."
Lainey couldn't keep the smile from her lips. "That's how he reaches out to people. All you can do is encourage it."
Mary looked thoughtful. "That lad has the fascinating ability to do two things at once."
"What do you mean?"
"He can be looking at a picture book and listening to the wireless and a neighbor drops by. Paul can relate everything that happened in a radio program and every word of my conversation with the neighbor and never look up from his book."
"He's a very smart little boy. He'll make you terribly proud one day."
Mary's cheeks grew faintly pink. "A mother is always proud of her sons," she said, ruffling Michael's soft brown hair. Michael rested his tear-stained cheek on his mother's shoulder, content now to have her full attention.
Lainey decided now was a good time to hit the road back to 1963, before she made any mistakes. She pulled Paul's letter out of her purse. "My mother wanted me to give you this. She said it was very important."
"Oh. Of course. The flowers are lovely, dear. And the vase. Please tell your mother I'll keep it always." She frowned, as if trying once again to remember Lainey's mother.
"It was so nice meeting you, Mrs. McCartney. Thank you for everything."
"Pleasure. Give my best to your mother. Is there a return address inside so I can thank her properly?"
"Yes, inside the letter." Lainey winced a little at the lie, reminding herself that it was all for the greater good.
The door closed behind her and Lainey expelled an audible sigh of relief. She'd done the best she could and hadn't made any mistakes. Now she had to get back to 1963 and Paul and hope for the best.
On the short walk to the park, Lainey's heart was beating like a drum, her shoulders tense. What if she'd been successful, if Mary had taken the letter to heart and had her symptoms checked out while there was still time to save her life? Would Paul still have become a Beatle? Would he be waiting for her in 1963, or would they even have met one another? One way or another, she would soon find out.
**********************************
When the spinning sensation stopped, Lainey didn't know whether to be worried or relieved to see Paul sitting on the bench exactly where she'd left him.
"What happened?" he demanded, before she even had her bearings. "What did you do with the flowers?"
Lainey brought a hand to her forehead. Traveling through time wasn't getting any easier. It still made her slightly nauseous and lightheaded. "I gave them to your mother. Chill out and give me a moment."
She collapsed on the bench beside him and closed her eyes, hoping her head would stop spinning soon.
"You've only been gone for five seconds."
"Five seconds to you," she said, opening her eyes.
"Tell me what happened."
"Oh my god. You already know I'm crazy about the 21-year-old you, but I am madly in love with the four-year-old you! You were the cutest little thing. You said my hair was pretty and you—"
"I don't care about any of that, what about my mum?" He jerked to his feet, rubbing the back of his neck as he paced in front of her. "Did you tell her about the accident? Did you make sure she won't ride her bicycle to work on Halloween night in 1956?"
Lainey felt the blood drain from her face. "What are you talking about? Your mom didn't die of an accident. She died of breast cancer. I gave her the note, the way we planned all along—"
"You didn't mention the car that hit her, Lainey? You have got to be fookin' kiddin' me." Paul thrust both hands into his hair and stared up at the sky as he spun in a small circle.
"Oh god...this is...Paul, everything has changed!" Lainey jumped to her feet, tears filling her eyes. "Paul, listen..." She reached out a hand to him but he darted out of her reach. "I'll go back again, if you think it will help. I'll tell her about the accident, I'll tell her whatever you want me to."
"Did you even go back in the first place? Were you actually ever there?" He whirled on her, anger flashing in his eyes. Then he noticed her tears and his face softened. He groaned and turned, walking away from her into the middle of a field of grass.
Lainey sat back down on the bench, watching him go. She dropped her face in her hands, the tears still falling. She'd known all along that she probably couldn't save Paul's mother. She should have prepared him better. She shouldn't have let him think there was a chance.
When she looked back up, Paul was lying in the middle of the field, arms and legs spread out like a starfish. The sight frightened her. She had no idea how to comfort him, when he clearly didn't want her help.
A pair of blue jays squawked, drawing Lainey's attention to the edge of the woods. A medium sized yellow dog loped toward them, giving Lainey only a glance before making a beeline for Paul. The dog stood over him, panting and sniffing, and Lainey watched as Paul lifted an arm to ruffle the fur around the dog's neck. He was petting a dog now. That let her know he was going to be okay.
He was propped up on an elbow, good friends with the dog by the time Lainey reached him.
Ducking her outstretched hand, the dog gave Lainey a sniff before continuing its trek, collar and tags jingling with every step.
"Paul, I—"
"I'm sorry I—"
They spoke at the same time, stopped, and Paul smiled a weary smile. He reached a hand up to her. "Come 'ere, pretty girl."
Lainey took his hand and dropped to her knees beside him.
"I'm sorry I made you cry," Paul said. "I didn't mean to blame you." His thumb was rubbing the burnished gold on the ring finger of her right hand. "It's this bloody ring. I expected too much. It means a lot to me that you did this for me."
He continued tugging at her hand until Lainey was stretched out on the ground beside him, half on top of him, in her long charcoal skirt and white shirt, Paul's fingers laced at the small of her back. "Tell me everything."
She hesitated. "Are you sure?"
A long, drawn out sigh. "I'm sure."
Lainey began to describe every detail she could remember about Paul's mother, his brother Michael, their little house, the piano Paul had played, the toys he was playing with. When she got to the part about the hour glass, she heard his sharp intake of breath.
"I remember you."
"What?"
"The way you've just described everything, I remember it. I remember a pretty dark-haired girl coming by the house with a vase of yellow daisies and I recall being angry that I was sent upstairs. I watched you from the upstairs window as you walked away."
"How is that possible? It was five minutes ago." Lainey's head was starting to ache. Was this what a migraine felt like?
"I remember it because of the look on my mum's face when she read the letter. And my dad came home and she was still upset and showed it to him. That's why I remember it. What did that letter say exactly?"
Lainey lifted her head to look at him. "You're the one who wrote it!"
He shook his head adamantly. "No I didn't. I told you to go back to 1956 and keep her from riding her bicycle off to work. I don't know what the bloody hell you were doing in 1946."
Their eyes met. "I don't even know what's happening right now," Lainey said quietly.
Paul blew out an exasperated breath. "Let's get out of here. I never liked this neighborhood."
A bus took them through an industrial part of town, past the airport, and let them out at what seemed like the end of the line. Past an abandoned warehouse, they picked their way over what might have been the remains of a bombed out building, then ran side by side down a rocky path, their feet hitting the earth in rhythm with one another.
Open dry fields descended to a stretch of dark grey rolling water. They ran until they could go no farther. Paul bent over, hands on his knees, panting and catching his breath. Then he straightened and turned to Lainey.
"What happens now?"
She shook her head, still catching her breath. "I don't know."
"Don't leave."
"Paul, I can't stay. You know I can't."
His eyes flashed with hurt. "So that's it, then?"
She lifted her palms, beseeching him to understand, to not put them through this. "Aren't you going back on the road, like immediately?"
He groaned up at the sky. "There are times I wish I was an English teacher in fucking Speke."
"That would make you really happy, I'm sure."
"Lainey, listen to me. We don't have to be over. You can let me come to you, for one thing."
"You know that's impossible."
He didn't answer. He laced their fingers and pulled her to him, his other hand cradling her head, and covered her mouth with his. He kissed her like he wanted to make sure she remembered every detail, his palm stroking the back of her neck, deepening the kiss with insistent and demanding caresses, coaxing her mouth open with his tongue.
Somehow through the fog of her Paul-drenched brain she realized he had unlinked their fingers and slid the ring off her finger. Sonofabitch.
She pushed at his chest, breaking the kiss and gasping in a much-needed breath of air. "Paul. Give me the ring."
His hand was in the front pocket of his jeans. "I need you here. My life is crazy, and you and I...we fit."
"Give it back."
She lunged for his hand and he elbowed her away. They grappled for a moment, Lainey tugging desperately at his wrist, Paul fending her off, until he jerked his hand out of his pocket and slung back his arm.
Stunned, Lainey watched the sun glinting off the gold ring as it tumbled through the air and into the dark, cold waters of the Mersey River.
And that was the moment she knew it was over. "How could you?" she tearfully demanded of Paul. "Don't you know I can still get home with my phone, but now I can never come back here?"
She immediately started digging through her purse, while Paul raised his hands, his own eyes welling with tears at the devastated look on her face. He tried to placate her. "Be reasonable. Let's talk about this. You don't understand."
But to Lainey it was clear as a bell. Once Paul had realized the ring was of no use to him, that it couldn't bring his mother back, he threw away their only chance of seeing each other again.
She staggered up the beach, with Paul on her heels as she powered up her iPhone. "Come on, come on!" she said, jerking her arm out of Paul's grasp and punching wildly at the voicemail and speaker buttons.
The world spun madly, Paul shouted words at her that she couldn't hear over the rushing in her ears, and then she was sprawled on the ground on the shore of the Mersey River, completely alone.
Her mother and brother thought Lainey had lost her mind when she called to tell them she would be using her Discover card to spend the night in a Liverpool hotel until she could get a train back tomorrow morning. Her mother eyed her warily for the final days of their stay in England, even mentioning that she might want to "see someone" back home if she didn't "get her emotions under control."
Lainey spent the last two days in England alternating between sleeping with a pillow over her head and hiding in the bathroom crying with the bath water running. By the time they left England, she decided enough was enough. She would leave her broken heart and all her memories of Paul here, and when she got home she was going to pretend none of this terrible time travel nightmare had ever happened.
But Paul McCartney wasn't so easy to forget. Even as angry as she was with him, she missed so many things about him, about the way they were together. The sound of his laugh, the way his eyes could move her, the colors of his iris stirring hypnotically, the perfect soft firmness of his lips against hers. The intoxicating smell of him that haunted her for weeks.
On the rare occasions that she went more than a few minutes without missing him, she would catch a glimpse of a shiny dark head of hair, catch a whiff of tobacco smoke or hear a simple guitar riff and everything about their two weeks together would come rushing back.
The dog days of summer crawled by. Lainey was soon back to her normal routine, classes during the day, working in the record store at night, dinner a few times a week with her best friend Kate, who knew her well enough to know something was wrong and that Lainey would talk about it when she was ready.
And finally she was ready, on a Saturday night, weepy after a chick flick on Netflix and half a bottle of German wine. Lainey opened up to Kate about the boy she'd fallen in love with on vacation. A musician, a singer in a band. A fast and furious fling with someone she would never see again.
"You were there for what...two weeks?" Kate said, somewhat skeptical.
"I know it's over, and it never really began, but in my heart it was so real..." Lainey said, tears dripping down her cheeks.
Kate wasn't getting it. "Is he on Facebook? Instagram? Snapchat? Why can't you video chat or something? England is five hours away and not exactly a third world country. I could swear they have internet."
Lainey shook her head. "It's impossible."
Kate only nodded and opened her arms, patting Lainey's back and letting her cry.
Then they refilled their glasses of wine and talked about how much work Lainey had to do to make up for the sketch pad she'd lost in England. A summer full of work, abandoned in a hotel room in Liverpool, never to be seen again.
By the second week in September, three weeks into the Fall semester, Lainey was still not finished redoing all the designs she had lost. She took her new sketchpad with her to the record store, sketching designs whenever they were without customers, which seemed to be most of the time.
Lainey had only served one customer in the coffee shop at the back of the store on Wednesday night, a middle-aged woman who ordered a London Fog. Great, Lainey thought as she made the latte with Earl Grey and steamed milk. Now even when her father wasn't playing Sgt Pepper over the audio system, she couldn't even serve customers in the back without being reminded of Paul.
She was completely over this job anyway. Working in a used record store with her father, a classic rock freak, and trying not to think about Paul McCartney. It was ridiculous. Her life was a bad romantic comedy. She would have quit this job weeks ago if she weren't working for her father.
She was standing at the sink, rinsing out a large blender, when she heard a customer rapping on the counter, trying to get her attention. Wouldn't you know it, ten minutes before closing, some A-hole had wandered in, probably wanting some sort of complicated tall non-fat latte with caramel drizzle, when Lainey had already cleaned the machines and counted the money in the drawer. She fought the urge to toss a glare over her shoulder.
"Hello, gorgeous."
That voice. She would know it anywhere. Impossible.
"I seem to 'ave somethingk of yours," the voice said. Northern English accent, full glottal stop on the 'g' and the dripping with honey voice that caused panties to drop all over the world. Even hers. Especially hers.
The blender slipped from her hands, clattering in the sink. With shaking hands, Lainey turned off the water, wiped her hands on her apron, and turned around.
And her heart stopped beating. The sight of him slapped her in the face, then drowned her in flashing memories, like hailstones pelting and melting on the ground.
Paul McCartney, looking exactly as he'd looked in 1963, was standing in her father's record store, at her glass counter between the carrot cake and the apple crunch muffins, looking jet-lagged and beautiful and more than a little nervous.
She reached behind her, gripping the sink with both hands. Mother of god. There was no way this was happening.
He shrugged her backpack off his shoulders and placed it gently on the counter between them, his eyes warm and fastened on hers. "I thought you might want your things. And an explanation."
She reminded herself to take a breath. Because humans need to breathe. "No. You're not real," she whispered.
He leaned over the counter, earnestly looking into her face. "Lainey love. Imagine the zillion to one shot that my eyes should fall and catch on a slender girl just before she stepped in front of our car and landed in a heap on the sidewalk. Imagine the odds of making a connection with that girl, like I've never felt before. Did you really think I would let you just walk out of my life forever?"