Storms (16 page)

I threw a hello in her general direction as Lindsey continued to pull me up another set of stairs onto the next floor, stopping abruptly when he
spied his realtor hovering in an alcove. Stomping up to him, Lindsey was breathing fire as he asked him why he didn't
mention
that
Stevie was also seeing the house?
The red-faced realtor mumbled his apologies as he handed us real estate brochures. Lindsey silently fumed as we walked through rooms and up and down staircases. After less than ten minutes, he declared that he hated the house.

We could hear Stevie's voice ringing out beneath us, talking, apparently, to Robin Snyder. Lindsey and I trooped back down into the living room and walked over to where Stevie and Robin were sitting on the floor.

“You can have it, Stevie. I don't think I could live here. You're right, it suits you better. Take it.”

Stevie brightened at his words and a genuine smile replaced the smirk that she'd been wearing. “Do you think so, Lindsey? I want to think about it, but I just might! Hey, why don't you follow us back to my rental? It's only ten minutes from here. Chris is there and you know what that means. You really should come over.”

“Really?” Lindsey said, his mood lightening immediately.

“He'd love to see you. Come over, both of you”, Stevie replied, directing a warm and friendly smile at me.

Lindsey wrapped his arm around my waist, pulling me close to his side. “Do you want to go, Carol?” he asked.

“Sure!” I said forcefully as I smiled back at Stevie.
Maybe things are going to be easier between us
, I thought.
It's a start anyway. I don't think she's ever really smiled at me before.

Stevie and Robin led the way back onto the street and Lindsey and I followed their BMW in
our
BMW to Stevie's rental home. It looked so much like the one we just left that I couldn't help wondering why she wanted to move. As we pulled through the iron gates, I saw life-size statues of pink flamingos in her yard, and one side of her house was covered in the same bougainvillea that adorned almost all of the homes in the Hollywood Hills.

The door opened as we climbed out of our car, and Chris Nicks, Stevie's younger brother, came racing out to greet Lindsey. I'd seen him at rehearsals, but had never really had a chance to speak with him. He stayed well within the circle of Stevie's girl fans and I can't say that I blamed him. It was a delicate situation between Stevie, Lindsey, and me, and no one wanted to get caught in the middle of it.

“Hey, Lindsey! Great to see you!” Chris gushed while shaking Lindsey's hand. As a light breeze blew his long shoulder-length blond hair, I noticed again how much he resembled Stevie. Delicately featured, his slender body and “barely there” mustache made him look like a Victorian poet rather than the ultra-hip brother of a rock ‘n' roll goddess. “Uh, hi, Carol! Come in, both of you!”

As I walked into Stevie's home I tried not to be too obvious about my curiosity. It was beautiful, I realized quickly. Lamps were covered in fabulous scarves and blond wood floors gleamed under Persian carpets. The room was furnished with light wicker furniture that was almost buried under pillows covered in Laura Ashley fabric. Hanging from the ceiling by braided rope was a wonderful wicker swing that moved gently back and forth in the warm breeze coming through the open windows. Candles were everywhere, sitting on delicate tables next to photographs of Stevie and just about everyone in the Fleetwood Mac family—except me, of course. In one corner stood a baby grand piano that had a shawl thrown over it and fringe hanging down the sides. It was here that Stevie wrote her songs. And on a beveled-glass coffee table lay a large leather book that looked at least one hundred years old, titled
Magical Beings.
It was a room for Rhiannon and I absolutely loved it.

In less than two minutes, Chris and Lindsey were rolling joints. Stevie left the room, returning in mere seconds carrying a mirror with a mound of cocaine on it accompanied by a rolled-up dollar bill. “Here”, she said as she handed the mirror to me. “Do as much as you like. I have to go get ready for a photo shoot. I can't even remember which magazine it's for. At least they're coming here to shoot it, thank God. Lindsey, we have a band meeting tomorrow. I'll see you then.”

A cloud of smoke came billowing out of his mouth as he mumbled, “Sure.” Frowning in annoyance at the lost smoke, he waved goodbye to her and went back to concentrating on the joint in his hand.

“Bye, Stevie, have a good shoot”, I said in a soft voice. I was still a little in shock over the fact that I was sitting
invited
in the middle of her living room.
I would love for us to be friends
, I thought.
Maybe, just maybe, we will be.

As though reading my mind, Lindsey reached over and grabbed my hand. “It's a nice house, isn't it?”

I nodded, smiled, and then inhaled a much bigger line than I'd intended to. “Oh shit!” I gasped as the powder went burning up my nose. Chris and Lindsey started laughing as the tears rolled down my face.

“Nice one, angel”, Lindsey snickered.

Turning pink, I shrugged apologetically, setting the mirror down carefully.

Glancing down at my watch, I saw that it was already 1:30.
I have to be at Producer's for my interview with Bob Ezrin in half an hour! And I'm totally wired! Crap!
I realized with horror. “Lindsey, I have to be at the studio in thirty minutes!”

The smile that had been on his face was replaced with a frown. “Shit, that's right. We'll leave now, I guess. Chris, man, thanks for everything. We gotta run. See you later, OK?” I picked up my purse, waved goodbye to Chris, and followed Lindsey outside to the car.

I freshened my lipstick and tried to brush my hair that was blowing every which way in the warm wind streaming through the car windows. The smoke from Lindsey's joint swirled around our heads as he sat silent, lost in his own thoughts, or perhaps just stoned. Twenty minutes later we pulled into the parking lot of Producer's Workshop.

As we walked inside I could hear rock music coming from Studio One. Bob was obviously still recording and I sat down next to Lindsey to wait for him. As the minutes ticked by, I found it impossible to sit still. Jumping up, I asked Lindsey if he wanted a Coke and without waiting for an answer, I walked out to the machine just outside the front door to get one for each of us.

Returning minutes later, I stopped dead in my tracks when I saw Lindsey's face. He was staring straight ahead, a look of utter misery—and anger—upon his features. His jaw was clenched and his hands were wound so tightly into fists that his knuckles were white—a sure sign that he was deeply upset.
But about what?
I thought worriedly.

“Lindsey, what's wrong?” I whispered as I sank down beside him on the old stained couch.

He looked at me and in a halting voice said, “If you take this job with Ezrin we'll lose each other.”

“What? What are you talking about, Lindsey?” I felt a physical wrench inside my stomach as his words sank in. At first I thought that he was joking,
but from one look at his face I knew he wasn't. Anxiety was etched in every angle and his eyes were full of unshed tears.

In a voice that was now cracking with emotion he told me that I'd spend all my time working and that he needed me to be there for him—not for Bob Ezrin. Too stunned to speak, I sat silently, staring at him. I suddenly realized that in his mind, for reasons I didn't really understand, he felt that I'd be turning away from my commitment to him, our relationship, and any future we might have together by accepting a job that he clearly didn't want me to take. And I knew, as a chill went through me, that it didn't matter if I understood why. It was enough to know that he felt that way, and I saw that if I said yes to Bob's offer I would be running a huge risk of losing Lindsey.

Even though I realized he meant every word, I didn't want to believe it.
Maybe if I explain it better to him, he'll change his mind
, I thought desperately. So I tried. “Lindsey, you'll be on the road while I'm working and so what difference does it make if I'm working at Producer's or as a personal assistant? I'm still interested in becoming a recording engineer, but perhaps through this job I can discover another field that would be perfect for me. Let's face it, Lindsey, I'd have to be twice as good as any man to be accepted as an engineer in the music industry …”

“Carol”, Lindsey answered, eyes still wet with unshed tears, “I need you. I need you to be with me. Not running around the country with some other guy. I've been thinking about this a lot since you told me about this job offer a few days ago.” He stopped, took my face in his hands, and continued. “Carol, I want you to move in with me. I want you to go on the road with me. I want us to be together.”

Still holding my face between his long fingers, he looked straight into my eyes and said, “I hate being away from you and I have a huge year ahead of me. Maybe if I wasn't touring, your having a job would work for us, but I
am
touring—for the next year at least. If you work we're never going to see each other and it's going to break us up. Trust me. If you don't love me enough now to do whatever it takes for us to be together, then you never will.”

“If you don't love me now/you will never love me again …”
In the back of my mind I could hear “The Chain” and Lindsey's anguished voice singing those words to an audience of thousands.

As I stared at his face I felt something give inside me and with no more questions—of either him or myself—I knew that I would never put anything as selfish as a job that I wanted before my relationship with him. And I realized that Lindsey felt that if I accepted this job, I was choosing a career—and Bob Ezrin—over him, and that made my answer to both of them crystal clear.

“Lindsey, I won't take the job. He'll have to find someone else.” As soon as the words were out of my mouth, he leaned over and kissed me passionately.

“Let's get out of here, Carol. I can't stand it here. I want to leave. I want to take you home. We have plans to make, angel, and I don't want to do it here.”

As we stood up to leave, the door to Studio One opened and Bob Ezrin called my name. Smoothing my hair back into place, I turned to Lindsey and said, “Let me go tell him I won't take the job. I'll be just a minute.” Without hesitating, I walked into the studio and told Bob that I couldn't accept his offer. A look of surprise passed over his face as he stood and stared at me. With a nod he abruptly turned away, clearly displeased. He was offering me a dream job. What woman in her right mind would turn that down? A woman in love.

Without another word I walked outside into the beautiful afternoon and took Lindsey's hand. We stopped and looked at each other in the waning warmth of the sun. We had just made a huge commitment to each other. I was moving in with him and into his life completely. I was, as of that moment, a fully committed member of the Fleetwood Mac family and their future, like Lindsey's, was now mine. Instead of breaking the chain, I had become another link, and the enormity of what had just happened threatened to overwhelm me. Suddenly frightened, I took a deep breath, held his hand tightly, and walked away from Producer's Workshop and into my new future.

On Monday I gave Ed Cobb my two weeks' notice. Almost crying, I told him that I was moving in with Lindsey and that because of the upcoming American tour, I wouldn't be able to work full-time any longer.

Ed was visibly upset. “Are you sure, Carol? You'd make a great engineer. Are you sure this is what you want?”

Tearfully I nodded, and with a sigh he let go of me and walked quickly outside. Throwing a long leg over his motorcycle, he roared off, leaving me staring wistfully after him.

For the second time in a year my entire life had changed. The first time I'd claimed my independence by leaving a long-dead relationship, moving into an apartment of my own, and starting a new career. This time I was joining my life with that of the man I loved and embarking on a future that held almost everything that a young woman could want: love, excitement, travel, fame, money, and rock ‘n' roll. That this future would also hold a darkness that would scar my life forever was beyond my comprehension.

As the days flew by Lindsey seemed to spend every waking hour doing phone interviews, band interviews, or photo shoots for magazines and newspapers across the country and the world. Dinners were spent every other night with various band members at favorite restaurants as, over tropical drinks or wicked margaritas, they worked out the last-minute details of the upcoming second leg of the American
Rumours
tour.

Mick, John, and Christine were frantically trying to get their green cards and had added some political benefit gigs to the tour schedule in the hope that if they greased the palms of different politicians, the cards would be granted without further delay. The band's English contingent was in America on extended visas and desperately needed to be declared permanent residents of the U.S. None of them wanted to be forced to return to England. It was a matter of supreme importance to Fleetwood Mac's future, and one that would take us to the White House.

“Don't Stop”, the second single from
Rumours
, was released in Britain but stalled at number thirty-four on the charts there. This worried Mick, Christine, and Lindsey, but since the album was still at number one in America (and selling an astronomical number of copies), they adopted a “can't-win-them-all” attitude and hoped that the single would fare better on its release in the U.S. Radio airplay was as heavy as ever, and there was so much momentum going for both the album and the band that it was completely overwhelming if we let ourselves stop and think about it. So no one did. Lindsey, the band, their girlfriends, and one wife just went through every hour focusing on the mundane details of that day's schedule.