Marisol Hemingway isn't looking for love when she meets Paul McCartney on holiday in the summer of 1963. She is nursing a broken heart, and he is on the brink of international success. But the attraction between them is undeniable. Will Paul be the...
"Multiply Elvis Presley by four, subtract six years from his age, add British accents and a sharp sense of humor. The answer: It's the Beatles (Yeah,Yeah, Yeah)" — The New York Times, February 9, 1964
The release of "I Want to Hold Your Hand" in America was like a technicolor explosion. Americans had never heard anything like it. There were no rock groups with multiple singers, and especially no groups using multiple guitars. The Beatles' sound was exotic, sexual, full of climaxes and screams. It was like an earthquake. Suddenly Beatles music was everywhere.
Paul wrote to Marisol regularly and in mid-January he called her from Paris, in the middle of the night Paris time. Brian had received a telegram from Capitol Records. "I Want to Hold Your Hand" was No. 1 on the American charts. The timing could not be more perfect for them to appear on The Ed Sullivan Show in early February.
Marisol held her breath, wondering if she would be able to see him in New York. "How long are you staying?"
"I dunno, Bri is arranging for us to film the show in Miami as well."
"Miami? You'll love it. My grandfather had a home in Key West, three hours away. My father has been flying down there, cataloging everything. It's going to be a museum."
"Can you come to see me in Miami?"
Marisol's breath hitched. "Are you serious?"
"When have I ever not been serious about Miami?"
"I would love to come to Miami." Marisol breathed a sigh of relief. Miami! And Paul! In three short weeks! Even though she had classes all that week. She'd figure something out. "You're going to love it there!"
"I'm going to love you there," Paul promised, and Marisol felt like someone had stolen her breath.
Behind the transatlantic static she could hear whoops and raucous laughter. Now it sounded like he was phoning from a football match under the ocean. "When Eppy told us we were number one in America, everyone went cock-a-hoop. We all started acting like people from Texas, hollering and shouting Ya-hoo!"
Marisol sighed with longing. How she wished she could see the grins on their faces. "Sounds like the best celebration ever!"
"Oh, we're celebrating, all right. With furniture jumping and milk, in case the American press wants to know. The milk is freely flowing. Malcolm just took me for a ten-minute piggyback ride around our suite while I was waiting for an international operator."
Marisol laughed at the ridiculous image. "I hope you have photographers capturing all the madness. How have the shows been in Paris?"
"Ah well, all right I guess. You know how Paris is. If the Germans and the English like something, the French think there must be something wrong with it. We'll grow on them. We've written a new song. We're in a marvelous suite at the George V and they brought up a grand piano. I write better on expensive pianos, did you know that? "Money Can't Buy Me Love" is the working title."
It became harder and harder to hear him. Marisol had the phone clamped to her ear so tightly it hurt and the other ear was covered with her palm. "It can buy me a ticket to Miami though, that's close enough," she said.
She thought she heard him laugh. "See you soon, love! I'll ring you soon from America." And he was gone.
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