5~Tranquility
A week and a few days went by. It was now the beginning of June. The air was warmer than it had been lately, but still was a lot cooler than I was used to in the summer. At home, in Windy Falls, the temperature would be over one hundred degrees with a hot wind blowing. Here, the breeze was coolly warm.
Elizabeth had been going to and from London and our little house. She always told me it was because of her design work and preparation for "the big show," but I suspected that there was a man involved. But she didn't say and I didn't ask.
Now she was sitting cross-legged on the red stone path in the garden, adding watercolour and coloured pencil to some of her designs and occasionally glancing at a picture she had by her papers—of that I had no doubt.
I had pulled the radio out earlier and now it sat half-away from Elizabeth and half-near me and alternately played the Beatles, Paul McCartney and Wings and a few other things that Elizabeth liked, very softly in the background. I was sitting about twenty-thirty feet from her at under the cottonwood tree. The branches hung sort of low and partially shaded me, but the sun was reaching its midpoint in the sky and the temperature increased.
Elizabeth disappeared inside the house with her papers. I looked up to see her retreating form and then returned to what I was doing.
The sunlight danced in my gold-brown eyes and added a glowing lustre to my reddish-golden-brown hair. A pencil balanced itself between my slim fingers as I drummed it on my notebook. My old-fashioned, requires real ink! sky-blue typewriter sat on a stack of manuscripts next to me. I took off my sandals, clapped them together to clean them, removed my typewriter and then put the sandals on top of the papers. I pulled a blank sheet of paper from my notebook and put it into the roller-thingy and started to type.
*ping*
….click…click…click…
Chhchhchhccchhhchhchch!!!
I said, yanking the jammed paper out of the typewriter. I didn't really mind that much—I was feeling free—for the past week, I'd been doing publishing deals for my new book and I had also done a photo shoot. Now that they were over, I was at peace.
Well, almost.
The incidents with Paul still nagged at me. My mind wandered over the scenes a million times and it wasn't getting me anywhere. I kept wondering what he'd been trying to tell me when I'd brushed him off at the airport. Was he trying to apologize? And why did he act so pissy in the first place? I hadn't done anything to him, had I?
I shook my head violently to banish the thoughts—Not today; think about something else today! my mind pleaded. I shut the nasty, repetitious thoughts out of my head….somewhat….and I rolled in a fresh sheet of paper and my fingers hit the keys again.
*ping*
Good sound. I relaxed as the typewriter continued its original activities.
A Day in the Life, I wrote.
Great, I thought with a grin. Can't get away from those Beatles.
The girl wondered if she'd ever find love. Her relationships with the opposite sex had never been easy, but, damnit, did they have to be this hard? There had been that one time a young man had said cruel things to her and, with a cool tone and the air of a queen, she was able to insult him and shut him up. Needless to say, he was driving her home and she made him stop three blocks from her house because she was too angry to stand his stupidity. And all those times she had been called ugly…her father called her a flower; she was a young blossoming flower…
I didn't want an autobiography! I shouted at the paper, which, of course, said nothing back. But I couldn't throw it away, so I shoved it in my notebook.
So much for trying to write something from scratch. My writing was an emotional vent for me, sometimes. Writing out my problems got them out of my system and helped me see things from another perspective. It sure beat therapy.
Now that a little of my frustration was a bit out of my system—a lot of the writing was crap, but it was true my relationships with the opposite sex were not an easy thing—I tried to relax. I crept over to the radio and made it play Here, There and Everywhere. You'd think, if I were even the least bit pissed, that I would stop listening to that beautiful voice, but I couldn't. I just kept on.
The calm, quiet beauty and soft sweetness of the song spread through me and I felt my limbs loosen. I leafed through my notebook for another story to work on and found one. I promptly pulled out a pencil, pushed my typewriter away, pulled up my knees and used them as a desk as I put my notebook on them and began to scribble ideas.
Of course, a thought had to intrude into my mind as I wrote and it told me: What about the warmth at the restaurant, Lynne? You know—and you know he knows—that that was real. You are on the road to becoming great friends—at least you were, the thought hissed and sighed at me. You can't be best friends in a few hours. Something special, like a best-friendship, occurs over a long—or shortly long—period of time. John and Paul's best-friendship, their brotherly closeness, took a little time, but look how it lasted! You must give Paul time. Give yourself time. Remember what Elizabeth said—It's written in the stars. It's there if you're willing to seek it. There is something between you two, but even I, wise thought I may be, cannot tell you. That's for you to find out. But remember, time. A couple or a few months, maybe, but not a day. Not a week. Give him time and be sure to allow some for yourself.
I don't know where that wise thought came from, but I nodded, my heart agreed, and I took it in close to me. And when I had done so, I was able to write again, this time much calmer.
I heard the garden-side gate click and I looked up with a dreamy and thoughtful smile, expecting to see Elizabeth.
Oh, yes, it was Elizabeth Ruby, all right. She had a puzzled expression on her face as she guided someone behind her into the orchard.
It was Paul.
He was looking at me in that way I'd caught him looking at me before. It was an indescribable look, but in it were the elements of surprise, pleasure, a twinge of pain, comfort, searching (for what? I wondered)….and something else I couldn't define—or was scared to. The look would always disappear when he had talked to me, though at some moments, I would find that look upon me again.
"Lynne?" Elizabeth's voice came from another world. "I'm running down to the store…" She turned and locked the gate as she went out, looking over her shoulder at me a little worriedly. I knew she was just giving us time alone, though she wasn't sure if it was a good idea.
The thoughts of a few minutes ago were still inside me, but I could not help being very stunned and surprised at his being there. Coolness coursed through me in spite of the day's warmth. My fingers tingled and I dropped my pencil. I was pale and my cheeks were faintly crimson. My lips trembled. I was angry with myself for this reaction and I was scared of what I might say to him. I jumped up, my notebook falling next to the hem of my ground-length dark-blue flared jeans.
I wasn't ready for this—echoes of that wise thought were in my head, but I hadn't expected to be so quickly confronted with making the thought apply. A little more anger flamed up within me, this time directed at Paul.
Why? I thought. Why couldn't we be friends like I wanted?
Time, said the thought again. What you want is there; you must find it for yourself.
I braced myself up and my eyes went over every detail of him.
He didn't look very happy, either. He just looked….unhappy. Sad. In pain. I softened on seeing this.
He seemed to have dressed on my account. He was wearing a black suit exactly like the one he wore when he was knighted, complete with a vest. His brown-threaded with gray-hair fell lightly to his shoulders in the style that was one of my favourites of his hairstyles. He was still very good-looking and didn't look "old" or seem it at all. He still looked very young, very youthful. The only things that gave his age were the gray in his hair—but twenty-somethings could have gray, too; and the lines in his face, but they were not very obvious. The green was as equally prominent with the brown in his eyes as he looked at me.
"How are you, Lynne?" he asked awkwardly, coming closer.
Had I been very angry, I would have said, "Miss Lewis to you," but I did not. He looked like he was going to hug me, but I raised a hand and he was warned off. He was obviously hurt, but said nothing and dropped his outstretched arms. But this action pierced me to the heart as well, but my tone certainly didn't let on; it was cool and businesslike.
"State your business, if you please," I said brusquely. The media, rude stars, the books I read, and interviews had long before given me a fine politeness.
"Lynne, I—" He stopped and stared at his black polished shoes as if the laces were magically untying themselves.
All I wanted to do was hug him, hold him tightly in a comradely way, but my tone didn't let me.
He tried again.
"Lynne, I'm sorry how I've been acting. I don't even know you that well and I've been treating you like crap. I didn't help you when your stuff was all blown away for my own reasons—much different from what you'll probably assume. I'm sorry for what I said—"
"You didn't have to say much," I observed. "Everything you said had a lot in it."
;"Oh, God, Lynne, I am so sorry! Maybe someday—" his beautiful eyes seemed to brighten "—I can tell you why I acted like I did, but I can't tell you now. All I can say is that I am sincerely sorry. Will you forgive me and go out to dinner with me?"
I hesitated. All my conflicting emotions left as quickly as they had come. I was myself again. I wanted to go with him and then that wise thought came into my head: "You're on the road to being good friends…"
"Yes," I said softly. "I forgive you and I'll go to dinner with you."
A sunny smile broke out across his features.
"We'll go as soon as you're ready." He held out his hand to shake, but he still looked as though he'd rather hug me. I closed the space between us with a happy embrace.
"Come on in," I invited, taking his hand in mine to guide him. "I'll get ready and you can watch TV or something."
He smiled. I took him inside, settled him on the sofa, and made sure he was comfortable and then went to my room to get ready.
He'd come back. I would be wary now and not demand anything of him and give our friendship time to really be a friendship.
But it seemed strange to me that after he apologized, everything was all bright and sunny again. I wondered as I took a shower if that was supposed to be so. When I was younger, I fought frequently and made up frequently and unless it was something very serious, the matter was patched up right away.
It all boiled down to trust. I wanted to be able to trust him and wanted him to trust me. By him coming back, it gave me some trust in him actually caring. But I didn't want his coldness directed towards me again. The incidents we had been made me think of something: It is not pleasant to be in a nice conversation with someone and then another person passes by and tells you to piss off. So what if you don't know the person? It still hurts. Many people can brush off something like that, but they stick to me for a little while.
The run-ins with Paul were running their course out of my system already, so I could accept his apology.
I got out of the shower and cleaned the rest of myself up, put on my make-up, curled my hair simply (not in corkscrew-style), yanked on pantyhose and slipped on a thigh-length white dress with small yellow flowers and green leaves scattered across it. I pulled on white "doll"-style high heels and wound an airy, snowy, long scarf around my neck, letting the ends trail freely over my shoulders. I grabbed my woven purse and clutched it in my hand as I presented myself to Paul.
He was seated at the small baby grand piano I had (I was a bit of a pianist) and was leafing through my manuscripts, having retrieved them from the yard. His look glanced upward and his eyes stayed fixed on me.
"You look great, Lynne!" he breathed admiringly.
"Thank you, sir," I returned. "You look pretty handsome yourself."
I left a note for Elizabeth and then we made our way out to his car, a blue Rolls-Royce. He held his chin high as he opened the door for me and I laughed.
"I'm taking you to a London restaurant," he said as he took the north fork in the road.
"Okay." I straightened my dress and hoped this wasn't going to be a silent drive. It wasn't.
"What kind of music d'you like, Lynne?" he asked me.
I blushed hard. How can you tell someone that you are a huge fan of a group they were a part of? But I answered honestly, "Yours. I love the Beatles and Wings is..." I looked at him with a sneaky smile, "…fab. I like your solo stuff, too. I'm telling you the truth, now," I added as he smiled. "Your music is my favourite. And besides that, my dear, rock and roll and pop-rock, swing and stuff like that are other things I like."
"Have you got all my albums? Beatles, Wings, and solo?" he asked me, chuckling.
"Almost," I answered with a smile. "I'm working on the bootlegs now."
Paul burst out laughing and took my hand, giving it a little squeeze.
"I hope you don't mind," I said.
"Mind!" he returned. "I just didn't think I had a Fan in my car!"
"Well, do you mind that?" I asked again. "I do pay yer part of yer paycheck, y'know."
He roared with laughter and slapped my knee lightly.
"Well, we'll be dinin' on it tonight, darlin'," he grinned and turned on the radio. He fiddled with the knob.
"Please," I said, "let me."
He nodded and I twiddled with it until I got to a rock station. Paul's "Rock Show" was on and I sang along. He started to sing along too and when it was over, I clapped and he bobbed his head.
"I'm getting too do that kind of stuff," he said reflectively as he stared out at the road in front of us. "Too old."
I snorted.
He grinned at me, a real grin, and said, "But I didn't say that I was stopping! I'm making a new album for you to buy!"
"And what's this album called, lovey?" I asked with a teasing smile.
He looked at me and answered:
"Pizza and Fairy Tales."
I whooped, knowing the story behind the title. Paul laughed along with me, evidently glad that someone understood, especially a young'un like myself.
"I can see you know the story," he chuckled. "But I'll tell you the way it really was, not what you've read."
Paul's quietly laughing, melodic voice put me at ease as he told me his version, not books,' of where the title came from. It was humorous and I laughed more than a few times.
It seemed only like a few minutes later when we arrived in London, greeted by a cool breeze that was picking up and the lights of the city.
"Where're we going?" I tried to ask as politely as I could.
"Lentil's," Paul replied, his eyes brightly clear from the last rays of sunshine. "The restaurant you found the two Stones and me at."
"Okay," I answered, and shut my mouth before I said anything stupid.
Paul seemed to misunderstand my silence and said, "We can go somewhere else if you'd prefer."
Startled, I turned to him. "No, no! Lendal's is fine."
He surprised me with a chuckle. "Lentil's, luv, Lentil's."
"I haven't eaten out much since I've been here," I told him. "Is this an exclusive stars' restaurant or something?"
"Uhh-humm," he replied, making a sharp left turn, nearly barreling into a junker. "It's not like the other restaurants I've been to. The staff serves you and then doesn't bother you anymore. All the others would have waitresses leaning over the table, giving you a full view—" he grinned "—and demanding your autograph. And…" he winked at me and added, "…it's the most fab place in town!"
He pulled into a dark parking lot and parked under a tree.
"It's supposed to be dark," he assured me. "This is so no one knows who's coming in. The front entrance is lit up and nice, but this back way's a lot better." He opened his door and disappeared and suddenly reappeared at my door and helped me out. He locked up and strode ahead of me. I took about two steps and stopped. I didn't hear his footsteps, I couldn't see, and he was a lot more acquainted with this place than I was.
"Paul?"
My voice was small and scared in the darkness. I felt like a four-year-old.
"Paul, where are you? I can't see."
Silence.
I didn't dare try to walk because I knew that my feet would stumble over anything as soon as I moved. I pulled off my shoes and then took of my panty hose so I wouldn't ruin it and felt warm asphalt under my feet.
"Paul, this isn't funny. Stop being a jerk and help me."
I had no idea where the restaurant's door was and wondered vaguely if there was anyone else in the lot with me.
I set my teeth and took a hesitant step. When all my foot encountered was a small pebble, I took another step forward and started walking, my hands stretched outwards, groping for something solid.
Which I found. Two arms went under me and someone picked me up.
"I was coming, Lynne," came Paul's voice in my ear. "I had to check something. Sorry, luv."
"Uh-huh," I replied a little sarcastically.
"Still think I'm a jerk?" The question came out of the darkness, but with a hint of teasing.
"Yes," I answered and gently slapped his cheek.
He soon set me down when we had approached the door and gave me a moment to slip on my shoes and stockings. When I was done, he slipped my hand onto his arm and escorted me in.
When I had eaten at Lentil's before, I hadn't realized the two entrances. The front entrance was very nice as Paul had said, but the back entrance was pretty grand, too. A hostess podium stood there and the hostess seated us as soon as we walked in, at a booth for two in a back corner hidden by palm trees and flowers, quite cozy. It was by a window that overlooked onto the front entrance main street.
"It's one-way glass," Paul said to my unasked question. "We can see out, no one can see in."
A waitress came and replaced the hostess. She gave me an once-over and smiled when she recognized me and then turned to give who she probably thought was my "man" the same look. She looked a little shocked when she saw Sir Paul McCartney sitting right next to me and quickly handed us our menus and nervously recited the dinner specials. She left and Paul and I plunged into a long discussion of American politics. I don't know how that topic surfaced, but since I was an American, I was interested in my own politics and Paul seemed curious. It seemed like he was testing me, seeing what he could talk to me about. After asking me about Chaucer's The Canterbury Tales, literature in general, Bill Clinton, children, family, my school life, money and people, it was obvious he had decided he could talk to me about anything, which pleased me and seemed to please him. We ordered food somewhere about the line where I was talking about the Hutus and Tootsies horror of a few years back and then we started talking about World War Two. The Kosovo War somehow became a topic and we were in the middle of talking about why he wrote "Give Ireland Back to the Irish" and John Lennon's song, "Sunday Bloody Sunday" by the time the food arrived.
We ate and still kept on talking, this time the conversation about what our professional lives were like. He knew about acting since he had done a few movies and he had posed for pictures for more than thirty years. He asked me about my writing and was genuinely interested in it.
"Dustin Hoffman once asked me, when I was doing Band on the Run with Linda and Denny, how did I write songs? I did one there on the spot. With your stories, can you do that?"
;"Yes," I said. I had always thought about my answer to this question and no one had ever asked it. "Give me a piece of paper and a pen and I'll start right now. Or I'll just recite one to you as it writes itself in my head."
He nodded, understanding perfectly. When we were finished and the bill was taken care of (with much protesting on my part; I thought I should've helped), he had someone bring his car to the front and helped me in and we drove off.
Time. We had finally had the time to get to know each other a bit more. It was definitely helping—we had already become firm friends.
When Paul took me home and walked me to the door, he hugged me and asked me if I'd like to go out for dinner with him from now on.
"Yes, I'd like that," I answered with a sweet smile. "And Paul?"
"Yes?" he said.
"If we'll be doing this everyday, why don't you come and have dinner with us sometimes?"
Paul's smile was real. "I'd like that, my dear. I'll see you tomorrow, then?"
"Uh-humm," I replied. "Come here tomorrow."
"I'll do that. Ta ra, then, luv," he said and he softly kissed my cheek. He picked up his pace as he walked to his car as it had started to drizzle. He got in and raised one hand to me and drove off into the darkness.
His kiss burned on my cheek.