Above Us Only Sky (Paul McCartney/Beatles Fan Fiction)

Chapter 2 - Don't You Know It's Gonna Be Alright

"She's finally down." Mrs. Hemingway perched on the edge of the sofa, back straight, manicured hands clasped in her lap, blonde coif perfectly in place, her polished appearance belying the fact that she'd been up since dawn wrangling a cranky toddler. "You'll need to hire help, Marisol. A driver, a housekeeper, and a nanny. At the very least."

"A driver? I don't even have a car." Marisol knelt beside the HiFi with a case of her record albums from home, adding them to her grandmother's collection of classical music and movie soundtracks. Her hands stilled and she smiled to herself as she reached the Please Please Me album that Paul had given her on the day they met.

Exactly three years ago he had blown into her life like a hurricane—the calm in his eye, the storm swirling around him. The attraction was instant even while her heart ached for Dan. That night, and for many nights after, Marisol had lain on the floor with her head under the HiFi to be closer to the speakers. Moving only to pick up the needle and return it to the beginning of the disc, she listened to every note and every turn of phrase, and little by little the music replaced the ache in her heart with hope.

"You have your grandmother's Mini. Your Uncle Harold has kept it running for you." Her mother leaned forward and lifted a small carry-on bag onto the coffee table. "You'll need better transportation, of course. You have the inheritance from your Papa now. There's no need to live like a peasant."

Marisol carefully placed the first Beatles LP in front of the others and gave it a loving pat before stacking the rest of her albums behind it. "We'll have plenty of time for all that."

"I brought your stories." Mrs. Hemingway took a school notebook from the bag and flipped through it as if looking for something. "When you were little you always carried around a tattered notebook. I was sure you would be a writer. Remember the one about the cat who could fly?

"That's not how it went. There were cats warring in Ireland. Mr. Pooka, the horse, could fly. He helped them escape the fake cat king."

"You were always lost in a story. Back when you had your own dreams...." She sat back and made that familiar tutting sound. The one that always made Marisol wonder what she'd done wrong now.

"Why did you lug a suitcase full of my middle school stories from California?"

"I didn't raise my daughters to get so wrapped up in a man that they forget who THEY are."

Marisol brushed at a lock of hair that escaped her ponytail. "It's almost like we're having two separate conversations."

Mrs. Hemingway stacked the notebooks on the coffee table. "When you were three years old I went to Paris for six weeks to learn gourmet cooking with Julia Child. Do you know why?"

Marisol reached up and tightened the elastic band around her hair. "Because you hated us?"

"To teach my daughters to have dreams of their own."

"I have plenty of dreams. I'm living them."

Mrs. Hemingway sniffed. "You worked so hard to get your pilot's license."

"I can keep up with my lessons here."

"If you'd stayed in California, I could've looked after Melody while you pursued your goals. Instead, here you are in England, losing your head and flapping about over a man." She tutted and stared out the front window.

"I'm not going to do that, Mother. I'm not going to flap about."

"Speak of the devil." Mrs. Hemingway stood, shaking her head with her hands on her hips. "That's all we need, in the midst of all this chaos. Did you know he was on his way?"