Into My Life

Chapter 19

     I had always thought that if I ever saw Paul again, my immediate response would be an emotional cataclysm. I hadn't counted on it being a surprise encounter and hadn't imagined the physical pain. My insides contracted in a sickening spasm and my heart lurched in one explosive beat that made my chest ache. I couldn't breathe. I watched as a fellow departing passenger grabbed Paul's arm to request an autograph. Smiling, juggling carry-on bag and coat, he signed her ticket stub.

       "Why is Paul here?" Brenda was demanding of me, her voice coming to me from a million miles away.

       "Where is John?" Sandy was asking excitedly. "Did you know Paul was coming too?"

       I couldn't answer. I was concentrating on not fainting. Paul handed the ticket back to the fan and looked around, searching for John's welcoming committee. His eyes met mine from thirty feet away and now I not only couldn't breathe or speak, I couldn't move, couldn't even think. He hesitated for a moment, then began to walk toward us.

       I was vaguely aware of the two men shadowing him, moving along on either side of him, but all I really saw was his face. I stared at him, trying to read the expression on his face, trying to determine in a matter of seconds what had brought him here after months of silence and only weeks after that brief exchange on the phone in which he had all but called me a two-timing, gold-digging bitch. He was just a few feet away now, looking at me. The smile he had given the autograph seeker had disappeared. "Contained" was the only word that described his facial expression even though the look in his eyes was intense. Whatever he was thinking, feeling, he was not about to show it here in the middle of this throng of people.

       I hadn't moved. Couldn't. He reached out and put his arms around me, and simply said "Hello Tess."

       Proper airport etiquette required a hug to welcome a traveler. At least that is what my arms seemed to believe. On autopilot, my arms went around him. He pulled me tighter and bent his head to touch his cheek to mine. The feel, the scent of his skin, his hair, everything that was the physical essence of Paul overwhelmed me. I had never fainted in my life, and thought once I survived that first wave of physical shock I would be OK, but this nearly did me in. My head was roaring and the world was closing in, becoming a fuzzy grey tunnel.

       He didn't try to kiss me. Did I want him to? No, simply because it didn't occur to me that he might. Nothing was occurring to me at that moment. No thoughts, no wants, nothing except sensory overload. My winter coat insulated me from the feel of his body against mine and no doubt saved me from a complete meltdown.

       A few seconds later -- an eternity later -- a split second later, I couldn't begin to guess how long, his arms relaxed. He breathed my name as he pulled away. "Tess," he said and his lips brushed my cheek and then he was turning away. I swayed unsteadily, wondering if I had imagined the whisper, the touch of his lips. Brenda caught me, grabbing my arms and steadying me. I forced myself to take a breath and the roaring greyness receded. Paul had turned to smile at Sandy.

       "You must be Sandy," he said. "Ringo sent you this," and he gave her a definite kiss on the cheek. Before she could recover, he turned to Brenda. "Tess told me so much about you two, I feel like I know you already. Hello, Brenda."

       "Hello, Paul," Brenda responded. "Well, so you are the one," she said in an accusatory tone. Good old dependable Brenda could hold me upright, meet Paul McCartney and make a pointed comment all at the same time.

       Paul didn't answer, just looked at her unsure of what to say. I was beyond speech. Not numb though. No, if I had been numb I wouldn't have been feeling the ghost of a kiss on my cheek or the lingering sensation of his arms around me. Paul looked at me and I don't know what would have happened next, what the hell I could have said, even if I could have gotten any words out at all, but from the crowd behind me I heard a girl's voice saying on a note of rising hysteria "It is him! Oh my God! Carol, it's him!" That snapped me back to what was going to have to pass for normal function. I looked around and saw people were staring, pointing, moving in on us as the sound level increased.

       The two anonymous security men with Paul moved quickly, grabbing Paul's arm and pulled him behind the only sturdy barrier available, the ticket counter. The ticket agent, phone in hand, stared at him open mouthed. The other agent, a man, grabbed the phone from her hand and yelled into it, "Where the hell is security?"

       The shuttle cart and two security men arrived instantly as if teleported in response to the agent's panic call. There was a bit of confusion in sorting out who was supposed to be with Paul. Airport security kept trying to keep Sandy, Brenda, and me away from Paul, assuming we were fans. Paul's security people, New Yorkers by their accents, kept hauling us back and the airport security pulled us away. Paul was laughingly protesting, "No, that one's with me too!" Eventually it was sorted out and we were hustled onto two of their little carts, and I ended up sitting next to Paul. As we pulled away from the gate, I looked at him and finally spoke. "John did this?" I asked, though it was less a question than an accusation.

       He nodded, studying my face as he reached into the inside breast pocket of his coat and handed me an envelope. "He sent you this," he said. I took it from him, not seeing the envelope at all, just seeing Paul's hand, remembering his touch. That left me momentarily incapacitated again and I sat there frozen for several thudding heartbeats before I even thought about reading the letter. But as it occurred to me to do so, we turned into a side hallway and were delivered to a private waiting room. The airport security people asked for Paul's luggage claim tickets and he got them out and handed them over. A couple of stewardesses came in and the usual exchange of fan meets star was going on.

       I moved across the room and watched, thankful for the interlude in which to pull myself together. To think. Not that I was having much luck at that. While half my mind was singing "He's here! He wants me back!" The other half was a terrified mess of "Don't jump to conclusions," "Don't get your hopes up," "Be careful. You can't go through that again."

       Brenda and Sandy stood by, uncertain of what was going on, watching me because they knew I was close to falling apart. They kept asking if I was OK. I wasn't, and at that moment, I didn't think I was going to get out of the airport without crying, fainting, throwing up or throwing myself into his arms or all of the above. Somewhere along the line I realized I still had the letter from John in my hand. I tried to open it, but I was shaking so badly I couldn't. Ever practical Brenda took it out of my hands, opened the envelope, handed me the paper and I sat down to read it.

     Direst Theresa,

               I am sending to you a yum genitalman of my accountainace

          to esquire as to the position of Prince Charming. He be a seamly

          lad with a tootly good talent for the musical hearts. His family is

          well known among me and I can azure ( a shade he wares so well)

          you that his uprearing has been egg salad preparation for the

          position even if his upfronting leaves desire.

              Unfortoon-happenstancilly, he has in recent years fallen in

          with a rather bad lot of mucky roods, but he has risen above that

          mush as did the Lord are save yours, amen, and shown himself to be

          made of sterner stuffing and kidney pie. It is my considerable opium

          that he is well suited to meet your knees.

              As you know, I find the role of Prince to be ill fitted to the

          suit of my character. It is with no small amount of humbly sighing sad

          that I therefore or five nominate this upstooding, hard workful, obnoxiously

          good-natured young man with a sneaky upper-cut to this position and all

          those of the Campbellsouptra.

                                                                                    Love always, Winston

          P.S..

          Thomas Hardy's Tess was too trusting. I believe mine may not

          have trusted enough. Talk to him, Tess. He loves you better than I can.

     It took a while to decipher the message as I read it, hearing John's voice, smiling at the take off on British propriety done a la Lennon. But then I got to the end and I stopped smiling. It hit me then that John was saying goodbye. As I had already guessed, he had never planned to come. What I had thought I had heard in his voice on the phone was not a suggestion of something more between us but simply that he cared and wanted me to be happy. There was an ache deep inside as I read the last line. I sank down onto a chair and the page in front of me was blurred by tears. "Goodbye, John" said a small sad voice in my heart. The tears stayed unshed. The last thing John meant to do was make me cry.

      I calmed down, and as I read it over again I wanted to strangle John. What the hell was this all about? He knew damn well I had no immunity to Paul. How could he let him show up here? No - it was more than just letting him come. He had planned this. This note was not just something he had given Paul when he found out Paul was planning to come. John had set this up. There was no business meeting bringing him back to the States. And that insistence in his voice wasn't a need to see me, it was just a way to get me to agree to let him visit me so he could send Paul instead. Why?? Dammit, John, why?

      I looked up to see Paul's security men trying to herd the stewardesses out the door only to have another group of airline personnel invite themselves in. His men looked at Paul, uncertain whether to get forceful about keeping them out. In turn, Paul looked over at me and I had the distinct feeling that he would have had thrown them out promptly with a look from me. But I needed time to think. I turned away.

      Brenda and Sandy asked again if I was all right and I finally managed to answer them. "Yeah. I am not going to faint. You can put that away, Brenda." Brenda had the smelling salts in her hand, ready and eager to snap the capsule open and wave the ammonia under my nose.

      "So what is going on?" Sandy asked, probably for the hundredth time.

      I handed her John's note. "Here, this explains it all," I said with a laugh. They snatched it eagerly, not realizing it would raise more questions than it answered, and I got up and went to stand by the window. There was nothing out there but darkening winter evening on the stretches of grey airport runway, but I wasn't looking at the view anyway. I leaned my forehead against the cold glass as if the cold could somehow shock my brain back to thinking. It seemed to help.

      He was here because he wanted me back. That was clear. There was absolutely no other reason for him to come. John said to talk to him and I could hardly refuse to do that. But trust him? I hadn't recovered from the last time I trusted him. You know that little voice of your subconscious that whispers little warnings to you? Well mine was using a megaphone and was bawling orders; "Don't let him close. You'll fall apart if he touches you." That was as far as I could think or plan at that point. I would talk to him but I wouldn't let him touch me.

       I was only vaguely aware of Brenda and Sandy talking next to me, but I heard Sandy say in awed tones, "He is so gorgeous - He really looks like a Beatle! Brenda, we are meeting a Beatle!"

     That struck me as so odd it caught my attention.   I turned to look at her, bewildered by her response. "You met John!" I said .

      "Oh, yeah, but John was John. He didn't look like a Beatle. Look at him!"

      I turned the rest of the way around. Paul was quietly signing autographs, shaking hands, talking to the handful of people who had gotten into the room. Nothing unusual there, at least nothing Sandy could be aware of. She couldn't know that Paul's lack of a smile and enthusiasm for what he was doing was not like him at all.

      "I think it is the clothes," Brenda contributed. "John just wore ordinary clothes but Paul looks like they do on TV or in pictures."

      I took another look and realized she was right. He was wearing a grey-blue Harris tweed jacket with a light blue dress shirt with a tie, perfectly tailored dark trousers and the classic "Beatle Boots" with their Cuban heels. I hadn't seen him dressed up since the day we left for England, and that was just a sports coat tossed on briefly. This man before me was the Paul McCartney from "Hard Days Night," the Paul McCartney who posed for photos, the Paul McCartney who received an MBE from the Queen. The Beatle.  This was one of Brian Epstein's Beatles.

       As if I wasn't feeling confused and disoriented enough.

      Paul glanced up and saw me looking at him. He said something to one of his men and they promptly began easing the airline people out the door. Politely but firmly and efficiently the room was cleared. Another brief exchange between Paul and his men and then they stepped out of the room and closed the door behind them.

      There was an awkward silence.

     "Someone needs to go bring the car around," Brenda said.

     In my shell-shocked state it hadn't occurred to me that Paul was going to come with us. I hadn't thought beyond the moment and it made my mind reel, ricocheting from exhilaration to horror and back again.

     "Should I go get it or do you want to?" Brenda asked when I didn't answer. I looked at her blankly, the question not really registering.

      Without a word Brenda reached out a hand to me. "Give me your keys," she said. "I'll go." She looked at me uncertainly. "Do you want Sandy to go with me?" Translated: "Do you want to be alone with him?"

      That registered. Alone with him? The thought brought another panic of opposing thoughts. "Yes," I finally said. My subconscious gasped in horror. My conscious mind was a little horrified too, but I had to find out what was going on and I was certain I didn't want witnesses.

      Sandy looked as if she were about to protest, but Brenda said, "Let's give them a few minutes alone. I think they really need it." Sandy agreed - and from the look on Paul's face he certainly did too - and together my friends slipped out the door, shutting it in the face of the people gathering outside. We were alone.

      He stood there, across the room from me, looking at me as if unsure of how to proceed. One look at his face, the dark eyes that I knew up close weren't really just brown at all and the Beatle was gone and I was looking at Paul. Or maybe it was the trousers, cut to fit just right. Snug but not tight. God, I knew that body so well. How he moved, how he felt moving against me. All I could think was that I wanted to touch him, all I could hear was "Don't let him touch you!" He moved towards me and I stepped aside, putting a sofa between us. He stopped.

      "Why are you here?" I asked, barely managing to get the words out.

     "We need to talk."

      "You made it pretty clear--" I had to stop. Tears were already stinging my eyes, and my voice was choked off. I took a deep shuddering breath and somehow managed to say it. Quavery, a little squeaky, but I got the words out. "You told me on the phone what you think of me. I don't think there is much else for you to say."

      "Oh, Christ, Tess. I am so sorry about that. I need to explain. I --"

      "I am not sure I want to listen!" I cut in and I was surprised to hear the anger in my voice. Amazing how angry words I didn't plan to say came out easier than the things I wanted to say.

      He didn't look surprised. He looked miserable. He shoved his hands in his pockets and looked down at the floor. After a bit he looked up at me and said softly, "So shall I get back on the next plane to London or will you let me stay to talk?"

      I didn't believe for a moment he would leave that easily. Didn't really want him to - the anger was gone as fast as it had come. "We'll talk." I said, the tears spilling over.

      Another pause to get my voice to work and I went on, "John says to trust you, but . . .. " I wasn't ready for this after all. I never should have let the others leave. I knew why he was here. Why after all this time, and why after that phone call I had no idea, but it was clear he was going to say and do whatever it took to get me back. I felt ambushed. The defenses I had readied the day I left England had long since been abandoned. I needed time to think, time to go over every way he had lied, every way he had hurt me. Time to reinforce those defense barriers. My mind frantically searched for an excuse.

      "We can't talk here. Not now."

      He nodded. "All right."

      Silence.

     We stood there awkwardly. The shock of seeing him was wearing off, and with it the urge to throw myself in his arms. That urge was far from gone, but it was now under the control of what was passing for rational thought. There was a knock on the door and, grateful for the interruption, I went to open it in spite of Paul's "No, ignore them."

      A pilot in uniform and an important looking man in a suit wanted to talk to Paul. The security person behind him was looking past me at Paul and holding his hands up in a gesture that said "Sorry!" I knew Paul wouldn't appreciate it, but I let the men in. I simply couldn't handle being alone with him. If we did start to talk about what happened I would fall apart and when we left this room I would be a sobbing, miserable wreck. I didn't want to do this in a public place.

      Paul put on his smile, signed autographs for one of them, and chatted politely with them. I retreated across the room and watched, mind spinning and seeing only Paul. I could not believe I was standing here, hearing his voice, seeing that smile, and, as always, feeling that magnetic physical presence, and had not fallen apart. Maybe it was because I had rehearsed this moment over and over the first few days after I got back from England. If he came after me I had to be strong. Hear him out. Listen to him say that she didn't mean anything to him, she was just another bird. Listen to the excuses -- He didn't want to hurt her, didn't know how to tell her about us, didn't think I was serious until that week in Scotland and he had already promised to take her to the big event at the theater. Listen to him swear that he loved me, and probably even swear it would never happen again. Listen with my head and not my heart, and then tell him to leave. The role I was to play didn't have many speaking lines, so it came back. Rusty but remembered.

      Or maybe I was holding together because this was three and a half months later. In some ways I was stronger. I had cried all the tears I possibly could. I had gotten on with my life. Even if I hadn't exactly found someone new, I had found someone . . . intermediary. I knew I could go on without him.

      Oh, but the flip side of that was simple. It was three and a half months later and if the feeling in my pounding heart meant anything, I still loved him. If the fact that I wanted to feel his arms around me again, hear his heart beat, listen to his voice meant anything, I still loved him. If the fact that I wanted to hear everything he had to say, wanted to believe him, wanted to walk beside him again, laugh with him, be with him, stay with him meant anything, then, yes, I still loved him.

      But every instinct of self preservation I had was fighting back. No matter what I felt, I had learned a hard, painful lesson. He was not safe. He was here and that proved he cared, but he still wasn't safe to love. To trust. To believe in happy ever after with. I was not going to invest years like Jane had, because it would end the same way. So I had to protect myself. We would talk, I would explain that love wasn't enough. That we were oceans apart in what we thought love was all about. And then I would tell him to leave. Close my ears and my heart to his words and tell him to leave. That was going to be so very, very hard and I didn't know if I could do it.

      When Paul was finally able to shut the door on the airline people, he turned to look at me. I wasn't ready to play out the first scene, but that didn't matter. He hadn't read the script. He was supposed to talk to me from a safe distance. Instead, he walked towards me, reached out to me. I put my hands up, holding him away, but to do so I had to touch him. I started to cry. He stopped and took a step back.

      "Rules," I finally managed to say. "We have to have some rules here."

      "All right," he said, and his words weren't coming much easier than mine.

      "I don't want you to touch me."

      "Tess--"

      "If I let you touch me. . . and then you leave, I . . . I can't go through that again."

      "I didn't leave, Tess," he reminded me. His voice was so full of emotion, it cut right through me. It wasn't just the pain in his words. There was also anger and something else I couldn't quite put my finger on. It startled me enough to make me look at him, look in his eyes - something that I didn't want to do, was afraid to do. I would drown there. Willingly.    But I couldn't read it in his eyes, either. He was studying me, evaluating my response to him as he had done when he got off the plane and again when he handed the letter from John. What else did he need to know? Was he trying to see if he had a chance with me? Hell, I had blown any possibility of pretending I didn't still care. There was no point in pretending I didn't, but that didn't mean I was going to let him back into my life.

      "I know," I finally responded. "But I had to leave, and this will hurt just as bad. So, please . . ."

      "I won't touch you. I couldn't go through that again either. But I don't plan on leaving. We are going to talk and straighten things out between us."      McCartney determination, confidence, optimism at its finest. Well, he was right. We would straighten things out, but if he though I would give him another chance - and why would he be here if that was not his goal? - he was wrong. Please God, let him be wrong. Let me be strong enough to save myself from round two of loving Paul.

       Another knock at the door. Paul looked as if he had no intention of opening it, but a man was saying that he had the luggage and we could leave now. I ducked into the little bathroom and Paul opened the door. As I wiped the smeared mascara from my face I thought "If I had a dime for every time I have seen this face in the mirror!"

      I came out of the bathroom and Paul's security men were waiting along with airport security and the shuttle carts and Paul's luggage.  Packing six people into my Ford Falcon was not going to work. I turned to one of the security men. "Do you have a car? We won't all fit in mine."

      Rather than answer me, he turned to Paul. "What's it gonna be, boss?"

      "I am staying," Paul said.

      The guy nodded and said to me, "We were just along for the ride. He is all yours now."

      With that he took my arm and moved me into my seat on the shuttle and before I could sort out what was going on, we were cruising through the terminal. Heads swiveled. A couple of girls screamed and by the time we got to the doors there was a group of people trying desperately to keep up with us.

      "You aren't keeping the security?" I asked Paul.

      "John said I won't need it. Mal has someone lined up here to accompany me back to London -- I've a number to call."

      Brenda and Sandy were waiting and quickly put his suitcases in the trunk while security blocked people at the doors. Two things hit me then. First was the fact that along with a suitcase, a garment bag and a carry-on bag, his luggage included a guitar case. He was planning to stay a while. Confidant I would take him back. Was that arrogance on his part or simply that he loved me so much he was determined that it would happen? The battle between anger with him and a hope I didn't want to feel ended abruptly as the next thing hit me. We were not just taking Paul with us, getting him out of the airport. He was coming home with me. Just as John had planned to. That sounded like a really, really bad idea. Just the thought of him in my apartment was somehow too much, too symbolic of how deep into my life this brief encounter was going bring him. I didn't want him there. It was going to be hell when he left and my only defense was to keep him as distant as possible. If he came to the apartment, I would have to live with memories of him being there. No, I would take Brenda and Sandy home, then drive him to a hotel somewhere. We would talk, I would tell him I didn't want to try again, and I would leave him there. As fast as that occurred to me, so did the picture of a hotel room. Paul and I alone in a room full of nothing but a bed. Another bad idea. Any public place was out. I had to take him back to the apartment.

      "Can you drive?" Brenda asked. Not "Do you want to?" but "Can you?" I nodded. What I could not do is sit in the back seat with Paul. She gave me the keys and got in the back seat with Sandy. Paul took a moment to shake hands with his security men, then got in next to me and I pulled the car away from the curb, thankful for the heavy airport traffic that swallowed us up immediately.

      I waited for Brenda to ask one of her pointed questions - like "Why are you here?", but she didn't. And Sandy didn't say "Oooh, this is so romantic." It wasn't. It was painful and she could see that on my face. She just looked worried and confused. Brenda filled what was becoming an awkward silence by talking about the weather. Before long everything was fine. Paul was good at putting people at ease. He and Sandy and Brenda were talking away and I felt like the world had just gone crazy. We were cruising down the freeway making small talk about wind chill factor, the number of shopping days until Christmas, and how salt rusts out cars, while the man who had torn my heart out was close enough to reach out and touch. Kiss. Slap. Whatever.

       While they talked, I forced myself to concentrate on driving. My few contributions to the conversation were monosyllables and I refused to allow myself to so much as glance over at him. In spite of that, I could feel him looking at me, feel him wanting to reach over and take my hand in his. Worse, I wanted him to do it. Wanted to just pull the car over, throw myself into his arms, pound on his chest and ask him " Why are you here? Why after all this time? Dammit, why now when I am finally getting over you? And, why, oh why, did you that to me?"

       That brought me back to that moment outside the Royal Theatre and the moment I saw him with her. That image helped. I spent the rest of the trip arming and fortifying myself with a list of the crimes he had committed. He had lied to me with his words and his actions, cheated on her and on me, taken my emotional virginity as well as the physical, made promises and not kept them, accused me of being a gold digger, made a fool out of me, shattered my confidence in ever being able to recognize love. And now he thought he could walk back into my life and talk me into forgiving him. Conceited son of a bitch! Three months ago I might have caved in, but not now. No way was I going to let him give me some cock and bull story about finally realizing how much I meant to him. Too little too late!

      Anger is strengthening. My knuckles were white and my arms hurting from the death grip I had on the steering wheel. Luckily no other driver cut me off or drifted into my lane. I probably would have rammed him. But the adrenaline rush and anger refueling was minimal armor against the sound of his voice as he talked to my roommates, against his laugh, the scent of his aftershave, cigarettes, the sight of him. As we reached my neighborhood, I found that I felt only marginally stronger. Even though I had loaded my guns, I wasn't sure it was going to be enough. The right words, the right touch and I wouldn't be able to pull the trigger and send him home. The shoot-out at this OK Corral was going to be pure hell and I wasn't going to get out of it without a lot of bullet holes of my own to tend to.

      We had to stop at a shopping center to pick up Brenda's dress at the dry cleaners, hamburger buns, and film for the camera. Paul wanted to go in with us -- he had never been in an American store. I protested, but unlike John, Paul wasn't afraid of being recognized. John hated it when girls made a scene, and almost cringed if they touched him. Paul would have been miffed if no one recognized him. He pointed out that there was no way a mob was going to form in the few minutes we were in the store. "Just like shopping in London, Tess," he said. "Get in and out before things get crazy."

      It was better than sitting in the car with him while Brenda and Sandy went in. I had managed to pretty much avoid talking to him and even looking at him so far. If they left us alone I knew he would give me no choice and there was no way we would finish this in the few minutes we would have. Paul hadn't come all this way to give in the minute I said "no." Paul never gave in that easily. So we all headed into the drug store, ready to make a run for it if necessary. The stores were crammed with Christmas schlock and Paul laughed at the Christmas stockings for pets, snow men salt and pepper shakers, and other great gifts. Apparently the British didn't get quite so carried away at Christmas time.

      Few of the shoppers were teenagers, and everyone was in a hurry so, except for a few puzzled stares ("Where have I seen him before??) no one noticed us except the checkout clerk. She did a double take, stuttered "What are you doing here?" and turned bright red when she realized how stupid that sounded.

      "Just visiting," Paul said cheerfully. Then he noticed the little packets of mistletoe on a rack. "I might need one of these," he laughed. Sandy reached over and took one off the rack and put it on the counter with our purchases. As we left the store, she handed it to Paul, grinning at me.

      "If you don't, I will!" she threatened me.

      Sandy, Paul and I went to the bakery while Brenda went into the drycleaners to get her dress and soon we were all piling back into my car. "Wait until you see Terry's dress, Paul," Sandy was chattering. "She looks great in it. It's red --"

      "I can't go to the dance, Sandy," I said, surprised she even thought I would.

     "Why?" she asked. "It's your party! You have to go! And everyone will want to meet Paul."

     "No!" I wasn't going to be in any shape for a party after we talked. Brenda and Sandy would go and Paul and I would stay at the apartment and get it over with and then I would send him to a hotel. Sandy looked so disappointed but I just let it go. When she found out he was leaving on the first plane out in the morning, she would understand.

      While I made my plans, Sandy told Paul all about out annual Christmas party and how this was the last one since I was graduating in the spring. Back at the apartment, I got out and opened the trunk to get Paul's luggage out. He came around the car and said quietly, "Tess, I can go to a hotel if you'd rather. You go to your dance and we can talk tomorrow."

      A reprieve from talking, from crying, from trying to be strong. And the thought of spending a night with him sleeping only a couple of yards away was unbearable. Knowing he was in the same town would be bad enough. I closed the trunk, but Brenda had overheard.

     "What about security? You can't go to a hotel alone."

     She was absolutely right. I reopened the trunk.

      "They are already on their way back to New York. They had reservations made," Paul said, "but I have someone here in Minneapolis I am to call if I need security people. They may not be able to get anyone until morning, but I'll be fine until then."

      I closed the trunk.

     "You can't leave him sitting in a hotel all evening!" Sandy said to me. Turning to Paul, she went on, sounding like a heartbroken four-year old. "Oh, please come with us! You have to! I won't have any fun at all knowing you're sitting there all alone. None of us will!"

      Paul looked at me. Sandy was right about one thing. I was not going to enjoy the party. I wasn't ready to talk to him, but I was kidding myself if I thought putting it off was going to make me stronger. Every look at him was taking its toll. But going to the dance with him? Smiling, making small talk, all the while thinking about what he had done to me, been to me and about the discussion we were putting off? Having all my friends bug-eyed with wondering what was going on? No, taking him to the dance was a crazy idea.

     Sandy didn't give up though. She flipped from four year old to Scarlet O'Hara without a pause. "Well, if Terry won't invite you, I will. I'll break my date and ask you to take me. And we have the mistletoe!"

     I looked at her, open-mouthed with surprise, dismay, irritation. Brenda said "Sandy!" in shock and reprimand.

     Sandy just said defensively, "Well, I had to do something, Bren. He came all this way and she won't even look at him! We can't let her ship him off to a hotel!"

     Paul ducked his head to hide a big grin as Brenda swatted Sandy with a bag of burger buns. "That's a dirty trick," she said to her. "But I am glad you thought of it!"

     "So will you come, Paul?" Sandy asked.

     He looked at me and, still smiling at Sandy's wiles, asked with a hint of wiles of his own, "Do you have a date for the dance?"

     "He stood me up," I said angrily.

     "He sent me."

     "And I'll get him for that!"

     We all laughed a little at that, and it helped, but it was still a standoff.

    "You don't really want to go to this dance, do you?" I asked him, a little surprised he would even consider it.

     "No more than you want to sit down and talk to me, apparently," he said, very serious now. "Compromise? We go to the dance for a bit, then talk?"

     Brenda and Sandy, ecstatic about having a second Beatle to show off to our friends no doubt, were emphatically in favor of that idea. I was outnumbered and worse, I felt a sense of relief. A reprieve from confronting him. I knew I would be miserable at the party, knew it was only putting off the inevitable.  Even worse than that, I knew I was agreeing because no matter how painful, how pointless, how masochistic, I wanted to spend a little time with him before I had to tell him to leave.

      I opened the trunk, he hauled the suitcases out, and we went into the house and up to our apartment. Inside, Brenda started to open the door to the closet in the hall by the front door to hang up the garment bag she had carried in. That was where John had hung his clothes when he visited, but I stopped her. Agreeing to go to the dance had been crazy and I wasn't going to do anything else to give him the impression that he had a chance with me. I took the garment bag from her and put it on one of the coat hooks on the back of the front door and set the carry-on bag I was holding on the floor next to the door. I couldn't have made it more obvious that Paul's visit was going to be very short.

     Brenda looked startled, Sandy looked dismayed and Paul's look damn near killed me. His famous composure was totally blown. He looked stunned, his face fell, and he looked as though I had slapped him. His face flushed a little and he turned away from us, trying to hide his feelings. I wanted to apologize and say, "I'm sorry! I know what you want, I know you think you love me, but I can't do this!" But instead, I mumbled something about it getting late and we had to get ready for the dance, and pushed past them and escaped to the kitchen.

      It was well past five and we needed to get down to the dance studio before seven to get the tables set up and other last minute things. Three females and one bathroom meant we had to get moving. We organized shower time based on time needed to fix hair so Brenda went first, then Sandy, then me. While Brenda showered - limited to three minutes so there would be hot water left for me - Sandy and I packed up an assortment of the cookies we had been baking for weeks. I fixed Paul some tea and he sampled cookies, chatting with Sandy about Christmas food traditions. I was careful not to get too close, not to touch him, not to look into his eyes. But I couldn't avoid the sound of his voice and I couldn't stop myself from looking at him. And every time I snuck a look at him, he was looking at me. My heart raced.

      With her hair done up in monster curlers, Brenda came out to the kitchen to sit under the hair dryer and do her nails. Sandy zipped off to take her shower. I was telling Paul about the Christmas party, where and who, when Carol's little girl came up to bring us the keys to the studio. Her eyes got big at the sight of all the cookies. Brenda asked if she had dinner yet, and when she said she had, we let her join us for cookies and milk. She was a very shy little girl, but after Paul told her he had a little sister named Ruth who was just a few years younger than her and he was getting her a puppy for Christmas, she started talking to him. He managed to coax her Christmas list out of her. He didn't know what half the toys she listed were, but he got her to explain them to him. He was completely at ease with her, and she opened up and talked excitedly to him.

      While they talked, I sat back and tried to keep my eyes off of him so my brain could work. I was still at a loss as to why John had helped him. John had suggested several times early on that I should talk to Paul but even if he still felt I hadn't given Paul a fair chance to explain, the phone call from Paul to California should have made it clear there was no point in talking. What could Paul have possibly said to him that made John want to help him? "Trust him" the note said. "He loves you." Had Paul insisted to John that he did love me, that the other girl was just a bird he slept with? John would buy that - he had no problems separating love and sex. But dammit, John knew I didn't feel that way! Or did he think that in light of what went on between us, I was a little more open-minded now? A little more likely to listen to male reasoning?

      By the time Carol's little girl left, I was no closer to understanding what was going on, but one thing was becoming clear. Paul had won Brenda over too. The way she was smiling at him, I knew that whatever lecture she had been preparing for the blackheart who had hurt me would never be delivered. Sandy had sold out for a cute face and British accent, Brenda for a man who liked kids. I was on my own.

      When Sandy came out to take her turn under the dryer, I went to my room for my bathrobe and escaped into the bathroom to take my shower. By that point I knew my great plan wasn't working. He didn't have to touch me, kiss me, or anything else. I was going to be a basket case again when he left. Three minutes was not nearly long enough for the crying jag I felt coming on, so I simply refused to give in to it. I would have plenty of time for that when he was gone. I put on the bathrobe and dried my hair. I did my make-up, intentionally going easy on mascara figuring it was a lost cause anyway.

      When I came out of the bathroom, Paul was in the living room watching TV. Grinning, he explained that Brenda and Sandy had kicked him out of the kitchen so they could do their hair without his comments. He asked if he could use the bathroom for a quick shave. The minute he closed the door, Brenda and Sandy bombarded me with questions. How could I have walked away from that? Did I still love him? What happened anyway?

       There was no reason not to tell them. The "who" was obvious now, but explaining "why" was hard to do. I tried to tell them, but talking about falling in love with him was not the part I wanted to remember just now and telling about his two-timing lies still felt like a betrayal of him. I finally just said, "I fell in love with him, and I thought he loved me. He did, I guess, or he wouldn't be here. But, surprise, Sandy. Love isn't enough. Not if you don't have the same understanding of what love means."

      "So what are you going to do?" Brenda asked gently, seeming to take that explanation better than Sandy who just looked bewildered.

      "Talk to him, tell him it isn't enough."

      "He loves you enough to be as hurt as you were," she said firmly and I looked at her in surprise.

      "You didn't see his face while he hugged you at the airport." she explained. "He looked like he never wanted to let go."

      I couldn't respond to her. There was a hard, painful lump in my throat.

     "We need to get moving. It is almost seven," Sandy said. "But maybe we should go over and get things set up. You could stay here and talk to him first. You can come over later as soon as you make up."

      Her words hit me as hysterically funny. We were supposed to kiss and make up. Like we had a little lover's spat over a careless word or imagined slight. I started to laugh and I could feel hysteria behind the laughter. I choked back the laughter and the tears and said, "We won't be in a party mood after we talk. I spent a fortune on my dress and I'm going to the dance. After all, its my party." And that undid me. Laughing a little hysterically I finished the line, "And I'll cry if I want to!" I left them no doubt worrying about my tenuous hold on sanity, and went to my room to finish dressing.

      Alone in my room I got my dress out of the closet, remembering how I had chosen it with John in mind. If I'd had anything else suitable to wear, I would have, but the only other possibility was the black dress Paul had bought me in London. That would have been somehow fitting but it was folded up and shoved into the box in my closet with a lot of other memories I didn't dare look at right now. I picked up the black lace underwear, thought of the evening I had anticipated with John, and I was on the verge of tears again. Confused tears. Regret over not having tonight with John, anger over what seemed like his betrayal of me, love for him for caring enough to set this up. I shoved the sexy black bra and panties to the back of the dresser drawer and blindly grabbed whatever was on top.

      As I went through the motions of dressing as I went over the plan. Thirty minutes at the dance. Then bring him back here, hear him out, listen to his apology, tell him why it wouldn't work, and that he would have to leave. I'd call a cab and send him to a motel then. I would cry myself to sleep and he would catch a plane in the morning.

      I put on earrings and untangled the fine chain of the necklace I planned to wear. I couldn't get the clasp done myself, so I went to get help. Paul was alone in the living room. He was wearing a dark grey suit with a light blue turtleneck. His jacket was the latest look - long, and tapered with a round stand up collar. Looking great, smelling good, and giving me a bad case of the shakes.

      He looked up at me and said "You look fantastic."

     When he got up and moved toward me, I dropped the necklace. He picked it up and, without saying anything, stepped behind me and put it around my neck. I lifted my hair so he could fasten it. His fingers barely brushed my neck as he did, but I felt it all the way to my knees. I crossed my arms in front of me, gripping my upper arms to hold myself together. When I didn't move away, Paul covered my hands with his. That simple touch felt like the most intimate embrace. I was right about the mascara. Tears were stinging my eyes.

      "How long do we have to stay at the dance?" he asked.

      "I don't know. I have to help set up. And we exchange funny gifts. It's a tradition and I have to be there. And I really should stay and help clean up after. Carol has students in the -- "

      He knew stalling when he heard it. "You really DON'T want to talk to me, do you?"

      I just shook my head.

     "We have to."

     "I know. But I . . . I was just finally . . . " I stopped. Up until the minute he stepped off the plane, I would have said "Getting over you." Right now that felt like gross misrepresentation of the facts. I sighed, letting that sentence go unfinished and admitted the real reason I was delaying the confrontation.

      "I'm scared. I know how this is going to end. I'm going to wake up in tears again tomorrow morning."

     "No," he said. "You are going to wake up in my arms."

      The image of that, the physical memory, flooded through me. I closed my eyes and I was lying in a bed in a room that should have been boarded shut. There was no dust, no cobwebs. Just embers glowing red-hot in the fireplace. And I was curled up in a mountain of feather quilts, sleeping in Paul's arms. I wasn't just seeing it, I was feeling it. If the doorbell hadn't rung right then bringing Brenda and Sandy out of their room, I would have turned around and fallen into his arms.

      Paul moved away, Sandy opened the door. Mark was there and after kissing Brenda and telling her how great she looked, he looked up. His face registered surprise and amusement at seeing the wrong Beatle in our living room. "I hope you like Black Tavern, Paul" he said, holding up two six packs of John's brand of English beer. "or I am going to be one sick boy in the morning!"

      "Well, John can drink me under the table, but I can give you a hand with those," Paul said. I introduced Mark to Paul, and we began the process of loading up everything we needed to carry down the block to the studio. We put coats on, picked up bags and boxes and headed out.

       At the studio, we got busy moving tables into place, covering them with paper tablecloths, setting up the food. I made sure the door to the office - and telephone - was locked, and posted a sign on the door, informing people that this was a "Closed Party, No Re-admittance if you leave." Brenda asked Paul if he still had the mistletoe, and he retrieved it from his overcoat pocket. She and Mark were busy trying to attach it to the light fixture over the middle of the dance floor, but Mark was more interested in taking advantage of it than hanging it.

      We were laughing at them when Chuck arrived, hauling in the first part of his stereo system. This was his pride and joy. It was one of those monstrous sized setups. Woofers, tweeters, and other stuff the rest of us, still dealing with "record players" knew nothing about.  He was wrestling a speaker through the door, and Paul leant a hand. Chuck nearly dropped his end of it when he looked up and saw who was helping him. More introductions. Chuck looked really confused. Mark started laughing and said "It's OK, Chuck. I don't know what's going on either."

     "He just showed up at the airport instead of John," Sandy said.

     Brenda stepped in. "He is the reason she came back from England a total wreck." She was looking at Paul, not Chuck, and there was a note of compassion in her voice as she said, "And now he's here and wants her back."

     "That's exactly what I want," Paul said quietly and I was so glad he didn't look at me as he said it.

     "Ooooh," said Sandy in a whisper. "This is so . . . romantic." You could almost see little hearts dancing around her words like a cartoon image of true romance. Brenda and Mark both burst out laughing at her and the rest of us joined in.

      "Let's get moving. We have got company coming," Brenda said. The guys went out to haul in the rest of the stereo equipment. The first of our guests were arriving and I stayed in the doorway between the little lobby and the big dance room, making sure everyone who came in was an invited guest or their date. A carload of guys arrived, identified themselves as some of Mark's friends from the U. of M., enlisted to even up the boy/girl ratio. That was always a problem at nursing school parties unless you planned ahead. A minute later, they found themselves shaking hands with Paul McCartney. They were grinning like idiots and I overheard one of them say to a friend, "Even if the girls turn out to be dogs, this is fantastic!"

      The guys went to work hooking up the stereo and four huge speakers. Sound blared in short bursts as they tested the setup. Mark had a microphone to play Dee-jay with and the whine of feedback was added. More people were arriving. I greeted an arriving group of classmates who were excitedly checking out the potential. They had come "stag" to the party, knowing Mark was bringing unattached males. The guys were at the front of the room, still working on the stereo, having trouble with one of the speakers. Paul had his back to us so they hadn't recognized him yet. One of the girls noticed him and said, "Who is that guy - the one next to Mark?"

      "That," Brenda said laughing, "is Terry's date."

      "Nice hair!" one of them said.

      "Nice body!" said another and we all laughed. Paul leaned over the table to reach around to adjust something on the stereo.

      "Nice gluteus maximus!!" said the third, and they dissolved in giggles.

      The problem speaker blared to life, and Paul turned around. My classmates had a collective heart attack.

     "You can talk to him, but don't ask for autographs," I said and escaped back into the lobby before they could begin asking questions.

      The room filled, Sandy took over door duty, and I went to rescue Paul from a crowd of polite but overwhelming friends. I joined the group and reached out and to take his hand, intending to lead him away, get him a drink, something to eat. But when I touched his hand he looked at me, a little surprised, and then squeezed my hand. I should have known better than to touch him. We stood there talking with the others for several more minutes. At least he talked. I stood there in blitzkrieg of emotions that made my chest hurt, knowing I should pull my hand out of his and just unable to do it.

      My plan was falling apart. Oh, it was a solid plan and it would work. The only flaw was that I didn't want to do it. I had to admit it -- I wanted to believe him. I wanted to listen to his excuses and see that there was no real intent to lie, to hurt. All I could think was that, maybe, if he was totally honest with me, it would be all right to give it another try. I wasn't that narrow minded anymore. After John, I knew sex could be just for fun. And I was pretty sure that Ringo and George had not been faithful to Maureen and Pattie while on tour and it didn't seem to hurt their relationships. There was something so unreal about the whole time on tour, it was almost as if it didn't count. I could live with that. But that isn't exactly what Paul had done. It wasn't an on-tour transgression. He was seeing someone else and having a little fling with me. No, that wasn't true. What ever he and I had, it wasn't a just a fling. He was here and that proved it was more than that. I stopped, refusing to think any more because it was a tangle of knots. I couldn't untangle it and it would have to wait until I could confront him about it. That prospect made my stomach hurt.

      A little later I excused us from the group and we went to get something to eat. I got one of the English beers for him and we sat at one of the card tables along the window. Somehow we managed to carry on a conversation. School, the score for the movie - it was hard to find safe topics. He asked if I was working a lot, and I told him about the money from Tony's arrangements. He was impressed and happy for me. All I could see was the page in the magazine that preceded my article, but I blotted it out. He talked about progress on the album and that they would have a single out -- Penny Lane and Strawberry Fields -- whenever John made up his mind about the final version of Strawberry Fields.

      In between the words were awkward pauses. Moments when he looked at me, a question in his eyes. I was sending him such mixed messages - all but putting his luggage on the sidewalk one minute, then holding his hand as if it were a lifeline the next. He was as unsure about what I was going to do as I was.

      People came up to talk, the music played, and the mistletoe made for interesting dancing. The room was lit only by Christmas lights strung around the room, and the Christmas tree and its mirrored reflection glowed. Everyone was supercharged with excitement at having Paul there, and it was a great party. Sandy pulled Paul out on the dance floor, and I watched her trying to maneuver him to the center of the floor under the mistletoe. He was laughing and holding back but he finally gave in and let her collect her kiss.

      I watched that laughing kiss and knew in that moment my plan was out the window. There was no way I was going to tell him to leave. I wanted that kiss for myself. It wasn't just the kiss - that was a joking, nothing of a kiss. It was everything else. The smile on his face, the teasing, the fun of being with him. I wanted him back. All my stalling and refusing to talk to him until after the dance had backfired. My resolve to send him packing was gone. Fresh from my psychiatric final exam, the thought occurred to me that maybe that was exactly why I had stalled - to let his presence, his smile, his eyes, his touch break down my intent to do what I saw as the sensible thing.

     Well, sensible was out the window. The apologies and promises I had steeled my heart against were all I wanted now. If he tried to explain, I would believe the excuses. If he said he was sorry, I would accept the apology. If he promised me it wouldn't happen again, I would try again. It wasn't a change of heart - my heart had known all along what it wanted. It just took time to over-rule common sense and fear.

      Mark was playing DJ and had people lining up to try their best at the Limbo Rock. I was anxious to leave then, but Paul had taken an interest in the dance contest. Apparently the Limbo hadn't caught on in England. I waited until the dance was over, and before I could suggest we leave I lost him to a classmate who was bold enough to ask for a dance.

      I went to Mark and searched through the records he had lined up to play. "This one next," I said, handing him Unchained Melody. He looked at it, then at me, and said, "I've been afraid to play anything slow. The girls will fight over Paul!"

      "Not if I get to him first!"

      I started towards Paul as the last song ended. When he saw me he smiled, and when I said, "The next dance is a slow dance and it's mine," he grinned.

      "Won't that be in violation of the rules?"

      "My rules. I made them, I can break them." I said smiling back at him. He was looking at me as if afraid to believe it.

      Mark announced "This next song is by special request and is guaranteed to make mistletoe obsolete! So guys, find the girl you want to hold tight and the Righteous Brothers will put her in the mood!"

      As the music started, he reached for me and I trembled as his arm went around me.

                       Oh my love, my darling,

      I reached up to put one hand on his shoulder and reached for his hand with the other.

                        I've hungered for your touch a long lonely time.

      The smile faded from his face and I could feel him tense up, resisting the urge to pull me closer. I had the same urge and I didn't resist. I closed the few inches between us, leaning against him, sliding my arm around his neck and putting my cheek to his. Pain and love and aching desire flooded through me as I touched him. He stood frozen in my arms as if afraid to believe what my body was telling him.

                      And time goes by so slowly,

                      And time can do so much.

                      Are you still mine?

      The dancers swayed around us, then his arm tightened around me and we began to move with the music.

                      I need your love.

                      I need your love.

                     God speed your love to me.

      I could feel his heart beating and I slowly drowned in the feel of his body, the familiar scent of his after shave, his hair, the touch of his face against mine, the warmth of his breath on my neck.

                     Lonely rivers flow to the sea, to the sea.

                     To the open arms of the sea,.

                     Lonely rivers sigh "Wait for me, wait for me.

                     I'll be coming home, wait for me.

      Being in his arms felt like coming home, and I had been waiting so long. The Righteous Brothers poured their hearts into the song, gentle caressing notes and voices building to the passion of the repeated lines.

                   Oh my love, my darling

                   I've hungered, hungered for your touch a long lonely time.

      We had wasted so much time. Tears of regret stung my eyes and I turned my face into the warm comfort of his neck. He let go of my hand to put both arms around me and I put my hand over his heart, feeling it hammering against his ribs.

                  And time goes by so slowly

                  And time can do so much.

                  Are you still mine?

      That did it. No plan to send him away. Not even a plan to evaluate his excuses and see if I dared try again. I would. He was here, he wanted me back, and he loved me. Love was enough for now. Trust would come. He loved me and we would work it out. The song ended with the soaring lines that echoed the words in my heart.

                  I need your love. 

                 I need your love.

                 God speed your love to me.

      The music faded and I raised my head to look at him, seeing that look that had haunted my dreams. Love and desire. He took my hand in his. "Moonlight and roses," he said as he held our hands together over my heart. Then he kissed me. A warm gentle kiss that quickly became everything else. A promise, an apology, a comfort, a need, a desperate passion. When the kiss became too hungry to be satisfied with just more kisses, I broke away and buried my face in his neck, breathing in the scent of his skin as I struggled to regain control.

      Somewhere a million miles away I heard one of the guys say "How come you never dance with me like that, honey?"

     The laughter of a roomful of people dragged me back to reality. I released the strangle hold I had on him as I felt my face turning red. He smiled at me and gently wiped away the tears I hadn't even felt on my cheeks.

      Marks' amplified voice was saying "Didn't I tell you those Righteous Brothers would get her in the mood? Now lets pick up the pace with a little Trash Men. The bird is the word! Bird Dance Beat!"

      "Let's go home," I said, taking his hand and leading him away from the dancers.

      "What about the gift exchange?"

      I slipped my arm around him in a sideways hug. He pulled me close, my head against his chest and I said "I think I already got my present." As I spoke those words I remembered John saying something about a present. The conversation with him made sense now. Why he was glad I wasn't dating anyone, why he said I wouldn't be at the dance long. A cold chill came over me. I remembered laughing because I thought I knew what "present" he was referring to. I had planned to end this night having wild sex on the grand piano with John. If I had searched the world over to find someone to screw around with for the sole purpose of hurting Paul, I couldn't have done a better job than selecting John.

      I pulled away, shaken. I guess I had been so overwhelmed by the fact that Paul was here, that he wanted me to give him another chance that I had forgotten about that aspect of the situation. What had John told him? He knew I had been in California with John, but did John tell him it was strictly sightseeing? He must have because something had changed Paul's mind since that telephone call to California. The way he felt that day, he never would have wanted me back.

     "What's wrong?" Paul asked.

     I tried to smile, but it couldn't have been convincing. "I am just really confused. This has been a confusing day."

    As we headed for the door, I was very aware that people were watching, nudging each other, whispering. It occurred to me that after that moment of obvious surrender on the dance floor, my friends would probably think we were going straight to bed. Maybe that would be the best way to do this. Just forget the past and start over tonight. He wouldn't have to explain about his relationship with that girl and I wouldn't have to explain about John.

     We put on our coats, went out into the cold and walked back to the apartment in silence. My hand was in his pocket, holding his hand tightly, and I wanted to fast forward through the talking to the making up.