He lay the train case open on the bathroom counter, looking over the contents, seeking a new, if temporary, identity.  He poked through the collection of beards, goatees, mustaches and sideburns of various lengths, thicknesses and colors, immediately ruling out anything of a different color because it would mean donning a wig, and they made his head itch.  Wigs he used only as a last resort.

What would he be tonight…  A suave bon vivant in a pencil-thin mustache with a London accent?

A struggling French artist in a goatee (with matching struggling French accent)?  No, too much trouble…

The fewer affectations, the better. 

“Yeah…” he whispered to himself, selecting an appropriate mustache—same color as his hair, and just thick enough to hide the telltale scar on his upper lip. 

He applied spirit gum and carefully pressed his new identity into place, turning his head from side to side to check that it was straight.  He made faces at himself in the mirror to assure it was stuck on good and tight. 

Then he wet his hair and parted it on the left, smoothing it down and behind his ears.  He wouldn’t worry about it’s length in the back—it would be right in character.

He chose a pair of eyeglasses—round lenses, in thin tortoiseshell frames—to complete the ensemble.

Lastly, he needed a name.     

He decided to use his mother’s maiden name as it was easy to remember and not well-known among his many admirers. 

But he wouldn’t use the first name he was known by.  He had almost been caught the last time.

No, he would use his given first name.  Better yet, a derivative…

He snapped the train case shut and went into the bedroom to finish the transformation.  A simple white dress shirt, open at the neck.  Tweed sports jacket with patches on the elbows.  Faded Levi’s, loafers.  He picked up a small notebook, pen, his wallet, ciggies and key from the dresser and checked himself in the mirror one last time.

“That’ll do,” he said softly and gave himself a wink.

He shut the door carefully and went to the next door along the hotel corridor.  He knocked softly.

“Who is it?” came a falsetto voice.

“It’s me, John,” he stage-whispered.  “Open up.”

The door opened, and he slipped inside. 

“What do you think?” he asked.

“Not bad, son, not bad.  Who are you tonight then?”

“Jamie Mohin.”

“What are you?”

“I thought a school master.”

John nodded his approval.

“Just don’t get into any intellectual discussions or you’ll be clocked for certain.”

“I’ll try not to,” he said, checking his appearance in John’s mirror.  “What are your plans for the evening?” he asked.

“Dunno yet.  Neil’s scouting the local talent even as we speak.”

“Well, have fun then.  I’m off.”

He opened the door to leave, and John said, “Hey—what do I tell Brian?”

“Just tell him I needed to get some fresh air.”

“He won’t like it…”

“He never does,”  He said with a grin and a wink. 

He’d gotten a few steps down the hall, when John called out, “Goodbye, Mr. Chips!”

***

Getting away from the hotel was usually pretty easy.  The fans that were inevitably gathered around the entrances rarely, if ever, expected one of their idols to just stroll casually out the door, unaccompanied.  Still, you never knew…

Paul McCartney took a deep breath, pushed open the door and stepped out onto the sidewalk.

There were a handful of excited shrieks and squeals at the door’s opening, but they turned into a disappointed, collective, “Ohhhhh…” at the sight of the anonymous man.

So far, so good, he thought and approached one of the policemen on security detail.

“Pardon me,” he said in his best Queen’s English.  “What’s all this about?”

The policeman made a disgusted face.  “Ahhh…,” he said, shaking his head.  “The Beatles are staying here.  Long-haired freaks…”

“The Beatles?  Really?” chirped Paul.  “Get away!  I thought perhaps it was the President, with all the coppers around.”

“Nah…just my luck to pull duty for this.”

“You don’t like the Beatles?”

“What’s to like?” shrugged the cop.

Paul pretended to consider this and nodded.

“Hmmm.  I know what you mean,” he finally said.  “I’m a classical music fan myself.”

“Hey—give me Sinatra any day.”

They nodded knowingly at each other.

“Ummm…I say, I was wondering if you could help me,” said Paul.

“Yeah, sure.”

“Um, well, obviously, I’m visiting here, and I was wondering if you could recommend a local pub or neighborhood bar where I could, sort of, take in the atmosphere…talk to a few people…  Have you got one in your own neighborhood, perhaps?”

“Yeah, as a matter of fact, there is one.  It’s called The Shamrock, although the regulars just call it The Sham.  It’s a nice place.”

“That sounds just like what I’m looking for,” said Paul, taking the notepad and pen from his pocket.  “Can you tell me how to get there?”    

The policeman gave him the address and told him he ought to hail a cab—it was a little far to walk.

“The bartender’s name is Al.  Tell him Nick said to take care of you.”

Paul stuck out his hand.  “Thanks, Nick.”

“Hey, no problem—“

“Jamie.”
“—Jamie.”

***

Maggie Sullivan tossed the red pencil onto to the stack of corrected math papers and took off her reading glasses.

It’s no wonder these little delinquents are in summer school, she thought, rubbing her weary eyes.  She yawned and stretched the knots out of her back and shoulders.

She had been correcting test papers for two hours, and she was thirsty again.  But not for more Coke.  She took her empty glass to the kitchen and peered into the refrigerator, trying to decide between milk and iced tea.  Nothing appealed to her.

A beer—yeah.  In a frosted mug.  No, wait—gin and tonic.  Maybe a Singapore Sling.

If she was unsure of what it was she wanted to drink, she was absolutely certain she didn’t want to be inside her apartment a minute longer than it would take to get ready to leave it.  She ducked into the bathroom for a moment, then grabbed her purse and keys.  She hadn’t been to The Sham in ages.

***

Paul sat at one end of the bar, nursing a Scotch with a Coke chaser.  He had been there long enough to learn from Al that the place was a little slow tonight.  A handful of guys were clustered together at the other end of the bar watching the baseball game on TV, but since the home team were pretty much out of contention, only the fanatics were interested anymore. 

Also it was a Monday night, and that was typically the slowest night of the week, anyway. 

Still, three out of  the four booths were occupied by couples or, in one case, a group of ladies who were clearly on a “girls’ night out.”  They were getting sillier with every round of drinks.

“Maggie!”  exclaimed Al, suddenly.  “Hiya, kid—long time no see.”

“Hi, Al—long time not been here.”

 Paul, whose back was to the door, turned to see the new arrival as she perched herself on a stool a couple down from his.  She was thin, of medium height, and had a head of thick, auburn curls which were held back from a pretty face by a large barrette in the back. 

 “Where ya been hiding yourself, Mag?” asked Al, expertly wiping down the bar with one hand and placing a coaster in front of her with the other.

“Summer school.  Teaching classes during the day, taking classes at night.”

“Helluva way to spend your summer vacation.”

“What summer vacation?” she smiled.

“It’s good to see you again,” Al smiled back.  “What can I get you?”

“How ‘bout a beer.”

“Comin’ right up.”

While Al drew her beer into a frosty mug, Maggie exchanged greetings with the baseball fanatics.

“How’s your father, Mag?”  Al asked her, setting down the mug.

“He’s doing okay, but it’ll take a while.”

“Of course, it will.  Give him my best next time you talk to him.”

“I’ll do that, Al.  Thanks.”

Al moved off to tend to his other customers, and Maggie took the first heavenly sip of her beer, smiling as it went down.

Paul smiled and nodded a greeting when she glanced over at him.  She nodded back, with a slight turning up of the corners of her mouth—neither encouraging nor discouraging—and turned to the TV when a shout erupted from the cheering section.

Paul gave it another minute or two.  Draining the last of his Scotch, he picked up the glass of Coke and moved around the bar to her.

“Pardon me,” he said.  “We seem to be the only ones here on our own.  D’you mind?” he asked, gesturing to the stool beside her.

“It’s a free country,” she shrugged.

“My name’s Jamie,” he told her, extending his hand.

“Maggie,” she said, taking it.

“It’s nice to meet you, Maggie.  D’you come here often?”

“Well, that’s not very original,” she smiled.  “You should have stuck with your first one.”

“Sorry?”

“Your pick-up line,” she said.  “The first one was much more original.”

“Oh!”  He chuckled.  “Actually, I meant it.  I’m doing a research paper.”

“On what—which pick-up lines work best?”

“You’re a bit cheeky, aren’t you?”

“I’m sorry,” she smiled.  “I couldn’t resist.”

“S’all right,” he shrugged.

“So what is this research paper about?” she asked.

“English pubs, American bars…people’s drinking habits…”

Her smile was one of suspicion mixed with amusement.  She shook her head and turned away.

“What…?” he smiled.

“Who is this alleged paper for, anyway—some distillery?  Or is this your own ‘research’?”

“As a matter of fact, it is for ‘some distillery.’  Johnnie Walker.”

“Oh, yeah?  Do you work for them?”

“No, actually, I’m a school teacher.  I’m doing this for them during the summer break.”

Maggie smiled.  “How did you get from being a school teacher to being a professional drinker?  Oh, wait—Forget I asked that.  Being a teacher myself, I can fully understand how that could happen.”

“I quite like teaching, really.  It hasn’t driven me to drink—professionally, that is,” he added with a wink.

“What do you teach?”

“English Lit.  What about you?”

“High school Math,” she answered.

“My worst subject, I’m afraid,” he confessed.

“That’s okay,” she smiled.  “I won’t ask you any math questions if you won’t ask me any English Lit questions.”

“No problem there,” Paul smiled back, thinking, Whew! Dodged that bullet.

He caught Al’s eye and signaled for another drink.  “D’ you fancy another?” he asked Maggie.

“Oh, no thanks,” she smiled, “one is pretty much my limit.”

Al brought another Scotch and Coke for Paul and took what he needed from the money Paul had laid on the bar.

“So, tell me how exactly a school teacher came to work for the Johnnie Walker people on his summer vacation,” said Maggie.

“I do a bit of free-lance writing on the side.”

“Have I ever read anything you’ve done?”

“I doubt it,” he answered, “unless you read industry trade papers and magazines.”

“Only if it involves the teaching profession,” she said.

“Then you haven’t read anything I’ve done,” he said.

“How did this Johnnie Walker thing come about?”

“They’re looking to expand their market a bit and needed research done on people’s drinking habits, basically—what, when, how much…y’know, stuff like that.”

“And so that’s what you do all day—go to bars?”

“No,” he smiled.  “I get a bit of sightseeing done as well.”

“Sounds like nice work, if you can get it,” she said.

“It is pretty nice, actually,” he agreed.  “I get paid to go on holiday and chat up nice people like you.”

“Even though I’m not drinking Johnnie Walker?”

He smiled and shrugged.  “Like you said—it’s a free country.”  He took a sip of Scotch.

“What part of England are you from?” Maggie asked, then added quickly, “Wait—don’t tell me.  Umm…northern England.”

“Right.  How’d you know?”

“You sound like one of the Beatles.”

His smile didn’t waver, but his heart skipped a beat or two.

“Which one?” he asked.

“All of them,” she answered.  “I mean—not your voice—but the accent.  Are you from Liverpool?”

He had another nip of Scotch to before answering.  “Uh, no, Preston—it’s north and east of Liverpool.  Have you been to England?”

“Oh, no,” she smiled.  “Not yet.  Someday, though.”

They sat in silence for a bit, watching the TV—the home team was about to upset it’s opponent, and the fanatics were going wild. 

Maggie tried to explain to Jamie/Paul what was going on, but could barely be heard over the din.  The rowdy ladies had left, so Paul suggested they move to a booth.

“Do you like the Beatles?” he asked once they were settled.

“Oh, yes,” she smiled.  “Do you?”

“They’re all right…”

“Have you ever seen them?”

“Yeah—a few times.”

“Really? When?”

“It’s been a few years now—I used to go and see them when they were still playing clubs and dance halls,” he answered.  “When they were still a good little band and could be heard, of course.”

“You don’t think they’re good anymore?”

He shrugged.  “On records, yeah.  Dunno about live.  What about you—have you ever seen them?”

She shook her head.  “No, unfortunately.  They’re in town tomorrow night, as a matter of fact; but the concert sold out before I could get a ticket.”

“They sold out that fast?” asked Paul, pleased inside.

“No,” Maggie answered.  “I just had a lot going on in my life last spring when the tickets went on sale, and by the time things settled down and I could think straight again, the concert was sold out.”

“Oh.  I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Well, maybe next year,” she said.

“Maybe,” said Paul, but thought, sorry, Maggie, don’t count on it, as he sipped his drink.

They talked about teaching—what they liked about it, what they didn’t like.  Paul had played this role before, so he had tried-and-true answers at the ready.  Maggie told him she was taking classes at night to get her Master’s degree while she taught summer school during the day.

“So it really hasn’t been much of a holiday for you, then,” he remarked.

“Not really, no,” she smiled.  “But there wasn’t much of anything else to do so I thought, ‘why not get it over with.’”

He smiled back, noticing there seemed to be a sudden sadness in her green eyes.

“Are you married, Maggie?” he asked.

“No,” she answered, then added, “well, technically yes—we’re separated.”

“I’m sorry.  Any kids?”

“No, thank goodness.  That was probably the smartest thing I ever did—or didn’t do,” she added with a smile.  “What about you?”

“Me?  Nah…   I’m not ready to settle down just yet,” he said.  “Got a bit too much of the wanderlust in me.”

“Sounds like my husband—only he was wandering and lusting.”

“Bastard.”

Maggie shrugged.  “He got what he deserved.”

“How’s that?”

“The little piece of tail he just had to have caught him.  The baby will be born before our divorce is final, and he’s already tired of the woman, but she’s not about to let him go now,” Maggie explained.  “I could almost feel sorry for her, but she knew what she was getting into.”

“How long were you married?”

“Five years—just long enough to put him through law school and see him established in his own practice.”

“What sort of law does he do?”

“He’s a divorce lawyer.”

“You’d better watch out for yourself then.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” said Maggie, grinning mischievously.  “I got one of his law professors to represent me.”

“Ooooo…” Paul grinned back.  “Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.”

“That’s what he’s going to find out,” she said.

A cheer went up from the bar.  The home team had triumphed, and Al started pouring another round to celebrate.

“You’d think the team was on their way to the World Series, the way they’re carrying on,” said Maggie.  She got up and told Paul she’d be right back.

“Would you like another?” he asked, gesturing toward her empty mug.

“Well…” she considered.  “Yes, thank you, I would.  But not beer.  Would you ask Al to pour me a glass of his finest house red, please?”

“Not Johnnie Walker?” Paul asked, smiling.

“No, thanks.  Will they dock your pay if I don’t have one?”

He shook his head.  “I won’t tell if you won’t.”

***

Paul brought fresh drinks back to the table for them.  Lighting a cigarette, he wondered if his mates back at the hotel were enjoying the evening as much as he was.  It was after 10 o’clock.  What sort of debauchery were they involved in by now?  It wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy a bit of debauchery now and then, but he missed this sort of thing more.  Even when he felt like engaging in conversation with the femme du soir, it always seemed stilted and phony.  Those sort weren’t engaged for their conversational skills anyway.

He missed being able to chat up a girl who wasn’t tongue-tied with nervousness, put-off by his notoriety, or who was coming on to him with all the subtlety of a runaway freight train.

He missed being able to walk the streets unaccosted, to ride a bus unnoticed, to have a quiet drink in a pub without having napkins or slips of paper shoved at him to be signed.

He needed to be grounded every once in a while, to just be Jim Mac’s boy,  to get back to where he once belonged.

He’d rather not have to wear a disguise to do it—having to do so seemed to defeat the purpose somehow.  But, like it or not, precautions did have to be taken.  And the role-playing was harmless fun…

***

Paul’s attention was on making a pattern on the table in condensation rings from his glass, so he didn’t see Maggie until she slipped back into the booth.

“Thank you,” she smiled, sipping her wine.

“You’re quite welcome,” he smiled back.

“Is this your first visit to the ‘States?”

“No, I’ve been here three times before.”

“To do ‘research’?”

“Not always—sometimes it’s just a holiday.”

“Y’know, other than asking me if I come here often, you really haven’t asked me anything else that sounds like research,” she said with a teasing smile.

“How do you know that?” he smiled back.

“You haven’t been taking notes.”

“You’re right.  I haven’t, have I?” he said and took the notebook and pen from his pocket.  He found an empty page and quickly filled in a half-dozen or so lines on it as Maggie tried to read upside down.

He finished and pushed it toward her.

Under the heading “Maggie,” he had written:  “Teacher; Wine/Beer drinker; Known to bartender but doesn’t come here often; Separated; mid-20’s ?; Sparkling green eyes; Lovely auburn hair; Beautiful smile.”

She blushed as she read. 

“These last three things don’t sound like research for a distillery,” she said finally.

“Just mixing pleasure with business,” he smiled.

“I guess I’m going to have to watch what I say from now on…”

“Not to worry,” he told her, “your secrets are safe with me.”

Maggie put her elbow on the table and rested her chin in her cupped hand. 

“Tell me some secrets about you,” she smiled.

“All right…I’m really Paul McCartney.  Now you.”

“I’m really Jackie Kennedy.”

Paul stuck his hand out to her. 

“Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Kennedy.”

“My pleasure, Mr. McCartney.”

They grinned at each other, and Maggie sipped her wine.  Paul had a swig of Coke and got up.

“Be right back,” he told Maggie and made for the restroom.

***

‘Stupid git,’ he thought, checking the moustache in the mirror over the sink.  ‘You’ve had enough for one night, boyo… Tongue wagging like it was hinged in the middle…’

***

Luckily, Maggie had enough common sense not to buy his outrageous statement.  She was just enjoying the company of a good-looking man with brains and a sense of humor. 

‘…Paul McCartney…’ she chuckled to herself. 

***

They exchanged life stories.  Maggie was the middle child; Paul, of course, the eldest.  Maggie’s hobby was horseback riding; Paul’s music.  Maggie’s father was a retired policeman; Paul’s a retired salesman.  Maggie’s mother had died of breast cancer…

“So did mine,” said Paul.

“I’m sorry.  When?”

“Ten years ago.  What about yours?”

“Two months ago,” she answered quietly.

“Oh, Maggie, how awful for you,” he said, laying his over hers on the table.  “I’m sorry.”

“Thanks,” she nodded, with quivering chin.

Paul gave her a minute to collect herself, moving his hand so that it grasped hers.  He felt  reassured when she did not pull it away.

“Was your mum ill for very long?” he asked.

“Only about six months, but it seemed like six years,” said Maggie.  “I can’t believe it’s been two months already since she died.”

“I can barely believe my mum’s been gone ten years,” said Paul.

“What about your father?  Is he still alive?”

“Oh yeah.  He remarried a couple of years ago.”

“So he was on his own for a long time, then.  How did he cope?”

“Well, I know he missed mum something awful, but he’s got three sisters who looked after him—spoiled him a bit,” said Paul, smiling.

“I hope my dad will be all right,” said Maggie.  “There are six of us kids—we’re a good Irish Catholic family—and hundreds of aunts, uncles and cousins, so I hope, between us all, we can keep him going.”

“It’s liable to take a while…just give him some time.”

Maggie only nodded, staring at their clasped hands.  Paul ran his thumb over her knuckles.

The baseball fans had left, and Al turned off the television.  A man in the booth next to Paul and Maggie’s got up to order another round for himself and his lady and feed a few coins to the juke box.  He brought the drinks back to the table as the first selection began to play.  “And I Love Her.”

“I love this song,” Maggie smiled.

“It is a nice one, isn’t it?” Paul agreed.

 They listened for a moment.

“I wish I could go to that concert tomorrow night,” Maggie sighed.

“I’m sorry you won’t be able to,” said Paul.  “I think you would like it.”

“I know I would…  Oh, gosh—is that the time?” she said, catching a glimpse of her watch.  It was nearly eleven-thirty.

“I’m sorry,” she smiled apologetically, “but I’ve got to go.  It’s still a school night for me.”

“I’m sorry, as well.  Um…could I walk you home?”

Her smile widened.  “Yes, thank you.  That would be nice.”

***

Maggie’s apartment was three blocks away, and even at a slow stroll, they covered the distance all too quickly for Paul’s liking.

They stood in the doorway for a moment, still holding hands, looking down at their shoes.

Paul reached up to brush a curl off Maggie’s forehead, and she closed her eyes at his touch.  He let his finger travel down the side of her face, under her chin.  Raising her face a bit, he kissed her gently.

“I had a lovely time tonight,” he said.

“So did I.  Would you like to come inside?”

“Thanks,” he smiled, “but I don’t think I’d better.”  He kissed her again and added softly, “If I do, I won’t want to leave before morning.”

“A scholar and a gentleman,” she smiled.

“I don’t know about that,” he smiled back.  “Are you busy tomorrow night?”

She shook her head.  “No ticket, remember?”

“Oh yeah.  Can I see you again?”

“I’d like that.”

“So would I.”  Still holding her hand, he drew her closer into an embrace.  They kissed again.

“Are you sure you don’t want to come in?” she asked, a bit breathlessly.

Paul smiled and kissed her forehead.  “I’d better go.  Can I ring you tomorrow?”

Maggie gave him her phone number and address.  He said he’d call her sometime during the afternoon, after she got home from school.

They kissed again, and he waited until she was inside the building before walking back toward The Sham, his mind already formulating the plan.

***

From inside her darkened apartment, Maggie watched Jamie walk back down the street, her lips still tingling from his kisses.  She fell asleep with a smile on her face for the first time in a long time.

She was standing in front of her closet staring with dismay at the collection of clothes from which she had to choose, when the phone rang.  A glance at the clock told her it was nearly four.

“Hello?”

“Hullo, Maggie?”

“Hi, Jamie.”

“How’s your day been?”

“Long.  How about you?”

“I’ve been pretty busy, actually.”

“Oh yeah?” she smiled.  “I hope you haven’t been doing too much ‘reasearch.’”

He laughed softly.  “No, none, as a matter of fact, but I have been busy with other things.  Um, I won’t be able to make it back to your place to get you, but I was wondering if it would be all right if I sent a taxi ‘round for you.”

“Sure…that would be fine.  What time?”

“Around seven?”

“Sounds good.  What should I wear?”

“Oh, nothing too dressy—something comfortable.”

“What are we doing?”

“You’ll just have to wait ’til you get here.  It’s a surprise.”

“I love surprises,” she smiled.

“I had an idea that perhaps you did,” said Paul.  “See you later then?”

***

“Maggie Sullivan?” the taxi driver asked when she climbed into the backseat.

She confirmed her identity, and the man handed her an envelope with a long-stemmed red rose fastened to it. 

“Oh, my gosh—what’s this?” she exclaimed.

“Looks like rose to me,” he answered.  “I don’t ask questions—I just do what I’m told.”

Maggie held the flower to her nose and closed her eyes as she inhaled its scent.

“…Jamie…” she said softly, smiling.

  The envelope had her name written on it, and she opened it.

She took out a single piece of plain paper.  When she unfolded it, something slipped out.  Picking it up, she gasped.

It was a front-row ticket to the Beatles’ concert.

She stared at it in disbelief for a long time before finally looking at the paper she still held in a trembling hand.

“Dear Maggie,” read the note.  “See you there. Love—J.”

***

On shaky knees, Maggie followed the usher down the long aisle in the convention center to her front-row-center seat.  She could barely believe what was happening and was anxious to see Jamie to thank him and find out how in the world he had been able to pull this off. 

But the seat beside hers remained empty through the warm-up acts. 

Maggie felt torn down the middle—she had a prime seat for the biggest concert of her life, but the man she would rather have been with had stood her up.  Still clutching her rose, she touched the petals gently and sighed.

***

“…Here they are—The Beatles!!!”

Maggie forgot her disappointment as the band took the stage and began plugging their instruments into the amplifiers. 

Coming to the microphone, mugging and waving to the crowd, Paul searched over the heads of the policemen spaced out along the foot of the stage.  When he found the face he was looking for, he smiled.

As all hell broke loose around her, Maggie’s eyes met Paul’s. 

He winked at her and pointed to his lapel.

To it was pinned a single red rosebud.

Epilogue

Maggie searched through the drawer in her bureau, pulling out scarf after scarf.  She was looking for the one that would go with her outfit.  The one her husband had given her for their last wedding anniversary—the green one that matched her eyes.

The top of the bureau was a happy clutter of photographs in mismatched frames documenting 29 years of marriage, six children; and, lately, two grandchildren.  On any other day, she might pick up one of the photos to study closely yet again, but not on this day.  She was in a hurry.

She finally found the scarf she wanted and pulled it out, and an envelope came out with it.  Smiling, she paused for a moment to look inside, even though she was already five minutes late, and her husband would be shouting for her again.  She couldn’t help it.

The envelope was yellowed, the writing on it faded, but she knew exactly what had been written on it.  Inside was a ticket stub and a dried red rosebud.  She touched the petals gently and sighed.

“Maggie!”

At the sound of his voice and his footsteps on the stairs, she quickly replaced the contents of the envelope and slipped it into the drawer once again.

She was arranging the scarf around her neck when he came into the bedroom.

“Maggie?  C’mon, honey, the car’s waiting.”

“I’m nearly finished,” she told him.  “There.  How’s that?”

He came up behind her, put his arms around her and kissed her cheek.  They smiled at their reflections in the mirror.

“You’re still the girl I married,” he said.

“You need glasses,” she grinned.

“You’re still cheeky.  C’mon.”

She stopped him to straighten his tie and brush a piece of lint from his lapel.

Leslie wrote her first fanfic at age eleven, and it was truly awful. Undaunted, she continued writing between gigs at elementary and high school. Combining business with pleasure in her Junior year, she wrote a term paper entitled "John Lennon:  Author and Composer," which would have earned her an "A" but for a sloppily-done bibliography (she ended up with a B+). 

"Now, much older (if not wiser), she continues to write between gigs as the mother of a son and daughter (both Beatles fans), and wife of a non-Beatles-fan (but she loves him anyway).  She enjoys reading and needlepoint, but writing is her first love. She must have gotten better at it since age eleven, because this is her first published work.

Tell Leslie what you thought of her story!