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- Story Listed as: Fiction For Adults
- Theme: Survival / Success
- Subject: Novels
- Published: 01/06/2024
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London, 1982
MAXWELL
Maxwell slung his guitar over his hunched back. Lowering his head, he trudged through Hyde Park. Darkness enshrouded his lone figure, and heavy snow-laden clouds hung low in the sky. A few flakes drifted around him, lighting his dark, shaggy hair and covering the shoulders of his worn parka.
He felt like a failure. Success seemed imminent to Maxwell back in Graceville, Maryland. He'd played in several local bars and clubs. A few high school girls had started a fan club in his honor that grew to a couple thousand quickly. Before long, he found himself in Philadelphia.
"You're good," Mr. Bigg stated, chewing the end of his cigar and spitting it toward the wastebasket. "But you're raw. You need experience and a gimmick."
Maxwell stood before Mr. Bigg's desk, his eyes full of expectation. For as long as he could remember, he saw himself in the limelight. Music flowed through his veins, and his fingers made magic happen with his guitar. The Philadelphia promoter, Claude Bigg, knew his stuff, but his fingers didn't stretch much further than Philly.
Maxwell played gigs in small bars and clubs in Maryland, Philadelphia, and New Jersey. He drew a large crowd, but not large enough. He wanted more. Nothing would satisfy him better than a recording contract with a big label and international acclaim.
"Go to London, my boy," Claude encouraged his protégée. "You gotta think big. Everyone's getting their start in London these days. Don't let an opportunity pass you by."
Full of anticipation, Maxwell emptied his bank account and took the first available flight to London. It was the spring of 1981. He dropped his demo off with all the agents and promoters he could locate with high hopes. And he never heard back from any of them. His savings dwindled to nothing. He could neither stay in London nor go back to Graceville.
Maxwell owned his guitar and a small pack of clothing. Both weighed him down heavily as he trudged through the park. He had neither a place to go nor food to eat. For several hours, he attempted to play in the park. A few people passed him, but it was too cold to stop.
Life as a street musician had its ups and downs. Sometimes, Maxwell did well, earning a few pounds for fish and chips or a beef burger. But, as winter gripped the city, the downs became more frequent than the ups. People weren't interested in street performers when the temperatures dropped. They didn't stop to listen or show their pleasure by tossing coins at him.
Maxwell slept in the subway with other homeless people. He kept his guitar and clothes bag nearby because he might wake up without them. A tug at either alerted him from his fitful slumbers. He would put up a fight to save his few meager belongings.
He cursed Mr. Bigg for sending him on a fool's errand. Eager and innocent, Maxwell never considered the consequences of his quick decision. If he had thought about it, he would have recognized the folly of flying off to London. No one knew his name; no one cared.
Back in Graceville, everyone knew Maxwell Stoddard. His father owned the hardware store; his mother was on the PTA. Maxwell attended school, went to the prom with Gabby Mitchell, the head cheerleader, and played at local bars and clubs. Fame in his hometown did not mean popularity in big cities like London.
Maxwell felt trapped. He had no friends, hadn't had a decent conversation with another human being in months, and his days as a street musician embarrassed him. The limelight wasn't shining in his direction.
Scrubbing his scruffy face with his palms, Maxwell felt ashamed of himself. He had not had a shower in weeks. He washed his face and hands in the McDonald's bathroom in the morning. The Egg McMuffin odors wafting through the fast food restaurant enticed him, but he couldn't indulge. He could barely scrape together enough money for one meal a day.
Unfriendly faces glared at him in the subway when he entered. Trudging toward a small corner, Maxwell plopped down his knapsack and, lying down rested his head on it. He wanted to sleep and wake up in his bedroom at home. It was a nightmare, he continued to tell himself—he'd fallen into a deep, exhausted sleep and dreamed he was homeless. At any moment, he would wake up and laugh at himself.
The following morning found him in the subway. The human bodies surrounding him created a certain amount of warmth, but Maxwell couldn't handle the odors that came along with the warmth. Much to his chagrin, he realized some of those smells came from him.
"I am one of the unwashed," he told himself grimly. He hated the thought.
Maxwell gathered his meager belongings quickly and scuttled out of the underground. He never spent longer than necessary amongst the homeless. He did not want to count himself as one of them.
The Stoddard's were a descent family. Maxwell grew up in a modest house in Graceville, Maryland. His mother and father kept their marriage together and provided a happy home. Although he and his sister, Mackenzie, had an occasional spat, they still loved each other. Other than ambition, there was no reason for him to leave home.
Ambition—the desire for fame and fortune. Following his local success, Maxwell had much ambition. It was enough to drive him overseas to seek his place in the limelight. How quickly he hit the proverbial wall.
The cold London streets greeted him when he exited the subway. Traffic stood still as inbound employees wove their way to their city offices. Dirty snow piled up along the curbs, the cars' exhaust melting it quickly. Maxwell dodged between the traffic lines, heedless of the cacophony of blowing horns. He had no place to go.
Freezing temperatures drove him into a nearby café. Small and dingy, a long counter stretched along one side with red vinyl-covered stools facing it. Maxwell slid onto one at the far end and frowned at the owner.
"Cup of Joe, Ollie," he ordered dismally.
"Are you planning on paying your tab soon?" the elderly proprietor asked, lifting the coffee pot. He slammed a white mug on the counter and poured the black liquid.
"Yeah, Ollie, soon," Maxwell lied, wrapping his hands around the hot mug.
"When? Today? Tomorrow or next week?" Oliver Weeks snapped, leaning menacingly over the counter.
"Soon, Ollie," the young man assured, a small smile poking at the corner of his lips.
Silence fell heavily in the small café. Maxwell sipped his coffee while Ollie wiped the washed dishes with an old rag. Faded green and white tiles lined the floor. Three sagging booths sat against the opposite wall. The counter gleamed cleanly, but it had seen better days.
Oliver Weeks dreamed of retirement but hung on to his weary establishment. He and his wife often spoke of a villa in Spain overlooking the Mediterranean. Their dreams failed when Cynthia developed leukemia and succumbed to the disease quickly. Ollie trudged through his days as though in a fog. Day after day, he opened his café out of habit. His heart was no longer in it. Often, days would pass without a single customer—until Maxwell showed up.
Ollie had to admit he looked forward to seeing the young American boy in the morning. He spotted him a cup of coffee and hoped for repayment someday. Nevertheless, he did not allow his hopes to soar too high. Although he acted tough about the tab, his heart went out to young Maxwell.
When the bell above the door chimed, the proprietor and his lone customer looked up. A young woman entered and glanced around tentatively. A chagrined expression crossed her face, and she reached behind her for the door knob. For a moment, it looked like she would flee back into the London streets.
"Good day, Miss," Ollie sang out cheerily. "Coffee's strong and hot. Could I interest you in eggs and bangers?"
The newcomer continued to hesitate at the entrance. A startled look etched itself across her face. Suddenly, Maxwell found himself smiling at her welcomingly. He slid from his stool and approached her, his hand held out. Taking her by the elbow, he led her to a stool next to the one he vacated.
"Despite appearances, the food is delicious here," he stated, smiling. "And you'll have to admit, it's warmer than out there."
The young woman hesitated a moment longer, then sat down. Pushing back her parka's hood, she shook out her short blonde bob and lifted a menu. Oliver placed a coffee mug in front of her, and she added milk and sugar.
"I'd have the eggs and bangers with grilled tomatoes and fried bread," Maxwell suggested, his mouth-watering. He thought longingly of hot food that he could not afford.
"Oh, you're an American too," she stated, her blue eyes softening. "I'm Claire Ogilvie."
"Maxwell Stoddard," Maxwell responded, holding out his hand.
"Nice to meet you, Maxwell Stoddard," Claire answered, encasing his palm with her own. "I'm from NYC. How about you?"
"Graceville, Maryland."
"You a musician?" she asked, eyeing his guitar propped against the bar.
"Pretending I'm one," he answered, casting his eyes down.
Suddenly, Maxwell wished the young woman hadn't sat close beside him. His unkempt appearance embarrassed him. His clothes were shabby, and he smelled his body odor strongly.
Beneath her parka, Claire wore a white argyle sweater and a burgundy wool skirt. Warm winter boots clad her feet. The entire ensemble looked expensive. Maxwell shifted his body uncomfortably.
When Ollie placed two heaping breakfast plates in front of them, Maxwell strongly protested. He could not afford the food and could not expect Oliver to put it on his tab. Pushing the plate away, he stood hastily.
"Do join me," Claire pleaded, touching his arm gently. "I hate to eat alone."
Maxwell continued to hesitate until Ollie nodded silently and grinned. He regained his stool and ate ravenously. Following a few forkfuls, he forced himself to slow down. He could not let Claire believe he hadn't eaten a proper meal in ages.
"Now, I want to hear you play," Claire demanded, lifting the guitar and pushing it toward Maxwell.
He momentarily hesitated until Claire smiled encouragingly. Softly, he began to play and sing a love song from his composition. His voice rang out melodiously, and he gained confidence as he continued.
"Marvelous!" Claire exclaimed, enchanted. She recognized natural talent when she heard it. Digging in her handbag, she pulled out a business card. "Tomorrow morning, eight o'clock."
Hastily, the young woman grabbed her handbag and marched importantly toward the door. Outside, a long black car pulled up to the curb. Claire thrust the door open and rushed out to it. Maxwell stared after her in awe.
Maxwell continued to focus on the door for a long time. Finally, Ollie cleared his throat and plucked the business card from his customer's fingers. He whistled between his teeth as he gazed at it.
"Your lucky day, my friend," the café proprietor stated, flicking the card onto the counter.
Maxwell lifted the card and looked at it laconically. Suddenly, the name registered, and he hooted loudly.
"Ogilvie Records," he exclaimed, his eyes widening. "Claire Ogilvie. Who is she? Ogilvie's daughter, maybe?"
"Looks like she scouted you, young man," Oliver Weeks stated, glancing at the card again. "Amazing!"
"Yeah," Maxwell dragged the word out. He still could not believe his sudden luck.
"You better get yourself cleaned up before eight o'clock tomorrow morning," his friend commented. He returned to wiping the dishes.
Maxwell slumped in his seat and held his head in his hands. His appearance was a mess, and he lacked decent clothing. His dreams faded. Lifting his guitar, he moved toward the door, a deep depression settling on him.
"Where do you think you're going, lad?" Oliver called after him.
"Nowhere," Maxwell muttered, pushing on the door.
"Nowhere, huh?" Ollie slammed a white mug onto the counter, breaking the handle off. "You get back here. We have work to do."
Maxwell turned back to Oliver, a surprised look etching his worn face.
"We must get you cleaned up, filled up, and practiced up." The café owner strutted around the counter and grabbed Maxwell's arm. "Meet your new manager." Oliver stretched out his hand. When his new protégée stared at it, he shook his empty palm up and down.
Maxwell felt dumbfounded momentarily, then he reached out and clasped Ollie's hand. He shook it meaningfully and grinned. A light shone brightly in his somnolent eyes, and suddenly he came alive. Enthusiasm filled him for the first time since he arrived in London.
London 1982
CLAIRE
Claire sat in the backseat of her uncle's silver Rolls-Royce, feeling satisfied with herself. Officially, she did not have an actual position with Uncle Maynard's record label. Since she arrived in London a little more than a month ago, she set herself up as a talent scout. She was young, just barely twenty-two, and she knew the kind of music teenagers liked.
Sure, Uncle Maynard did, too. After all, he'd started in the music field back in 1962 and had risen to become one of the best labels in London. Throughout the years, he signed many of the greatest-known bands and musicians. However, as a young woman, Claire believed she had the edge. She knew how to spot talent and congratulated herself on discovering Maxwell in the rundown café.
She only stepped inside because she was cold. James, Uncle Maynard's driver, was late—as usual. The shopping spree Claire intended that morning ended in failure. Nothing in the shops appealed to her. Maybe because she wasn't into it, her mind was far away on other things.
Claire stood on the sidewalk for a long time, waiting for James. Heavy traffic clogged the thoroughfare, and horns blared continually. She wrapped her arms around herself and shivered. Her mind urged James to hurry, but the Rolls still did not appear. Her thick winter coat did little against the biting cold. Desperate to get inside, she stepped through the door behind her and into Oliver Weeks' café.
Hesitating in the doorway, Claire surveyed the rundown bar and the shabby booths. The faded tiles looked clean, but they peeled on the corners. She pushed at the door to the exit and caught sight of the guitar propped against the counter. Her eyes shifted to the youth sitting on the stool. Although he appeared tired and unkempt, she noticed his good looks and a sultry glimmer in his grey eyes. If he possessed talent along with sex appeal, she considered herself in luck.
Maxwell proved his talent when Claire asked him to play. He possessed a smooth, sensual voice, and the glimmer in his eyes turned to a sparkle. If Uncle Maynard approved her choice, perhaps she could gain an official capacity at the record label.
Claire longed to prove herself and do something with her life. Until she left NYC for London, her life wasn't worth living. She couldn't complain about her childhood. All the advantages came her way. Through middle school, she attended the same Catholic girls school her mother and grandmother graduated from.
Her family wasn't religious, but they did believe in tradition. However, when Claire reached high school age, she protested loudly. She hated the plaid jumpers and white Peter Pan blouses she wore. Her bobby socks and black patent Mary Jane shoes made her look stupid. She begged her mother to attend the local high school, and surprisingly, her mother promptly agreed.
On the first day of public school, Claire donned a pair of brown corduroy Levis with large, yellow-faced white daisies on the back pockets. She untucked her burgundy and mustard plaid blouse when she noticed other girls wearing theirs that way. When she passed a group of boys on the sidewalk, she wiggled her derriere at them provocatively. They wolf-whistled and high-fived each other.
"Don't pay attention to the juveniles," a girl remarked, falling into step with Claire. "You're new around here. I'm Ginny Revelle. You got your class schedule?"
"I have to pick it up at the principal's office," Claire stated, rushing her steps. Beside her, Ginny quickened her pace also.
"I'll show you the way."
As they trotted along the sidewalk, a yellow Plymouth Duster slowed and matched their pace.
"Yo, Ginny," a young man hollered. The car halted, and scooting across the bench seat, he flung open the passenger door. "Who's you're friend?"
"New girl," Ginny sang, grinning. "Name's… what's your name?"
"Claire Ogilvie," Claire answered promptly.
"Claire Ogilvie, this is my brother, Gerald," her new friend introduced. "Gerald Revelle," she added unnecessarily.
Gerald, Claire reflected, sinking against the Rolls' leather backseat. They became a couple—too quickly. How naïve she was during her first days in public school. Eager to fit in, she accepted Gerald's invitation to the fall dance and bought a hot pink sheath dress. When her father noticed her new togs, he complained that he thought she had her slip on.
"It's too short," Clarence Ogilvie stated, "Take it off and put something decent on."
"But it's the fashion, dad," Claire exclaimed, rolling her eyes. At that moment, the doorbell rang. She grabbed her clutch and ran for the door.
Gerald's eyes bulged when he saw her dress. She pressed herself against him during the first slow dance and felt his hands grope under her short skirt. When a chaperone tapped Gerald on the shoulder and shook her head, 'No,' the young couple sneaked out of the gymnasium. Claire lost her virginity in the Duster's backseat and felt proud of it.
The following Monday, Gerald passed Claire a note that said, 'Sex education?' She wrote back one word: 'YES!' They skipped class and slipped into an unused closet on the third floor. By the time they reached their senior year, they were meeting in a nearby Howard Johnson motel room.
"Marry me," Gerald proposed as they neared their graduation day. "We're signing the registration as Mr. and Mrs. Revelle. Let's make it official."
Claire agreed promptly. Her parents thought she was too young, but she insisted she loved Gerald. When they realized she was serious, they insisted on a big wedding. The invitation list swelled to over five hundred guests, and Claire felt glad of her good fortune. Her life lay perfectly in front of her…or so she thought.
Following their honeymoon, Gerald changed immediately. He became insatiable and demanding. What he wanted stretched beyond her Catholic upbringing. Although she didn't mind having premarital sex, she objected to kinky sex.
The first time Gerald socked her in the stomach for refusing his request, she shrugged it off. He made a mistake, she told herself. He wouldn't do it again. Nevertheless, the abuse became a part of their lovemaking, and the multiple bruises her husband inflicted upon her hurt. Stoically, she endured and lived in denial until Gerald brought Bubbles home.
Bubbles! The name flared into her mind, and Claire grimaced. Gerald appeared with the scantily dressed prostitute after work on a Friday night. She couldn't believe her eyes when he ushered her into their apartment.
Rushing the two women into the bedroom, Gerald pulled out the desk chair and, facing it toward the bed, straddled it. Claire's face flushed crimson when he explained his newest fantasy. She flatly refused, and he backhanded her.
"Are we getting it on or what?" Bubbles asked in a thick Brooklyn accent. "Time is money, sugar pie." Chewing vigorously on a wad of gum, she snapped a bubble and tapped her stilettos' toe on the hardwood floor.
"Get out of my house," Claire hissed menacingly. She picked up a heavy book and threw it at the whore, connecting with her forehead.
Bubbles didn't hesitate. She scurried out of the bedroom, and the front door slammed behind her. Then Gerald's fist slammed into Claire's face—for the last time.
Claire waited until Gerald fell into a drunken slumber. She threw her belongings into one suitcase and left. Taking a taxi to JFK, Claire grabbed the first plane to Heathrow. Uncle Maynard picked her up following a frantic phone call, and she moved into his London flat.
Although her uncle welcomed her, Claire began to feel like a third wheel. Maynard lived with his long-term partner, Vince Harvey. She wasn't uncomfortable with the situation but wanted to stand on her own two feet.
Claire immediately began to change her image. A shorter haircut and platinum color made her feel like a new person. Using an expense account Uncle Maynard set up she bought a new wardrobe and expensive cosmetics. Night after night, she danced in the clubs and flirted freely. Nevertheless, her new life lacked substance. She wanted more.
If Claire could prove to Uncle Maynard that she knew talent, perhaps he would give her a position at the record label. She began scouring the clubs for new faces and fresh sounds. Nothing appealed to her. Almost giving up, she finally stumbled into the café and noticed Maxwell Stoddard.
James drove her to Ogilvie Records, and Claire burst into Uncle Maynard's office unannounced. Describing Maxwell in detail, she begged her relative to consider him. Her overindulgent uncle agreed but told her not to get her hopes up. Musicians were a dime a dozen in London and mostly without talent or personality. Claire assured him that Maxwell was different.
Whirlwind
MAXWELL
Maxwell Stoddard and Oliver Weeks arrived at Ogilvie Records shortly before eight o'clock the following morning. They were still waiting in Maynard Ogilvie's outer office two and a half hours later. Ollie grew impatient rapidly while Maxwell sank further into a depression. He felt sure Claire had sent them on a fool's errand. Before the morning ended, he knew he would find himself back on the streets and sleeping in that nasty subway.
"Never fear, lad," Ollie stated, patting his leg encouragingly. "I'll set them straight. They won't leave you waiting for much longer."
Standing, Oliver approached the formidable secretary. The plump older woman glared up at him from the document she scanned. Her sharp eyes seemed to penetrate through the café owner, and her mouth pursed into a small oval.
"Look, Mrs., my boy has waited long enough," Ollie stated, placing his palms flat on the desk. He leaned over his taunt arms menacingly and set his face close to the secretary's. "Your people told us to appear here at eight o'clock sharp, and we came early. Are we in, or are we out?"
"You'll find yourself out soon enough with that attitude," the office assistant remarked coolly. "When I want you, I'll rattle your chain."
"I demand…" Oliver began, nonplussed.
"Perhaps we should go," Maxwell interrupted, rising and slinging his guitar strap over his shoulder. "We should have known better, Ollie. It was too easy."
"Perhaps you're right, my boy," his new manager conceded reluctantly. He stepped toward Maxwell but suddenly swiveled to reface the secretary. "If I could find a way to sue this place, I would. I'd take you for all your worth."
"Ollie!" Maxwell yelled abruptly. "C'mon. Let's go." He headed toward the door, Oliver following close on his heels.
As they reached the door, Claire Ogilvie emerged from the inner office. Framed in the doorway, she watched Maxwell's retreating back. She stridently convinced Uncle Maynard about her new find for the past two and a half hours. Finally, she had to resort to pleading and crying. The owner of Ogilvie Records grudgingly relented.
"All right," Maynard sighed heavily. "Let's hear what you got."
Claire's tears rapidly disappeared, and she raced toward the door. Grinning widely, she expected to find Maxwell waiting in the outer office. However, she appeared in time to see his retreat. Hurriedly, she raced after him and grabbed his arm.
"Uncle Maynard is ready to see you now," she briskly exclaimed, pulling him with her. She pushed him into her relative's inner sanctum and slammed the door in Oliver's face. "May I present Maxwell Stoddard?" Backing against the wall, she motioned for her protegee to begin playing.
"Stoddard," Maynard Ogilvie chortled heartily. "That will have to go for a start."
"What's wrong with Stoddard?" Maxwell complained, hesitating over his guitar strings.
"No pizzazz," the record exec stated flatly. Before Maxwell could complain, he waved the boy toward the front of his desk. "Play."
Maxwell hesitated momentarily, and then he unslung his guitar. After tightening the strings, he strummed and crooned the ballad he had played for Claire the previous day. Standing behind her Uncle's desk, she smiled softly and nodded to his rhythm. When he finished, he looked expectantly toward her Uncle.
"Not bad," Uncle Maynard conceded. "Try something with more of a beat and swivel your hips while you sing."
Maxwell complied instantly. Beating out a lively tune, he sashayed around the desk, swiveling his hips. The record exec rose and held out his hand. Maxwell shook it heartily.
"You need a name," Uncle Maynard stated, retaking his large leather seat.
"I have a name," Maxwell countered swiftly.
"No, you haven't," Claire's Uncle remarked solidly. "Pizzazz, boy, think pizzazz. Stoddard is dull and doesn't ring in the ears. You need something innovative—something recognizable."
"Max!" Claire stated suddenly, drawing the attention of both her Uncle and her new discovery.
"Max!" Uncle Maynard echoed, inclining his chair and staring at the ceiling. "Exactly! A one-named star—like Cher or Madonna. You've got something there, my girl."
"Not Max," the young man interrupted sharply. No one called him 'Max'. If they did, he put a stop to it immediately. He did not like the name.
"You want Maxwell?" Uncle Maynard asked, sitting up straight. "You got it, boy. Maxwell—I'll get the promotion team on it straight away."
The whirlwind began that afternoon. Leaving him no chance to breathe, Maxwell found himself surrounded by lawyers, a promotion team, and a recording crew. They hustled him from office to office in a mad rush. Exhausted, he returned to Oliver Week's café and took his usual stool.
"What happened to you?" he asked when the proprietor placed a coffee mug before him.
"They didn't want me," Ollie responded dully. "That much was apparent. What happened to you?"
"I got a recording contract." Maxwell stretched out his arms and cracked his knuckles confidently.
"Just like that?"
"Just like that."
"In that case, I'll write up your tab," Oliver Weeks exclaimed, drawing a pad and pencil toward him.
"I'll pay it gladly when I'm rich and famous," Maxwell agreed, grinning from ear to ear.
"Deal!" Ollie stretched out his hand.
"Deal!" Maxwell grasped it. "Can I stay here tonight?"
"Certainly."
Following the evening meal, Oliver appeared with a Scotch bottle he'd saved for a special occasion. He poured and made a toast to Maxwell's success. Maxwell made a toast to Ollie's friendship. They continued to salute each other until the bottle ran dry.
"Ooooh, my head," Maxwell complained when he awoke. He appeared in the café with his eyes half-closed and his hair disheveled. A long silver car pulled up at the door as he raised his coffee mug.
Claire stood in the entranceway with her hands on her hips. She could not believe her eyes when she spied Maxwell leaning against the counter. Storming inside, she grabbed his arm and pulled him with her.
"Hang on there, Missy," Oliver Weeks called out, rushing around the counter. "Where do you think you're going in a hurry?"
"Wardrobe," Claire curtly remarked. "From the looks of things, this one requires an entire makeover. What were you two up to last night?"
"Celebrating," Maxwell slurred, leaning precariously toward his left.
"Figures," Claire muttered disdainfully. "Come along; we have a lot of work to do. Wardrobe this morning, recording this afternoon. Uncle Maynard is fast-tracking you, Maxwell."
"Fast-tracking?"
"You're in the whirlwind now, whether you like it or not."
Claire pulled Maxwell outside into the cold, biting winter wind. His bare feet hit the sidewalk, chasing away his hangover immediately. Ordering James to drive, his new benefactor pushed him into the backseat and plunked down beside him. As they pulled away from the café, Maxwell looked down at himself. He discovered he was wearing Oliver's pajamas.
"I can't go out looking like this!" he exclaimed, flushing with embarrassment.
"Unfortunately, you are already out," Claire remarked sharply. "Wherever did you find such ugly jammies? Fluorescent green and pink paisley? I thought you had taste."
"They belong to Ollie," Maxwell muttered.
"Can't wait to see what Stanley's look like."
Maxwell stared at his companion questionably. Momentarily, he did not understand who Stanley was. Then, it suddenly occurred to him. Claire referenced the old comedic team of Laurel and Hardy. He laughed for the first time in ages.
It felt good to let himself go with jollity. He was homeless for too long to find much mirth in life. Day after day, he trudged the streets looking for handouts. Lost and alone, he had no one to share his thoughts or provide friendship. Although he treasured Oliver's acquaintance, he lacked a companion his own age. Claire smiled at him understandingly and grasped his hand.
The whirlwind began the moment they entered the Record Label Office. Maxwell underwent a complete makeover. He didn't recognize himself when he finally looked in the mirror. His shaggy, unkempt hair transformed into a dark brown mop with frosted tips. A long swoop fell across his forehead provocatively.
A makeup artist worked on his face, smoothing his complexion and creating a pout on his full lips. Dark eyeliner accentuated his eyes, and his brows trimmed neatly. He wore tight leather trousers that hugged his male form. At first, Maxwell felt uncomfortable about the bulge. Then Claire appeared in the dressing room, her eyes assessing him coolly. She nodded her approval, and he grinned his new sexy smile.
"You look as good as you sound," Claire stated, handing him a black leather jacket.
When he donned it, she encircled his waist with her arms and pressed her body against his. He reacted to her nearness immediately. Instead of shrinking away, she moved in closer.
"All right, all right, break it up," Uncle Maynard announced, entering behind his niece.
Maxwell and Claire stepped away from each other immediately. The record exec clapped his arm around his new star's shoulders and drew him away. Claire pouted, then noticed a black fedora sitting on a wardrobe shelf. Grabbing it quickly, she trotted behind Maxwell and her Uncle.
"Here," she stated, extending the hat toward Maxwell. "Put this on."
Maxwell took the hat and studied it. When he placed it on his head, Claire reached up and turned it at a jaunty angle. She stepped back and grinned.
"Turn your head, narrow your eyes, and pout," Claire commanded, surveying the effect. "Perfect!"
"Perfect!" Uncle Maynard echoed, suddenly feeling aroused. He congratulated himself for knowing a good thing when he saw one. "You're on your way, my boy."
Falling in Love
CLAIRE
Claire Ogilvie couldn't get Maxwell's new image out of her mind. At three o'clock in the morning, she was still awake. Behind her mind's eye, she saw him in his tight leather pants with a thick bulge in front. His cockeyed smile and the tilt of his fedora made her pulsing blood run hot. She rolled over, pulling the duvet with her. Finally, she threw it aside and lay across the sheets. Sweat pasted her silk negligee to her stealthy body.
"I can't fall in love," Claire moaned, sitting upright. "I'm married!" She flopped onto the mattress and, pulling her knees up, hugged them tightly.
Dammit, Claire muttered in frustration. Gerald replaced Maxwell in her thoughts. She chided herself for being young and stupid. Her mother and father had wanted her to wait until she was older before plunging into matrimony. Back then, she thought she knew it all. She thought she knew Gerald.
Claire admitted she was wrong. At the time, she was too young to know anything. Now, she wanted Maxwell but could not have him. Her Catholic upbringing would not allow for a divorce. Although her parents were lax in their religion, they clung to certain aspects of it. They were strict about divorce and unhappy about Claire's sudden departure.
Claire did not tell them the reasons for her abrupt flight. She couldn't bring herself to talk about the physical and sexual abuse she endured. Instead, she bottled it inside her and continued her life as though nothing happened. Maxwell's appearance changed the situation drastically. Claire knew she had to do something about Gerald.
Arriving at the recording studio early, Claire sat in on Maxwell's first session with the record producer, Mr. Slim. Maxwell spread out his portfolio on the table, and Mr. Slim studied each one for an interminable period. He had to decide which tracks to record and the arrangements. Finally, he created a pile of possibles and discards.
"What's wrong with this one?" Claire asked, rifling through the discard pile. She picked it at random.
"Nothing wrong with it, young lady," Slim answered curtly. "We are limited to only a few cuts. We might use that one another time, depending."
"Depending on what?" Claire continued caustically.
"On whether Maxwell succeeds or fails," Slim countered abruptly. "I don't see what your interest is, young lady. Either stay in the background or get out."
"I'm an interested party," Claire declared hotly. "I'm going to ensure Maxwell gets a fair shake around here. Uncle Maynard…"
"Your Uncle Maynard wants this guy fast-tracked," the record producer stated, leaning back in his chair. "It won't happen if you interrupt every two minutes. I'll give the boy a fair shake."
Slim returned to his task, and the hours dragged past noon. When Maxwell's stomach growled noisily, Claire insisted on a lunch break. However, instead of breaking up, Slim ordered sandwiches, and they continued to work.
"Dinner tonight?" Claire whispered, leaning into Maxwell's ear. Grinning, he nodded his assent.
"Are you finished playing the dating game?" Slim grumbled.
"Yes," Claire snapped, throwing the producer an arrogant smirk.
Finally, at nine o'clock in the evening, Slim called it a day. Grabbing Maxwell's arm, Claire dragged him to the cloakroom. She pushed his coat at him, donned her own, and rushed for the elevators. On the street, she hailed a cab quickly.
"I thought we would never get out of there," she exclaimed, her heart racing. Giving the cabby an address, Claire sat back and leaned against Maxwell's side. He put his arm around her and drew her close.
"Where are we going?" Maxwell asked. He thought they would stop at Oliver Week's café.
"My place." Claire snuggled closer.
"Don't you live with your uncle?"
"Yeah, but Uncle Maynard went to his country house with Vince. We have the place for ourselves. I'll make an omelet and then…well…whatever."
"I like the whatever part," Maxwell murmured, kissing her temple.
"Me too." Claire wrapped her arms around his body and brought her lips to his. When he pulled up at Ogilvie's flat, the cabby had to clear his throat three times.
******
Claire stretched and rolled over. Her naked body sank into the soft mattress, and a warm sensation overwhelmed her. Reaching out her hand, she explored the silk sheets until she found Maxwell. Flattening her palm against his chest, she rubbed it in rhythmic circles. She breathed deeply and sighed.
Maxwell stirred and turned onto his side. Reaching out, he pulled Claire against his taunt form. She reacted immediately. Their bodies merged as one.
Breathlessly, Claire stared up at the ceiling. Her heart pounded rapidly beneath her heaving bosom. She wanted to shout with glee, to rise from the bed and dance. Her high school experiences with Gerald seemed meager in comparison with Maxwell. Even at his most abusive, her husband could not perform with her current lover's stamina. She chided herself again and again for her past mistakes.
"Are you all right?" Maxwell asked, his voice floating to her as though over a great distance.
"Oh yes," she answered, her voice a mere wisp.
Claire sat up and hugged her naked legs. Strands of platinum hair fell over her eyes; she didn't bother to push them away. A sexy smile spread across her face. When Maxwell reached out to stroke her arm, she shuddered involuntarily.
"Are you sure?" he asked solicitously.
"Make love to me," Claire murmured, her lips barely forming the words, "again."
"And again and again," Maxwell suggested, kissing her lips.
"Again and again."
In the morning, Claire awoke feeling guilty. Maxwell slept beside her, his brown hair forming a halo on the pillow. She should wake him and tell him about Gerald. Although it broke her heart to disillusion him, she longed for an honest relationship. A tear slid from beneath her eyelash, and she dashed it away.
Silently, Claire rose. Draping a silk robe over her shoulders, she wandered into the kitchen. She took out a frying pan and began preparing the omelet she had promised Maxwell the previous evening. Funny how quickly they had forgotten it. She grinned widely.
The scent of frying eggs woke Maxwell up. He slid into his trousers and followed his nose into the kitchen. Framed in the doorway, he appraised Claire. He liked her soft, naked curves beneath her filmy garment. Stepping behind her, he wrapped his arms around her waist and kissed her neck.
"Good morning, beautiful," he sang, his voice deep and resonant.
Claire's body tightened up involuntarily. Her mind was involved with Gerald, and she thought it was her husband behind her instead of Maxwell.
"Something wrong?" Maxwell asked, perplexed.
"No," Claire stated sharply. "Yes," she amended, breathing deeply. "We have to talk."
Claire plated the omelets and placed them on the kitchen table. Indicating the chairs, she asked Maxwell to sit down. She poured coffee and joined him. It was time to discuss Gerald.
Nervously, Claire gnawed on her lower lip. She did not know how to begin. If she spoke about the terrible abuse, she would break down. Until that moment, she had always shown her strong side. What would Maxwell think if she began to sob?
"What is it, Claire?" he asked, reaching for her hand. He took it gently and brought it to her lips. "I love you."
Claire melted when he stated the three words boldly. Sincerity filled his solemn eyes, making her heart pound wildly. She knew she couldn't hurt him, not now…probably never. Her bravado fled, leaving her feeling deflated.
"Uncle Maynard is going to make you a big star," she finally remarked, faltering over her words. Inside, she chastised herself for failing in her objective. "I know you're grateful to me for causing all this. I…I don't want you to think…well…you have to do stuff with me now because…"
Maxwell sat back and pushed his omelet aside. He could hardly believe Claire's words. Somehow, he felt used. If she could think…
"I said I love you," Maxwell stated hotly. "I meant it. I would love you with or without Uncle Maynard. My career is separate from my relationship with you. I'm… I'm just not like that, Claire."
"I'm glad, Maxwell," Claire stated flatly. "I'm real glad."
Lifting his fork, Maxwell started to eat his breakfast. He smiled at Claire without noticing her change in attitude. Across from him, she stared down at her omelet in disgust. She hated herself.
Somewhere down the road, Claire faced a day of reckoning. Gerald hovered somewhere in the background. He must know where she was; someday, he would come for her. She dreaded that day…for her and for Maxwell.
Whirlwind
MAXWELL
Claire's sudden moodiness troubled Maxwell. He feared something lurked in her background, and she wished to bury it. All his senses told him to pursue the subject—make her talk about her distress—but he decided not to pressure her. When she was ready, she would tell him. Until then, he wanted to bask in his newfound love affair.
Maxwell spent weeks in the recording studio, setting down tracks. He sang until his voice grew hoarse and cracked. In the background, Claire supported him and, when he wanted to give up, encouraged him to continue. Finally, his first record debuted on the UK Top 100. It peaked at number ninety-eight for one week and slid into oblivion. His second single didn't make it that far.
"Can't expect miracles, lad," Oliver Weeks exclaimed, leaning on his bar.
"Yeah, sure," Maxwell responded glumly.
"Next one will do better." Oliver smiled reassuringly.
The next single topped at eighty-seven and disappeared with the previous two. Maxwell appeared in small clubs outside London. Uncle Maynard promoted him as the 'Next Big Thing.' Nothing happened.
Maxwell began to despair. Claire reassured him, claiming his rise in fame would start suddenly. Uncle Maynard knew his business—he assured success.
"Release this one," Claire insisted, barging into her Uncle's office.
"It's a ballad; it's too soft," Maynard Ogilvie responded, leaning back in his chair.
"Release it," his niece stated determinedly. "The others died a quick death. What can you lose?"
"All right," Claire's Uncle relented.
'Sunshine on a Rose' debuted at thirty-two and shot into the Top Ten the following week. Claire grasped Maxwell's hands and circled him around Uncle Maynard's office. After the re-release of his previous singles, Maxwell hit big with two number-one songs and a number-three. His head began to spin.
Claire accompanied Maxwell to Berlin for his European debut. When they reached Stockholm, young girls crowded around him with autograph books. They screamed his name and reached out to touch his clothing. Clinging close to his side, Claire warded them off as best she could. Uncle Maynard assigned a bodyguard to protect his new star.
Rome followed Barcelona, then Paris. The crowds grew larger and louder. Finally, Maxwell returned to the UK for a concert in Edinburgh.
"Next stop Wembley," Claire declared, running her hand through Maxwell's unruly hair. She pressed her sweat-soaked body closer to his. They had just finished making love.
"I…I still can't believe it," Maxwell stated, kissing the tip of her nose. "All those young girls screaming my name. I'm going to wake up and find I'm dreaming."
"You're not dreaming," Claire answered, pressing closer. "I love you."
Wembley sold out quickly. Sweat-soaked, Maxwell exited the stage to a cacophony of young voices. During his second encore performance, he pulled a girl from the audience to dance with him. No one had to know the girl was Claire, and they staged the dance. It excited his fan base, and that's all that mattered.
Maxwell rode high on the wave of stardom. Always supportive, Claire remained at his side. He owed her all his gratitude. Without her, he would have remained homeless on the London streets. He never forgot the day she entered Oliver Weeks' café and changed his life.
While the whirlwind of fame and fortune swirled around him, Maxwell suddenly became caught up in another vortex—a more personal one. Although Claire remained bubbly about his success, in private, she grew moody. She acted nervous and restrained, often staring intensely into space. Once or twice, he asked what bothered her. She shrugged and then brightened considerably.
"Did I do something wrong?" Maxwell asked late one night. Claire lay in a rigid posture at the edge of the bed.
"No," her tiny voice returned. Tugging on the duvet, she rolled into a tight ball.
"Are you sure? If something bothers you, I should know about it," Maxwell pursued anxiously. "We should fix our difficulties quickly. If there are difficulties, I mean."
"There's nothing. I…I don't feel right. Probably too much excitement. Let's get some sleep, ok."
"Ok."
CLAIRE
Claire lay at the edge of the bed, unshed tears clinging to her lashes. She loved Maxwell but felt guilty about Gerald. Time after time, she attempted to broach the subject of her marriage. She couldn't force herself to speak about it. Remorse gnawed at her heart.
The European tour's excitement pushed aside her guilt. Caught up in the frantic concerts, Claire forgot about Gerald. The situation quietened when they returned to London, and her mind reverted to her past. She could not stop thinking about her abusive marriage and short-tempered husband.
Claire felt safe with Maxwell. He treated her with gentle dignity and respect. To him, she appeared confident and self-assured. Nevertheless, she knew her frailty and, considering Gerald, became a nervous little girl.
"Maxwell?" Claire rolled over and placed her palm against his back. 'We need to talk.' She thought the words instead of speaking them.
"Yes?" he asked, turning to face her. She buried her face in the chest, and he cradled her in his arms.
"Make love to me." Silently, Claire cursed herself for not speaking her mind. She couldn't talk…she could never talk about Gerald. Instead, she longed to feel close to her lover. She wanted to push aside the past and become a part of the only man she could love.
Maxwell kissed her tenderly. Claire responded with urgency. Together, their bodies merged, and she delighted in his warm release.
They lay side-by-side, holding hands. Claire grasped his palm tightly as though she could never let it go. Desperately, she clung to him and pushed Gerald from her mind. The further away from her mistake she traveled, the easier it became to ignore it. Acting as though nothing happened became her new resolve. She wanted to live in a pretend world of her own creation.
MAXWELL
Maxwell quickly forgot Claire's moody moments following his European tour. She seemed to brush off the sulks and revert to her usual effervescent self. He began compiling his follow-up album by expressing his love for her in song. Uncle Maynard praised his efforts.
Maxwell's star rose over Europe. The promo department scheduled talk show appearances and a special guest slot on "Eastenders," a popular afternoon soap opera. When he took Claire to Paris for a weekend, mobs of teenage girls swarmed them. He still couldn't believe his good luck.
Maxwell lived in a subway only the year before and grubbed for meals at Ollie's café. Often, he recalled his sense of failure and the depression that overcame him. He rode high on the wave of success and showed Claire his gratitude in many subtle ways.
"Will you marry me?" Maxwell asked on bended knee. The Eiffel Tower loomed behind them, casting a romantic midnight glow. He took her hand and slipped a large diamond onto the fourth finger of her left hand.
Claire looked down upon Maxwell. His soft brown hair fell in a gentle wave over his bent head. She longed to run the tips of her fingers through it. She reached out with a trembling hand. Her love for him swelled, and her pulse quickened. For days and days, she hoped he'd ask her. His vibes came at her firmly, and she knew he would. She anticipated his proposal—she wanted to say yes.
Instead, Claire sobbed. Taking off the ring, she dropped it at his feet and ran. Her hollow footsteps resounded in Maxwell's ears. Misery encapsulated him. In the morning, he returned to England alone.
Claire did not return to their flat. When he asked Uncle Maynard her whereabouts, the music exec claimed he did not know. Maxwell detected a lie but didn't voice his opinion. Filling his time, he lost himself in the recording studio.
"If she loves you, she'll return," Oliver Weeks assured him.
Maxwell sat in a back booth of the café. He never sat near a window in case someone on the sidewalk recognized him. Holding his head in his hands, he glanced up at his companion with bloodshot eyes. The only place he gave in to his emotions was the café.
"I asked her to marry me, and she threw the ring at my feet," Maxwell moaned, hot tears streaking his cheeks. "I thought she loved me."
"She does, mate," Ollie stated, a tentative smile crossing his face.
"Then, why?"
Oliver shrugged and looked grim.
"I want to know why."
"Sometimes there are no answers to a woman's behavior," the café owner remarked.
Several weeks passed before Maxwell received a call from Uncle Maynard. The record exec requested his immediate presence at his office. When he arrived, he was delighted to find Claire standing behind her relative's chair. A grin spread across her face—his face lit up like a Christmas tree.
"Pack your bags, lad," Uncle Maynard stated before he greeted Claire. "You're going to America."
Claire flew at him, and Maxwell grabbed her around the waist. The young couple embraced tightly and kissed.
Day of Reckoning
CLAIRE
Claire shoved thoughts about her marriage aside. Uncle Maynard’s announcement concerning Maxwell’s American debut eclipsed her Gerald concerns. Throwing aside her remorse, she joined the celebration.
“Boston, Philadelphia, Atlanta, Chicago,” she listed, cuddling close to her lover. “Lastly, The Meadowlands—closest you can get to NYC without being in NYC. You have a lot to thank Uncle Maynard for.”
“I have a lot to thank you for, sweetheart,” Maxwell exclaimed, pulling her close. Placing his arm across her shoulder, he pulled her close. “I still can’t believe it!”
Maxwell leaned back against the settee and threw his head back. He stared at the ceiling and shook his head. Claire climbed into his lap and ran her fingers through his tousled hair. They embraced.
“Tell me you love me,” Maxwell whispered into her ear, “and not because of fame and fortune.”
“I love you for you,” Claire breathed back.
“You would love me if you found me in the gutter?” he asked, snuggling into her neck.
“I found you in the gutter,” Claire answered in a serious tone.
Maxwell laughed heartily. He could never forget those horrible days he spent wandering the London streets or the nights he slept in the stinking subway. Once upon a time, he was one of the ‘down and outs.’ Without money and starving, he relied on the kindness of others—including his friend Oliver Weeks. Without Ollie, he would have starved. Then, like a miracle, Claire Ogilvie discovered him and introduced him to Uncle Maynard. Maxwell would never forget.
“I doubt I have ever known such happiness,” Maxwell stated, grinning broadly. “I am grateful for all you have done for me. I…” He paused and thought for an extended moment. Then he clasped her hands. “I want you to meet my parents and sister. They’ll love you. They’re going to meet me at Logan (International Airport in Boston) when we arrive. It’s all arranged.”
Claire stood up abruptly and looked down upon Maxwell. He gazed up at her, his face open and innocent. She gnawed on her bottom lip and reality swept over her. She had to tell him about Gerald.
“Don’t worry, honey,” Maxwell assured her. “They won’t bite. My parents are great. Mackenzie is a brat, but she’s my little sister. We’re cool together.”
“Maxwell, I…I’m…” Claire sputtered, trying to force out the hurtful sentence. Without another word, she grabbed her coat and plowed out the door.
Claire walked the night streets, plodded through Hyde Park and along the River Thames. She chided herself for her cowardice. How long could she keep Maxwell hanging on? She had to tell him the truth. When she finally returned to the flat, her lover sprawled across the bed, sound asleep. She didn’t have the heart to wake him.
The following morning, Uncle Maynard called Claire into his office. Expecting to make the final arrangements for Maxwell’s American debut, she entered with a huge smile pasted across her face. The smile turned to a frown when she noticed her parents sitting before the huge oak desk.
“Hello Mom, Daddy,” Claire greeted them cheerfully. It took her a moment to settle her nerves. She advanced toward them slowly, expecting hugs and kisses.
“Hello, Claire,” Gerald exclaimed, rising from a desk chair. He grinned lasciviously.
“Gerald,” Claire gasped, shrinking back. Her heart pounded wildly in her chest.
“Come to claim my wife,” her husband blurted, advancing toward her. Grasping her arms at the wrist, he strengthened his hold.
“I…” Desperately Claire ogled Uncle Maynard. Surely he would assist her. Instead, he turned his swivel chair and gazed out his office window. “Oh, Uncle Maynard.”
Claire rushed to his side and, squatting beside him, implored his help with her sorrowful eyes. He had to do something, say something to chase her nemesis away.
“I’m sorry, child,” her relative stated lowly. “You have to sort it with your husband. I cannot interfere any further.”
Instantly Gerald moved to her side. Taking her arm, he pulled her toward the door. Her parents shadowed them. When they reached the corridor, the elevator slid open, and Maxwell stepped out. Breaking free, Claire rushed forward. Grabbing her lover by the hand, she pulled him into the waiting lift. They exited on the next floor, and she tugged him into an unused office. Hot tears flowed down her cheeks as she faced him.
“I’m married, Maxwell,” Claire blurted, sobbing. “That’s my husband—Gerald Revelle. He’s forcing me to go with him.”
Maxwell’s face collapsed. Sinking into a nearby chair, he covered his eyes with his hands. Betrayed! The word flashed in his mind. Finally, he glanced up at Claire and saw the distress on her face.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” she cried sorrowfully. “I tried. I tried a million times. I couldn’t. I hate him, Maxwell, hate him.” To emphasis her words, she pounded her fists against her thighs.
Claire felt repulsed by Maxwell’s blank state. Grasping his hands, she stared deeply into his eyes. She understood she hurt him deeply.
“I love you, Maxwell,” she cried. Tears followed freely down her reddened cheeks. “Please, tell me you love me too.”
“I…I love you, Claire,” the young musician finally stated. His voice broke and he sobbed.
In the corridor, hurried footsteps approached their sanctuary. Claire fell into Maxwell’s arms. The young couple embraced for the last time. Soon, Gerald would appear and drag her away. Claire’s mind whirled. She felt trapped.
“I have to go,” she sobbed, clasping the front of his shirt with balled fists. “I won’t stay. I promise you, I will get away.”
Maxwell remained silent. A lump formed in his throat, impairing his speech.
“In one year,” Claire stated, her thoughts struggling in her mind. “I will return to you in one year. It’s November. In one year…” Her words sputtered and she regained her self-control. “Meet me…Meet me at Macy’s. Thanksgiving Day, in front of Macy’s. I’ll wait for you there, I promise.”
Behind them, the office door crashed open. Gerald Revelle loomed in the aperture and, lunging toward Claire, grabbed her wrist. Her mother and father entered behind him.
“It’s for the best, sweetheart,” her mother consoled, stepping between husband and wife. Placing her arm across her daughter’s shoulder, she led Claire away from Maxwell. “You mustn’t break your vows. Your father agrees, and Gerald will provide you with a good home. He promised.”
At the door, Claire turned to face Maxwell. She mouthed the words ‘at Macys.’ Maxwell took a deep breath, and his lips formed the same words in return. With her head bowed, she accompanied her parents into the hallway. Gerald followed close behind but, before he exited, he spun around and smirked triumphantly at Maxwell. The door slammed shut, and Claire disappeared.
Meet Me at Macy's
MAXWELL
Maxwell stared at the closed office door. He felt as though he were living a dream. Like a broken mirror, it shattered and left him feeling dazed. Air drained from his lungs, and behind his forehead, his brain pounded unmercifully. Covering his face with his hands, he sat down and sobbed.
"Claire," Maxwell muttered despairingly. "Claire."
"Come, lad," Uncle Maynard stated, squatting beside the young man. "Enough of that."
"Why didn't you help her?" the young musician implored.
Uncle Maynard pulled up another chair and sat beside Maxwell. Drawing a deep breath, he began his own story of woe.
"I began having homosexual urges when I was twelve years old. My parents were strict Catholics and didn't understand my feelings. They wanted me to go straight, but I knew I couldn't," the record producer solemnly explained. "I kept my relationships a secret, but my brother discovered me with my lover. He had more compassion than my mother and father. He helped me as best he could.
"Harry married Claire's mother, and they moved to America. Seeking an escape, I followed them with Vince," Uncle Maynard continued. "Harry was successful in his business and fronted me money to start mine. I returned to London and set up as a record producer. What was more important was my happiness with Vince. I owe my brother much gratitude."
"Under the circumstances, shouldn't you help Claire?" Maxwell asked pointedly. "If she is unhappy with this Gerald fella, doesn't she have the right to break away?"
"I have helped her as much as I could. I've given her a home and a job. I also gave her a lot of leeway with you," the Uncle remarked, sitting back in his chair. "I know talent when I see it, and you have talent, lad. Without Claire, you wouldn't have succeeded as you have.
"I kept Claire's whereabouts a secret for as long as possible. However, she's made appearances with you. She appeared in many of the promotional photos of your European tour. At the moment, they are used in America to pump up your new fan base," the record producer explained. "Naturally, Gerald noticed and, along with your parents, arrived here demanding her return. My hands were tied. I had to let her go. It's up to Claire to work her way out of this situation."
"I promised to meet her a Macys in one year," Maxwell stated, brightening. "I intend to keep that promise. I hope she does, too."
"I'm sure she will." Uncle Maynard rose and faced Maxwell. "In the meantime, you have a lot of work to do. We have to get you on the charts in America."
Although his heart ached, Maxwell put his heart and soul into his music. He arrived in Boston to a cacophony of young voices. Eager hands reached out to touch him as he passed through the airport. Finally, he heard his sister's voice above all the rest. Surrounded by security, he pushed his way through his fans and swung Mackenzie into his arms. Her legs dangled off the floor as she embraced him.
"You've grown, squirt," Maxwell exclaimed, setting her onto her feet again.
"What did you think after two years, dumb ass," his little sister exclaimed, her hands on her hips.
"That's enough of that, young lady," their father intervened. Mackenzie shot her tongue out and wiggled it.
The security team rushed the family into an airport hotel suite and guarded the door. Maxwell collapsed into a chair and let out his breath. The long flight and journey through the excited crowd exhausted him.
"All this nonsense for you?" his father asked, rubbing his hands together.
"Yeah, Dad, all this." Maxwell waved his arms to encompass the entire situation.
"What happened to that young lady you wrote us about?" his mother promptly asked.
"Gone." Maxwell snarled the one word. Claire's disappearance continued to nag at him. He didn't wish to speak about her.
His mother clamped her mouth closed and lapsed into silence. She knew better than to nag her son. Throughout the years, she became used to his stubbornness.
Maxwell made his Boston debut the following night to a sold-out crowd. He hit it big in Philadelphia, Atlanta, and Chicago. Due to his immediate success, his promoter added a Pittsburgh show to his itinerary. The whirlwind continued. Finally, he faced a teaming New York crowd at the Meadowlands.
Eagerly, Maxwell scanned the crowd, hoping to find Claire's face amongst his screaming fans. He longed to extract her from the assembly and dance with her on stage. Memories of past shows tumbled into his mind. He longed to do it again—to go back and repeat those happy days. Without Claire, Maxwell went through the motions. Nothing seemed real.
The songs on his next album held a melancholy feel. Maxwell wrote of unrequited love and sudden breakups. Soulfully, he crooned his heartbreak and sorrow into the microphone. His image shifted from sultry and sexy to a desperate and brokenhearted aspect. His supporters understood and embraced him.
Spring never sprung for Maxwell. His soul remained snowed under with winter thoughts. Every day, he thought about Claire and missed her. Casting his eyes around every gathering he attended, he wished to find her. Although she never appeared, he continued to hope. November seemed far away.
Maxwell clung to the phrase Meet Me at Macy's. Day by day, it kept him going. Eventually, he knew he had to do something with those four poignant words. The new song came to him quickly. Staying up late into the night, he wrote of all his frustrations, the sudden disappearance of his one true love, and his pent-up heartbreak.
"Fabulous," Uncle Maynard exclaimed when he heard the tune for the first time. "It's your best song. It'll make the top of the charts, no doubt about it."
Mackenzie played the record for her friends in August before its release. Her teenage friends loved it. Beaming proudly, Maxwell embraced his sister and called her his number-one fan.
"I love it, Max," his sixteen-year-old sister exclaimed, kissing him heartily. "I love you!"
"Love you right back, Mackie," Maxwell countered, embracing her tightly.
"How 'bout we hit the road together." Mackenzie grinned mischievously. "Maxie and Mackie—together at last."
Maxwell scowled, then pouted. His sister reminded him why he hated the names 'Maxie' and 'Mackie.' Years ago, when the siblings were small, their Great Aunt Mildred had knitted sweaters with nicknames emblazoned on the front. The first time he wore his to school, other students teased him unmercifully. From then on, he hated the shorter versions of his name.
"Maxwell and Mackenzie will do just fine," he snarled sharply.
"Have it your way," his sister responded, giggling. "I still love you, fathead."
******
"You're appearing in the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade," Uncle Maynard announced after Maxwell's song topped the charts. "Special request, lad. They love your song."
"But…uh," Maxwell stammered, dumbfounded.
"No, but…uh, about it," the record producer exclaimed, grinning from ear to ear. "You're a headliner, lad. Millions of young girls are dying to see you perform. And you will perform, no doubt about it."
Although thrilled by his fans' excitement, Maxwell knew there was only one person he wanted to see at Macy's on Thanksgiving Day. He started to mention Claire to Uncle Maynard but stopped him. Her Uncle always cut him short when he mentioned her name.
For all Maxwell knew, Claire could have reconciled with her husband. She could have forgotten all about him. As Thanksgiving approached, he began to grow nervous. Anxiety filled him, and he blanked on his song's words. Then he remembered he was supposed to lip-sync.
When the big day finally arrived, Maxwell climbed into the turkey float. The day was cold and crisp but not freezing. When he reached Herald Square, he performed to a cheering crowd, but his eyes constantly scanned the crowd for Claire. For a moment, he believed he noticed her. His heart pounding in wild expectation, he memorized the location.
Pulling his coat hood up and wrapping a scarf tightly around his neck, Maxwell donned a pair of dark sunglasses. He hoped no one would recognize him as he returned to Macy's. Holding his head down, he pushed through the departing crowd and found the spot where he thought he saw Claire. She was not there.
Frantically, Maxwell searched for her. He approached several similar women, but none were Claire. After a while, the street emptied, leaving him alone. The street cleaners appeared, pushing their brooms. Finally, bowing his head sorrowfully, Maxwell returned to his hotel suite.
In Front of Macy’s
CLAIRE
Claire found a prominent location in front of Macy's on Thanksgiving morning. She ensured she was visible to Maxwell when he performed in front of the popular storefront. The year had gone slowly for her. Every day, she thought of her reunion with Maxwell.
Claire hated Gerald. The day he marched her from Uncle Maynard's office was the worst day of her life. Nothing changed. Although he acted adequately in front of her parents, he continued to abuse her behind closed doors. The more she fought against him, the rougher he became. Gerald resented her affair with Maxwell and never let her forget it.
"You will never leave me again," her husband threatened, tightening his fists around her upper arms. He grimaced in her face and shook her. "And do something about that hair. You look like a tart. What was wrong with your natural color?"
"Maxwell loved my hair," Claire remarked sharply. She never could control her tongue. Gerald slapped her across the face.
"Don't you ever say that name in front of me again," Gerald snarled, grabbing her arms again.
"Maxwell, Maxwell, Maxwell," she chanted loudly.
"If you repeat it," Gerald threatened, grinning crookedly, "I will kill you."
"MAXWELL!" Claire shouted defiantly.
Gerald seethed with rage. Spinning Claire around roughly, he threw her against the wall. She stumbled and hit it with her forehead. The force of the blow knocked her out. When she awoke, she found her husband slumped in a chair facing her. Claire brought herself to her knees and crawled toward Gerald. Realizing he was asleep, she stood up on wobbly legs. She knew she had to escape.
Packing a small bag, Claire sneaked out of her husband's apartment. She had put up with his abuse for three months. Despite her parents' pleas to make it work, she knew she had to leave. Why should she put up with his maltreating her? Half the time, he was too drunk or high to perform sexually. It was a waste of a life.
Claire studied Gerald long and hard. His baggy jeans hung low beneath his paunchy stomach, and his white tee shirt looked grimy. Empty beer bottles lay scattered at his feet. Taking a deep breath, she walked into the kitchen and returned a moment later with a thick black marker. Uncapping it, she wrote 'asshole' in large letters across his chest.
Feeling satisfied, Claire picked up her suitcase and left the apartment quietly. She strode purposefully toward the nearest bus stop and headed to LaGuardia. Her first instinct told her to find Maxwell. Then, she realized she couldn't involve him in her mess. When Gerald awoke, he would try to find her. The scandal she brought with her could destroy his career. Finally, she realized there was only one person who could help her.
******
Oliver Weeks sat in the back booth of his café. Opposite him, Claire leaned forward and grasped his hands. The sorrowful look in her eyes tugged at his heart. He loved her—not in the same way Maxwell loved her—but he knew his emotions were intense.
"You have to help me," Claire moaned, tears clinging to her eyelashes. "I have to hide from Gerald. He's probably already searching for me."
Ollie continued to ponder the situation. He wanted to help Claire. He thought of Maxwell and Claire together and the magic they created. A romantic at heart, he felt he had brought them together. They did, after all, meet in his establishment.
"Come with me," he finally decided, rising.
Pulling her headscarf forward to conceal her face, Claire glanced furtively toward the large front windows. She knew she had to use extreme caution. Gerald could have tracked her already. Quickening her steps, she followed Oliver into his storeroom. The café owner stood near the back, holding open a heavy oak door. Together, they descended a steep stairway and faced another door.
"It's not as luxurious as you're used to, Missy," Ollie exclaimed, throwing open the door, "but it will keep you hidden for as long as you want."
Claire stepped into the small basement room. It contained a seating area with a pullout sofa bed, an oven, and a refrigerator. Oliver showed her a tiny bathroom. Her heart sank a little, but she gratefully accepted the accommodation.
"You can exit into the alley and walkabout a bit," the café owner suggested, opening an outside door. "There are a few shops around the corner and an old cinema. If you're careful, perhaps you could go a bit further afield. Otherwise, you'll find it quite a safe place to hide."
"You don't know how grateful I am, Oliver," Claire declared, kissing her savior on the forehead. "It's only until November. I have to meet Maxwell in front of Macy's. I should make out all right here."
"You see that you do, my dear," Ollie stated, returning a kiss on Claire's cheek. "Mind you, divorce that creep and make yourself free for Maxwell. I don't want to see him getting hurt more than he already has."
"I wouldn't hurt Maxwell for all the world," Claire stated, grinning from ear to ear.
The rest of the year crept past slowly. Claire remained cautious and hunkered down in Oliver Week's basement apartment. Occasionally, she ventured out to the cinema but scurried back home quickly. Once or twice, she thought she recognized Gerald but realized she was wrong upon taking a closer look. Finally, Thanksgiving approached, and she returned to New York City.
Claire joined the crowd in front of Macy's. One by one, the parade floats passed by, along with marching bands and Broadway shows. Her heart thumped when she recognized Maxwell in the turkey float. When he sang Meet Me at Macy's, she felt wild inside. Until that point, she had never heard the song.
The parade finally ended with the appearance of Santa Claus. Around her, the thronging crowd cheered. Someone jostled her, but she didn't mind. Happiness welled inside Claire. Soon, she would see Maxwell, and he would swoop her into his arms. The same person jostled her again, and she took several steps along the sidewalk. Slowly, the crowd began to dissipate.
Anxiously, Claire scanned the mob, expecting Maxwell to stride toward her. She bounced on her feet to look over people's heads and strained around shoulders. Finally, a figure in a dark hoodie and black sunglasses moved toward her. She smiled widely and stepped toward him. The man grabbed her arm and pulled her away from the sidewalk. Joyfully, Claire trotted along beside him.
Her companion hailed a cab and, flinging open the door, thrust Claire inside. She landed on the seat hard and turned to protest. Her lover pushed her across the backseat and plopped down beside her. Leaning into his side, Claire took his arm firmly and pressed close to his side.
The hoodie fell back, and her companion ogled her maliciously. Claire shrank back, terrified.
"Gerald," she managed to croak out.
Claire is Missing
MAXWELL
Maxwell sat rigidly in his chair. Scattered newspaper pages lay at his feet. Staring at the apartment wall, he felt empty inside.
MISSING: NIECE OF PROMINENT RECORD PRODUCER
Last seen standing in front of Macy's Department Store in NYC, Claire Ogilvie disappeared while awaiting a reunion with Pop Superstar Maxwell.
Maxwell Stoddard claims he had a prearranged meeting set for Thanksgiving morning with Ms. Ogilvie. The young lady in question was responsible for Stoddard's sudden rise to fame. The couple met in London and traveled extensively in Europe during Maxwell's first tour.
In an exclusive interview, Maxwell stated he proposed to Ogilvie in Paris, but she refused his suggestion that they marry. He did not know of her previous marriage to Gerald Revelle and was shocked when her husband reappeared. He stated that she left with Revelle to resume her life with him. Ogilvie promised to reunite with Maxwell if the situation with Revelle did not work out. Since Claire arrived at Macy's to fulfill her appointment, we will assume she decided to leave Gerald once again.
The police are conducting a complete investigation into the matter. Since Revelle has disappeared along with Claire, they are assumed to be together. However, we do not know whether she left with him willingly or if he forced her.
Maxwell has offered a substantial reward for knowledge of Claire Ogilvie's whereabouts. Thus far, no one has come forward.
Maxwell slumped further in his chair. Although he reminded himself that Claire kept their appointment, he felt jilted. He refused to make scheduled appearances and had no plans to write another album.
Harry and Amelia Ogilvie kept in constant touch with him. They, too, were gravely concerned about their daughter's whereabouts. Maxwell accepted their apology for forcing Claire to return to Gerald. They claimed they didn't realize he was abusing her. Maxwell took their apology with a grain of salt.
"I did what I could for her," Oliver Weeks lamented when he arrived in NYC. "I wish I'd kept her in London, but she was eager to see you. I was sure that once you reconnected, everything would go as planned."
"I'm thankful, Ollie," Maxwell muttered, barely cracking a smile. "You're a true friend."
"Always willing to help, lad," Ollie stated, returning a downcast expression. "She was such a lovely little thing. Couldn't help but fall in love with the little miss."
"Please don't speak of Claire in the past tense, mate," Maxwell remarked flatly. "I want to believe she's alive and trying to return to reality."
Oliver lowered his head, realizing he misspoke. He could not believe in a world without Claire in it. He hoped with all his heart that she was located soon and safe from harm.
A year passed with no sight of Claire Ogilvie. Uncle Maynard tried to persuade Maxwell to appear in the Macy's Thanksgiving Parade, but the young star refused to accept. Instead, he returned to Graceville, Maryland, and shared the meal with his family. Only Mackenzie tried to bring cheer to the occasion.
Maxwell felt his heart would never mend. Ollie remained close to him, but he rarely saw anyone other than his family and Uncle Maynard. Everyone agreed that, in time, he would grow away from the tragedy. Although no one spoke their feelings out loud, they all believed Gerald had murdered his wife.
In the third year, Claire Ogilvie's case went cold. The police detective in charge explained that they closed their investigation since there was a lack of evidence.
"If new evidence appears, we will certainly reactivate it," Lt. MacDonald advised grimly. "You are free to continue using your private investigators for as long as necessary."
"Thank you," Harry Ogilvie stated tersely. His wife edged closer to his side, and he draped his arm across her shoulders. Maxwell remained mute, his heart breaking.
"If I get my hands on that Gerald Revelle, I'll break every bone in his body," Maxwell exclaimed to Oliver Weeks. They sat in Maxwell's living room, a bottle of whisky on the table before them.
"After I finish with him, lad," Ollie added, tightening his hands into fists. "After I get finished with him."
"I'll tell you what," Maxwell slurred, reaching for the whisky bottle, "you hold him down, and I'll pummel him."
"Deal." The two men shook hands.
Another year passed, and another. The Ogilvie's admitted defeat and spoke about having their daughter declared dead. Maxwell adamantly refused to accept their reality. As time passed, a strong bond grew between the superstar and his lover's family.
"Claire's alive," Maxwell exclaimed, clasping Amelia's hands and searching her eyes. "I can feel it in here." He thumped his chest at heart level.
"I want to believe she is alive too," Claire's mother sighed, tears clinging to her lashes. "Oh, Maxwell, so much time has passed. I want my daughter home, but I have to face reality."
Maxwell could not face that reality. Every part of his conscience believed Gerald had Claire hidden somewhere. Although he continued to hire several private detective firms, their searches always came up empty. He gnawed his lower lip anxiously and wanted to continue to believe. Maxwell had to continue to believe to keep himself from going insane. The search for Claire continued.
Night after night, Maxwell dreamed about Claire. She stood before him with her platinum hair streaming behind her. Stretching out her arms, she begged him to save her. Swinging his legs off his bed, Maxwell stood and ambled toward the door, calling her name. Oliver always rescued him before he could leave the apartment.
"I know she's out there, calling to me," Maxwell stated while Ollie tried to get him back to sleep. "I dream Claire is in a forest. The mist creeps up her legs as she wanders, aimlessly seeking an escape. She calls my name. It sounds hollow and echoes through the woods. If I can find the forest, I can find Claire."
"That's your overactive imagination talking to you, lad," Ollie suggested, yawning. "Let's get back to sleep."
"I see trees and a mountain, Ollie," Maxwell explained, sitting up in bed. His eyes grew wide and alert. "She's in the woods trying to escape. Claire runs and stumbles and falls to her knees. She stands, and her hair falls over her eyes. Furtively, she looked over her shoulder and ran over fallen leaves. It's real; I can see her."
"You should see a psychiatrist if this keeps up, mate," Oliver recommended, meditatively looking down on his friend.
Maxwell flopped onto the mattress and stared at the ceiling. Perhaps his friend was right. Maybe he did need professional help. Still, he wanted to believe he would find Claire. He wanted her back in his arms, safe and sound.
Out of the Woods
CLAIRE
The disheveled woman stumbled out of the woods and fell to her knees on the dirt road. Her matted brown hair surrounded her face, and she swiped it away. She did not know where she was. Kept captive in a rundown mountain shack for an indeterminate time, the woman felt disoriented. She rose to her knees and scanned the area. To the north, the road wound higher into the mountain. The way south led to lower ground.
Claire stood up and walked toward the south. She felt she would eventually encounter a town or a small village if she walked far enough. She had to get away.
Blood stained her faded calico dress, but she was not concerned about her appearance. Vaguely, she recalled a time when she felt conceited about her looks. Once upon a time, she kept a meticulous wardrobe. High fashion was essential to her.
Claire's affair with Maxwell felt like a dream. Long ago and far away, she gave her love freely, and Maxwell returned her passion. Following her abduction, she became Gerald's slave. He took from her all her desires and her fire to survive.
Bending down, Claire scratched her leg. Swollen from the leg iron her husband forced her to wear, the skin around her ankle was raw, and it bled. She knew better than to scratch but could not control herself. At times, it burned.
Claire stumbled down the mountain road. It remained deserted. Neither a car nor a pickup truck appeared. She hoped someone would pass soon and give her a ride. She had much explaining to do. Most of all, Claire wanted to go home.
Gerald kept her in the old shack high up in the mountains. Trees grew close to the shack. It appeared as though no one had lived there in years. It became cold inside in the winter, even with a fire blazing beneath the oak mantle. Gerald kept her scantily dressed but allowed her an old horse blanket to wrap herself in. She kept as close to the fire as she could. Still, her teeth chattered, and she couldn't get warm.
"Body heat will keep you from freezing, slut," Gerald claimed, lifting her and tossing her onto the bed. He landed on her, his body gyrating wildly. Most of the time, he didn't complete his attempt at intercourse. When Claire laughed at him, he pummeled her with his fists.
"Leave me alone," Claire cried, squirming away from him. In the tiny shack, she knew avoiding him was impossible. Still, she attempted to free herself.
When Gerald went away to buy groceries, he chained her to the bed. Claire tried to free herself but couldn't. Exhausted, she slumped against the iron bed frame and cried. Thoughts of Maxwell kept her alive, kept her trying to escape.
Night fell, and Claire felt lost. A mist arose, causing her to shiver. She crawled to the edge of the woods and hunkered down. Tears flooded her eyes, and she cried for Maxwell. Peeking through slit pupils, she thought she saw him walking toward her with open arms. Scrambling through fallen leaves, Claire moved toward her lover and fell into his embrace. When she kissed him, her mouth filled with dirt. She spit it out and curled into a ball. Dream—it was only a dream.
The opportunity to escape came the previous day. Gerald sat on the rickety porch with a bottle of rotgut between his knees. As the day wore on, he became increasingly drunk. Claire hunkered inside the door, watching him. When he slumped on the step, she knew he slept. Cautiously, she rose and, carrying the fireplace poker for protection, crept past him.
Gerald's hand encircled Claire's ankle as she stepped into the gravel dooryard. She froze. Her husband yanked her foot out from under her, sending her sprawling into the dirt. His hollow laughter echoed off the mountain.
Rising, Claire steadied herself momentarily and turned to face Gerald. When he stumbled toward her, she forcefully swung the poker. It connected with his temple, and he staggered. She swung again and knocked him to his knees. As though possessed, Claire continued to beat Gerald. When he stopped moving, she prodded him with her toe. Then she squatted and took his wrist in her hand. Relieved, she sat back on her heels, tears flowing down her sweat-stained cheeks.
Claire continued down the mountain in the crisp dawn. It felt as though she walked for miles before the woods opened into a clearing. A general store stood alone in the clearing. An antique Ford truck stood at its lone gas pump. She staggered past it and pushed open the door. For a moment, she leaned in the frame. Then she collapsed onto her knees.
"I killed him," she cried, burying her face in her hands. "I really killed him."
"Who? Who did you kill?" the store's proprietress asked, squatting beside the disheveled girl and enfolding her in her arms.
"My…my husband," she muttered, grasping the front of the woman's dress. "He…" Claire gasped for breath. "He kept me captive in a shack…up there." She pointed skyward, meaning the mountain. "Gerald…"
"Gerald Revelle?" the proprietress gasped. Claire nodded against her shoulder. "You're Claire Ogilvie? You're the missing niece of the record producer, Maynard Oglivie—the one Maxwell is searching for?"
"Yes…yes…" Claire whimpered, her voice barely audible.
MAXWELL
When Claire awoke in the hospital, Maxwell stood up from his chair. He hadn't had a wink of sleep since Ollie gave him the good news. Accompanied by his close friend, he flew directly to West Virginia and remained vigilant at her bedside until she woke up.
"Maxwell," Claire muttered, smiling wanly.
"Claire." Maxwell took her hands and brought them to his lips.
"Gerald," she whispered. Her parched mouth felt creaky as she formed her husband's name. "I…I think I killed him."
"He is dead," Maxwell stated grimly. "You made a helluva good job of it. Much better than Ollie and I planned to do ourselves."
"Oh." Claire collapsed against her pillow. She stared blankly ahead of her.
"We won't speak of it, dearest," he muttered, smoothing her brow, "until you heal. Don't trouble yourself about it." Leaning forward, he kissed her gently.
Oliver Weeks stood in the doorway, nervously knitting his hat in his hands. He didn't want to interrupt the young lovers' reunion, but he anxiously wished to see Claire. Clearing his throat, he announced his presence.
Claire turned to Ollie and beckoned him in with a huge smile. He remained stiff as he approached her, his back a ramrod. Claire took his hand, and he finally relaxed.
"The three musketeers—together again," the convalescent stated, taking the hands of her two companions. Oliver chuckled and kissed her cheek.
"It looks like you stuck with us, Claire darling," Ollie stated, his voice choking with tears.
"I wouldn't want anything else." Claire grinned.
Maxwell laughed for the first time in years. It came out deep and hearty. Tears glistened in his eyes as he looked down upon Claire. For a long time, he believed he would never see her again. He waited for his miracle, and she reappeared as though sent by an angel.
When he gazed upon her, Maxwell didn't see her straggly brown hair or the ghostly paleness of her skin. He saw her as she appeared in the doorway of Ollie's café many years ago. In his eyes, she was beauty personified. He knew he loved her.
In Front of Macy’s: The Do-Over
CLAIRE
The road to recovery stretched out in front of Claire Ogilvie. Without the support of Maxwell and Oliver Weeks, she would have floundered and eventually given up. Her best friends remained at her side throughout the long haul. She appreciated their efforts.
Uncle Maynard promised to hold open her position at the recording studio. He owed Claire a lot considering the ongoing popularity of his new star. On many occasions, he reminded her of her part in Maxwell’s success. She managed a small smile and assured him of her desire to return to his employment.
The festering wound on Claire’s ankle became a permanent scar. Huge and ugly, it stood out like a sore thumb. When she showed it to Maxwell, he kissed it tenderly.
“No one is going to stare at your ankle,” the superstar stated, gazing into her eyes lovingly. “Not with a beautiful face like yours.”
“You’re buttering me up, Maxwell,” Claire answered, leaning back against her pillow. “I’m not as pretty as I once was.”
Claire avoided mirrors. Her once smooth complexion and cheery expression disappeared following her captivity. Gerald wiped away her happy-go-lucky attitude and replaced it with a gloomy outlook. After much persuasion, she agreed to attend therapy sessions. Her psychiatrist listened avidly to her story and prescribed medication. Nevertheless, she didn’t feel is was helpful.
“Give it some time, Claire.” Maxwell grasped her hands and looked at her pleadingly. “It’s still too close in your mind. Memories fade.”
“Not this one,” Claire responded, glumly. “You can’t know what I faced. Memories of abuse won’t disappear overnight or even years from now. I will always remember Gerald’s horrible leering face and the way he misused me.”
“He’ll never misuse you again, sweetest,” Maxwell proclaimed hotly. “I’m going to make your life sunshine and roses from now on. I promise.” Instead of answering, Claire nodded against his chest when he embraced her.
Claire was determined to support Maxwell as much as he supported her. After much thought, she realized he suffered as much as she did. Oliver told her in confidence about his friend’s decline during what he called ‘the missing years.’ Although he didn’t suffer physically as she had, the mental and emotional scars ran deep. She encouraged him to start writing music again.
Maxwell and Claire returned to London where he cut a new album—his first in several years. She accompanied him on a world tour with stops in Japan, Australia, the US and Europe. His new songs rose quickly on the worldwide charts. Screaming fans met them at the airports and local paparazzi followed them as they sped through capital cities.
At the completion of the tour, the young couple felt satisfied with their lives. Caught up in the whirlwind, they put their troubles aside and lived for the moment.
“I love you,” Claire declared, kissing the tip of Maxwell’s nose. She rubbed her hand in circles on his chest. Their lovemaking delighted her.
Following her experience with Gerald, she cringed at human touches and interactions. It took her a long time to accept Maxwell’s attempts at intercourse. Finally, in a wave of love, Claire gave herself to him fully. At that point, she felt she had taken a long step toward recovery.
“I love you too,” Maxwell proclaimed, drawing her close to his side. His patience and tenderness finally paid off.
Wistfully, Maxwell rubbed a long platinum strand between his thumb and forefinger. He loved the softness of Claire’s hair and the delicate color. It reminded him of the first time they met. Closing his eyes, he saw her once again framed in the door of Oliver Weeks’ café. Had he loved her at that moment? He thought he did; he felt sure he did.
During the middle of November, the song Meet Me at Macy’s reappeared on the Hot 100. Over the years, it became a holiday standard, receiving the most airplay between Halloween and the New Year of any other newly popular song. Instead of refusing Macy’s annual plea for Maxwell’s appearance, on this occasion, he agreed to perform.
“Meet me at Macy’s,” Maxwell begged Claire.
Claire’s face turned pallid, and she shook her head mournfully. Over the years, she had grown away from her tragedy. However, she had not grown far enough to stand in front of Macy’s again. Maxwell continued to persuade her, and she continued to refuse adamantly.
“Face your demons,” Ollie urged when Claire told him her misgivings. “You won’t heal completely until you are able to return to Macy’s.”
“I can’t, Ollie. I’m sorry, I can’t.” Claire covered her face with her hands. Her body trembled.
“I will escort you personally if it makes you feel better,” Oliver offered, placing his arm across her shoulder and hugging her to his side. “No one will harm you.”
Oliver had to get Claire to Macy’s. He knew a secret and promised Maxwell he would take her to a certain spot on Thanksgiving Day.
“C’mon, Claire,” Ollie pleaded, “for Maxwell?”
Claire finally consented.
Thanksgiving morning dawned clear and pleasant. Temperatures remained mild throughout the morning. Claire Ogilvie stood close to Oliver Weeks and entwined her hand in his palm. He pressed it warmly, keeping her close to his side. She shivered, not from cold but from memory.
One by one, the floats and balloons streamed past. Claire barely watched the Broadway performances. They didn’t interest her. Behind her heaving bosom, her heart beat wildly. Several times, she tried to escape but Oliver held her tightly. He soothed her as best as he could.
Finally, Maxwell appeared in the turkey float. The words to Meet Me at Macy’s tore at Claire’s heart. Tears sprang to her eyes, and she buried her face in Oliver’s warm chest. He hugged her closely.
A hand fell on her back and Claire nearly leaped out of her skin. Oliver pushed her gently away, but she clung to him furiously. When her companion spoke soothingly into her ear, she lifted her head and met Maxwell’s pleading eyes.
Tenderly, Maxwell took Claire by the hand and led her into the street. She hung back a moment, but, when he grinned, she realized she was safe. Softly, he crooned his hit song as he held his true love in his arms. Claire smiled weakly, tears glistening on her eyelashes. Around the, the crowd sent up a wild cheer. Oliver grinned proudly from the sidelines.
Unexpectedly, Maxwell knelt before Claire. The Macy’s mob hushed, a stunning silence suddenly surrounding them. He took her trembling hand and slipped a diamond ring on the third finger of her right hand.
“Marry me?” he asked. The microphone he wore hidden in his shirt picked his question up. Around the couple, the crowd went wild with excitement.
“Yes,” Claire sobbed, hearing her response echoing along the street. “Oh, yes.” She collapsed into Maxwell’s arms. Over the loudspeakers, Meet Me at Macy’s began to play once more.
Meet Me at Macy's(Lea Sheryn)
London, 1982
MAXWELL
Maxwell slung his guitar over his hunched back. Lowering his head, he trudged through Hyde Park. Darkness enshrouded his lone figure, and heavy snow-laden clouds hung low in the sky. A few flakes drifted around him, lighting his dark, shaggy hair and covering the shoulders of his worn parka.
He felt like a failure. Success seemed imminent to Maxwell back in Graceville, Maryland. He'd played in several local bars and clubs. A few high school girls had started a fan club in his honor that grew to a couple thousand quickly. Before long, he found himself in Philadelphia.
"You're good," Mr. Bigg stated, chewing the end of his cigar and spitting it toward the wastebasket. "But you're raw. You need experience and a gimmick."
Maxwell stood before Mr. Bigg's desk, his eyes full of expectation. For as long as he could remember, he saw himself in the limelight. Music flowed through his veins, and his fingers made magic happen with his guitar. The Philadelphia promoter, Claude Bigg, knew his stuff, but his fingers didn't stretch much further than Philly.
Maxwell played gigs in small bars and clubs in Maryland, Philadelphia, and New Jersey. He drew a large crowd, but not large enough. He wanted more. Nothing would satisfy him better than a recording contract with a big label and international acclaim.
"Go to London, my boy," Claude encouraged his protégée. "You gotta think big. Everyone's getting their start in London these days. Don't let an opportunity pass you by."
Full of anticipation, Maxwell emptied his bank account and took the first available flight to London. It was the spring of 1981. He dropped his demo off with all the agents and promoters he could locate with high hopes. And he never heard back from any of them. His savings dwindled to nothing. He could neither stay in London nor go back to Graceville.
Maxwell owned his guitar and a small pack of clothing. Both weighed him down heavily as he trudged through the park. He had neither a place to go nor food to eat. For several hours, he attempted to play in the park. A few people passed him, but it was too cold to stop.
Life as a street musician had its ups and downs. Sometimes, Maxwell did well, earning a few pounds for fish and chips or a beef burger. But, as winter gripped the city, the downs became more frequent than the ups. People weren't interested in street performers when the temperatures dropped. They didn't stop to listen or show their pleasure by tossing coins at him.
Maxwell slept in the subway with other homeless people. He kept his guitar and clothes bag nearby because he might wake up without them. A tug at either alerted him from his fitful slumbers. He would put up a fight to save his few meager belongings.
He cursed Mr. Bigg for sending him on a fool's errand. Eager and innocent, Maxwell never considered the consequences of his quick decision. If he had thought about it, he would have recognized the folly of flying off to London. No one knew his name; no one cared.
Back in Graceville, everyone knew Maxwell Stoddard. His father owned the hardware store; his mother was on the PTA. Maxwell attended school, went to the prom with Gabby Mitchell, the head cheerleader, and played at local bars and clubs. Fame in his hometown did not mean popularity in big cities like London.
Maxwell felt trapped. He had no friends, hadn't had a decent conversation with another human being in months, and his days as a street musician embarrassed him. The limelight wasn't shining in his direction.
Scrubbing his scruffy face with his palms, Maxwell felt ashamed of himself. He had not had a shower in weeks. He washed his face and hands in the McDonald's bathroom in the morning. The Egg McMuffin odors wafting through the fast food restaurant enticed him, but he couldn't indulge. He could barely scrape together enough money for one meal a day.
Unfriendly faces glared at him in the subway when he entered. Trudging toward a small corner, Maxwell plopped down his knapsack and, lying down rested his head on it. He wanted to sleep and wake up in his bedroom at home. It was a nightmare, he continued to tell himself—he'd fallen into a deep, exhausted sleep and dreamed he was homeless. At any moment, he would wake up and laugh at himself.
The following morning found him in the subway. The human bodies surrounding him created a certain amount of warmth, but Maxwell couldn't handle the odors that came along with the warmth. Much to his chagrin, he realized some of those smells came from him.
"I am one of the unwashed," he told himself grimly. He hated the thought.
Maxwell gathered his meager belongings quickly and scuttled out of the underground. He never spent longer than necessary amongst the homeless. He did not want to count himself as one of them.
The Stoddard's were a descent family. Maxwell grew up in a modest house in Graceville, Maryland. His mother and father kept their marriage together and provided a happy home. Although he and his sister, Mackenzie, had an occasional spat, they still loved each other. Other than ambition, there was no reason for him to leave home.
Ambition—the desire for fame and fortune. Following his local success, Maxwell had much ambition. It was enough to drive him overseas to seek his place in the limelight. How quickly he hit the proverbial wall.
The cold London streets greeted him when he exited the subway. Traffic stood still as inbound employees wove their way to their city offices. Dirty snow piled up along the curbs, the cars' exhaust melting it quickly. Maxwell dodged between the traffic lines, heedless of the cacophony of blowing horns. He had no place to go.
Freezing temperatures drove him into a nearby café. Small and dingy, a long counter stretched along one side with red vinyl-covered stools facing it. Maxwell slid onto one at the far end and frowned at the owner.
"Cup of Joe, Ollie," he ordered dismally.
"Are you planning on paying your tab soon?" the elderly proprietor asked, lifting the coffee pot. He slammed a white mug on the counter and poured the black liquid.
"Yeah, Ollie, soon," Maxwell lied, wrapping his hands around the hot mug.
"When? Today? Tomorrow or next week?" Oliver Weeks snapped, leaning menacingly over the counter.
"Soon, Ollie," the young man assured, a small smile poking at the corner of his lips.
Silence fell heavily in the small café. Maxwell sipped his coffee while Ollie wiped the washed dishes with an old rag. Faded green and white tiles lined the floor. Three sagging booths sat against the opposite wall. The counter gleamed cleanly, but it had seen better days.
Oliver Weeks dreamed of retirement but hung on to his weary establishment. He and his wife often spoke of a villa in Spain overlooking the Mediterranean. Their dreams failed when Cynthia developed leukemia and succumbed to the disease quickly. Ollie trudged through his days as though in a fog. Day after day, he opened his café out of habit. His heart was no longer in it. Often, days would pass without a single customer—until Maxwell showed up.
Ollie had to admit he looked forward to seeing the young American boy in the morning. He spotted him a cup of coffee and hoped for repayment someday. Nevertheless, he did not allow his hopes to soar too high. Although he acted tough about the tab, his heart went out to young Maxwell.
When the bell above the door chimed, the proprietor and his lone customer looked up. A young woman entered and glanced around tentatively. A chagrined expression crossed her face, and she reached behind her for the door knob. For a moment, it looked like she would flee back into the London streets.
"Good day, Miss," Ollie sang out cheerily. "Coffee's strong and hot. Could I interest you in eggs and bangers?"
The newcomer continued to hesitate at the entrance. A startled look etched itself across her face. Suddenly, Maxwell found himself smiling at her welcomingly. He slid from his stool and approached her, his hand held out. Taking her by the elbow, he led her to a stool next to the one he vacated.
"Despite appearances, the food is delicious here," he stated, smiling. "And you'll have to admit, it's warmer than out there."
The young woman hesitated a moment longer, then sat down. Pushing back her parka's hood, she shook out her short blonde bob and lifted a menu. Oliver placed a coffee mug in front of her, and she added milk and sugar.
"I'd have the eggs and bangers with grilled tomatoes and fried bread," Maxwell suggested, his mouth-watering. He thought longingly of hot food that he could not afford.
"Oh, you're an American too," she stated, her blue eyes softening. "I'm Claire Ogilvie."
"Maxwell Stoddard," Maxwell responded, holding out his hand.
"Nice to meet you, Maxwell Stoddard," Claire answered, encasing his palm with her own. "I'm from NYC. How about you?"
"Graceville, Maryland."
"You a musician?" she asked, eyeing his guitar propped against the bar.
"Pretending I'm one," he answered, casting his eyes down.
Suddenly, Maxwell wished the young woman hadn't sat close beside him. His unkempt appearance embarrassed him. His clothes were shabby, and he smelled his body odor strongly.
Beneath her parka, Claire wore a white argyle sweater and a burgundy wool skirt. Warm winter boots clad her feet. The entire ensemble looked expensive. Maxwell shifted his body uncomfortably.
When Ollie placed two heaping breakfast plates in front of them, Maxwell strongly protested. He could not afford the food and could not expect Oliver to put it on his tab. Pushing the plate away, he stood hastily.
"Do join me," Claire pleaded, touching his arm gently. "I hate to eat alone."
Maxwell continued to hesitate until Ollie nodded silently and grinned. He regained his stool and ate ravenously. Following a few forkfuls, he forced himself to slow down. He could not let Claire believe he hadn't eaten a proper meal in ages.
"Now, I want to hear you play," Claire demanded, lifting the guitar and pushing it toward Maxwell.
He momentarily hesitated until Claire smiled encouragingly. Softly, he began to play and sing a love song from his composition. His voice rang out melodiously, and he gained confidence as he continued.
"Marvelous!" Claire exclaimed, enchanted. She recognized natural talent when she heard it. Digging in her handbag, she pulled out a business card. "Tomorrow morning, eight o'clock."
Hastily, the young woman grabbed her handbag and marched importantly toward the door. Outside, a long black car pulled up to the curb. Claire thrust the door open and rushed out to it. Maxwell stared after her in awe.
Maxwell continued to focus on the door for a long time. Finally, Ollie cleared his throat and plucked the business card from his customer's fingers. He whistled between his teeth as he gazed at it.
"Your lucky day, my friend," the café proprietor stated, flicking the card onto the counter.
Maxwell lifted the card and looked at it laconically. Suddenly, the name registered, and he hooted loudly.
"Ogilvie Records," he exclaimed, his eyes widening. "Claire Ogilvie. Who is she? Ogilvie's daughter, maybe?"
"Looks like she scouted you, young man," Oliver Weeks stated, glancing at the card again. "Amazing!"
"Yeah," Maxwell dragged the word out. He still could not believe his sudden luck.
"You better get yourself cleaned up before eight o'clock tomorrow morning," his friend commented. He returned to wiping the dishes.
Maxwell slumped in his seat and held his head in his hands. His appearance was a mess, and he lacked decent clothing. His dreams faded. Lifting his guitar, he moved toward the door, a deep depression settling on him.
"Where do you think you're going, lad?" Oliver called after him.
"Nowhere," Maxwell muttered, pushing on the door.
"Nowhere, huh?" Ollie slammed a white mug onto the counter, breaking the handle off. "You get back here. We have work to do."
Maxwell turned back to Oliver, a surprised look etching his worn face.
"We must get you cleaned up, filled up, and practiced up." The café owner strutted around the counter and grabbed Maxwell's arm. "Meet your new manager." Oliver stretched out his hand. When his new protégée stared at it, he shook his empty palm up and down.
Maxwell felt dumbfounded momentarily, then he reached out and clasped Ollie's hand. He shook it meaningfully and grinned. A light shone brightly in his somnolent eyes, and suddenly he came alive. Enthusiasm filled him for the first time since he arrived in London.
London 1982
CLAIRE
Claire sat in the backseat of her uncle's silver Rolls-Royce, feeling satisfied with herself. Officially, she did not have an actual position with Uncle Maynard's record label. Since she arrived in London a little more than a month ago, she set herself up as a talent scout. She was young, just barely twenty-two, and she knew the kind of music teenagers liked.
Sure, Uncle Maynard did, too. After all, he'd started in the music field back in 1962 and had risen to become one of the best labels in London. Throughout the years, he signed many of the greatest-known bands and musicians. However, as a young woman, Claire believed she had the edge. She knew how to spot talent and congratulated herself on discovering Maxwell in the rundown café.
She only stepped inside because she was cold. James, Uncle Maynard's driver, was late—as usual. The shopping spree Claire intended that morning ended in failure. Nothing in the shops appealed to her. Maybe because she wasn't into it, her mind was far away on other things.
Claire stood on the sidewalk for a long time, waiting for James. Heavy traffic clogged the thoroughfare, and horns blared continually. She wrapped her arms around herself and shivered. Her mind urged James to hurry, but the Rolls still did not appear. Her thick winter coat did little against the biting cold. Desperate to get inside, she stepped through the door behind her and into Oliver Weeks' café.
Hesitating in the doorway, Claire surveyed the rundown bar and the shabby booths. The faded tiles looked clean, but they peeled on the corners. She pushed at the door to the exit and caught sight of the guitar propped against the counter. Her eyes shifted to the youth sitting on the stool. Although he appeared tired and unkempt, she noticed his good looks and a sultry glimmer in his grey eyes. If he possessed talent along with sex appeal, she considered herself in luck.
Maxwell proved his talent when Claire asked him to play. He possessed a smooth, sensual voice, and the glimmer in his eyes turned to a sparkle. If Uncle Maynard approved her choice, perhaps she could gain an official capacity at the record label.
Claire longed to prove herself and do something with her life. Until she left NYC for London, her life wasn't worth living. She couldn't complain about her childhood. All the advantages came her way. Through middle school, she attended the same Catholic girls school her mother and grandmother graduated from.
Her family wasn't religious, but they did believe in tradition. However, when Claire reached high school age, she protested loudly. She hated the plaid jumpers and white Peter Pan blouses she wore. Her bobby socks and black patent Mary Jane shoes made her look stupid. She begged her mother to attend the local high school, and surprisingly, her mother promptly agreed.
On the first day of public school, Claire donned a pair of brown corduroy Levis with large, yellow-faced white daisies on the back pockets. She untucked her burgundy and mustard plaid blouse when she noticed other girls wearing theirs that way. When she passed a group of boys on the sidewalk, she wiggled her derriere at them provocatively. They wolf-whistled and high-fived each other.
"Don't pay attention to the juveniles," a girl remarked, falling into step with Claire. "You're new around here. I'm Ginny Revelle. You got your class schedule?"
"I have to pick it up at the principal's office," Claire stated, rushing her steps. Beside her, Ginny quickened her pace also.
"I'll show you the way."
As they trotted along the sidewalk, a yellow Plymouth Duster slowed and matched their pace.
"Yo, Ginny," a young man hollered. The car halted, and scooting across the bench seat, he flung open the passenger door. "Who's you're friend?"
"New girl," Ginny sang, grinning. "Name's… what's your name?"
"Claire Ogilvie," Claire answered promptly.
"Claire Ogilvie, this is my brother, Gerald," her new friend introduced. "Gerald Revelle," she added unnecessarily.
Gerald, Claire reflected, sinking against the Rolls' leather backseat. They became a couple—too quickly. How naïve she was during her first days in public school. Eager to fit in, she accepted Gerald's invitation to the fall dance and bought a hot pink sheath dress. When her father noticed her new togs, he complained that he thought she had her slip on.
"It's too short," Clarence Ogilvie stated, "Take it off and put something decent on."
"But it's the fashion, dad," Claire exclaimed, rolling her eyes. At that moment, the doorbell rang. She grabbed her clutch and ran for the door.
Gerald's eyes bulged when he saw her dress. She pressed herself against him during the first slow dance and felt his hands grope under her short skirt. When a chaperone tapped Gerald on the shoulder and shook her head, 'No,' the young couple sneaked out of the gymnasium. Claire lost her virginity in the Duster's backseat and felt proud of it.
The following Monday, Gerald passed Claire a note that said, 'Sex education?' She wrote back one word: 'YES!' They skipped class and slipped into an unused closet on the third floor. By the time they reached their senior year, they were meeting in a nearby Howard Johnson motel room.
"Marry me," Gerald proposed as they neared their graduation day. "We're signing the registration as Mr. and Mrs. Revelle. Let's make it official."
Claire agreed promptly. Her parents thought she was too young, but she insisted she loved Gerald. When they realized she was serious, they insisted on a big wedding. The invitation list swelled to over five hundred guests, and Claire felt glad of her good fortune. Her life lay perfectly in front of her…or so she thought.
Following their honeymoon, Gerald changed immediately. He became insatiable and demanding. What he wanted stretched beyond her Catholic upbringing. Although she didn't mind having premarital sex, she objected to kinky sex.
The first time Gerald socked her in the stomach for refusing his request, she shrugged it off. He made a mistake, she told herself. He wouldn't do it again. Nevertheless, the abuse became a part of their lovemaking, and the multiple bruises her husband inflicted upon her hurt. Stoically, she endured and lived in denial until Gerald brought Bubbles home.
Bubbles! The name flared into her mind, and Claire grimaced. Gerald appeared with the scantily dressed prostitute after work on a Friday night. She couldn't believe her eyes when he ushered her into their apartment.
Rushing the two women into the bedroom, Gerald pulled out the desk chair and, facing it toward the bed, straddled it. Claire's face flushed crimson when he explained his newest fantasy. She flatly refused, and he backhanded her.
"Are we getting it on or what?" Bubbles asked in a thick Brooklyn accent. "Time is money, sugar pie." Chewing vigorously on a wad of gum, she snapped a bubble and tapped her stilettos' toe on the hardwood floor.
"Get out of my house," Claire hissed menacingly. She picked up a heavy book and threw it at the whore, connecting with her forehead.
Bubbles didn't hesitate. She scurried out of the bedroom, and the front door slammed behind her. Then Gerald's fist slammed into Claire's face—for the last time.
Claire waited until Gerald fell into a drunken slumber. She threw her belongings into one suitcase and left. Taking a taxi to JFK, Claire grabbed the first plane to Heathrow. Uncle Maynard picked her up following a frantic phone call, and she moved into his London flat.
Although her uncle welcomed her, Claire began to feel like a third wheel. Maynard lived with his long-term partner, Vince Harvey. She wasn't uncomfortable with the situation but wanted to stand on her own two feet.
Claire immediately began to change her image. A shorter haircut and platinum color made her feel like a new person. Using an expense account Uncle Maynard set up she bought a new wardrobe and expensive cosmetics. Night after night, she danced in the clubs and flirted freely. Nevertheless, her new life lacked substance. She wanted more.
If Claire could prove to Uncle Maynard that she knew talent, perhaps he would give her a position at the record label. She began scouring the clubs for new faces and fresh sounds. Nothing appealed to her. Almost giving up, she finally stumbled into the café and noticed Maxwell Stoddard.
James drove her to Ogilvie Records, and Claire burst into Uncle Maynard's office unannounced. Describing Maxwell in detail, she begged her relative to consider him. Her overindulgent uncle agreed but told her not to get her hopes up. Musicians were a dime a dozen in London and mostly without talent or personality. Claire assured him that Maxwell was different.
Whirlwind
MAXWELL
Maxwell Stoddard and Oliver Weeks arrived at Ogilvie Records shortly before eight o'clock the following morning. They were still waiting in Maynard Ogilvie's outer office two and a half hours later. Ollie grew impatient rapidly while Maxwell sank further into a depression. He felt sure Claire had sent them on a fool's errand. Before the morning ended, he knew he would find himself back on the streets and sleeping in that nasty subway.
"Never fear, lad," Ollie stated, patting his leg encouragingly. "I'll set them straight. They won't leave you waiting for much longer."
Standing, Oliver approached the formidable secretary. The plump older woman glared up at him from the document she scanned. Her sharp eyes seemed to penetrate through the café owner, and her mouth pursed into a small oval.
"Look, Mrs., my boy has waited long enough," Ollie stated, placing his palms flat on the desk. He leaned over his taunt arms menacingly and set his face close to the secretary's. "Your people told us to appear here at eight o'clock sharp, and we came early. Are we in, or are we out?"
"You'll find yourself out soon enough with that attitude," the office assistant remarked coolly. "When I want you, I'll rattle your chain."
"I demand…" Oliver began, nonplussed.
"Perhaps we should go," Maxwell interrupted, rising and slinging his guitar strap over his shoulder. "We should have known better, Ollie. It was too easy."
"Perhaps you're right, my boy," his new manager conceded reluctantly. He stepped toward Maxwell but suddenly swiveled to reface the secretary. "If I could find a way to sue this place, I would. I'd take you for all your worth."
"Ollie!" Maxwell yelled abruptly. "C'mon. Let's go." He headed toward the door, Oliver following close on his heels.
As they reached the door, Claire Ogilvie emerged from the inner office. Framed in the doorway, she watched Maxwell's retreating back. She stridently convinced Uncle Maynard about her new find for the past two and a half hours. Finally, she had to resort to pleading and crying. The owner of Ogilvie Records grudgingly relented.
"All right," Maynard sighed heavily. "Let's hear what you got."
Claire's tears rapidly disappeared, and she raced toward the door. Grinning widely, she expected to find Maxwell waiting in the outer office. However, she appeared in time to see his retreat. Hurriedly, she raced after him and grabbed his arm.
"Uncle Maynard is ready to see you now," she briskly exclaimed, pulling him with her. She pushed him into her relative's inner sanctum and slammed the door in Oliver's face. "May I present Maxwell Stoddard?" Backing against the wall, she motioned for her protegee to begin playing.
"Stoddard," Maynard Ogilvie chortled heartily. "That will have to go for a start."
"What's wrong with Stoddard?" Maxwell complained, hesitating over his guitar strings.
"No pizzazz," the record exec stated flatly. Before Maxwell could complain, he waved the boy toward the front of his desk. "Play."
Maxwell hesitated momentarily, and then he unslung his guitar. After tightening the strings, he strummed and crooned the ballad he had played for Claire the previous day. Standing behind her Uncle's desk, she smiled softly and nodded to his rhythm. When he finished, he looked expectantly toward her Uncle.
"Not bad," Uncle Maynard conceded. "Try something with more of a beat and swivel your hips while you sing."
Maxwell complied instantly. Beating out a lively tune, he sashayed around the desk, swiveling his hips. The record exec rose and held out his hand. Maxwell shook it heartily.
"You need a name," Uncle Maynard stated, retaking his large leather seat.
"I have a name," Maxwell countered swiftly.
"No, you haven't," Claire's Uncle remarked solidly. "Pizzazz, boy, think pizzazz. Stoddard is dull and doesn't ring in the ears. You need something innovative—something recognizable."
"Max!" Claire stated suddenly, drawing the attention of both her Uncle and her new discovery.
"Max!" Uncle Maynard echoed, inclining his chair and staring at the ceiling. "Exactly! A one-named star—like Cher or Madonna. You've got something there, my girl."
"Not Max," the young man interrupted sharply. No one called him 'Max'. If they did, he put a stop to it immediately. He did not like the name.
"You want Maxwell?" Uncle Maynard asked, sitting up straight. "You got it, boy. Maxwell—I'll get the promotion team on it straight away."
The whirlwind began that afternoon. Leaving him no chance to breathe, Maxwell found himself surrounded by lawyers, a promotion team, and a recording crew. They hustled him from office to office in a mad rush. Exhausted, he returned to Oliver Week's café and took his usual stool.
"What happened to you?" he asked when the proprietor placed a coffee mug before him.
"They didn't want me," Ollie responded dully. "That much was apparent. What happened to you?"
"I got a recording contract." Maxwell stretched out his arms and cracked his knuckles confidently.
"Just like that?"
"Just like that."
"In that case, I'll write up your tab," Oliver Weeks exclaimed, drawing a pad and pencil toward him.
"I'll pay it gladly when I'm rich and famous," Maxwell agreed, grinning from ear to ear.
"Deal!" Ollie stretched out his hand.
"Deal!" Maxwell grasped it. "Can I stay here tonight?"
"Certainly."
Following the evening meal, Oliver appeared with a Scotch bottle he'd saved for a special occasion. He poured and made a toast to Maxwell's success. Maxwell made a toast to Ollie's friendship. They continued to salute each other until the bottle ran dry.
"Ooooh, my head," Maxwell complained when he awoke. He appeared in the café with his eyes half-closed and his hair disheveled. A long silver car pulled up at the door as he raised his coffee mug.
Claire stood in the entranceway with her hands on her hips. She could not believe her eyes when she spied Maxwell leaning against the counter. Storming inside, she grabbed his arm and pulled him with her.
"Hang on there, Missy," Oliver Weeks called out, rushing around the counter. "Where do you think you're going in a hurry?"
"Wardrobe," Claire curtly remarked. "From the looks of things, this one requires an entire makeover. What were you two up to last night?"
"Celebrating," Maxwell slurred, leaning precariously toward his left.
"Figures," Claire muttered disdainfully. "Come along; we have a lot of work to do. Wardrobe this morning, recording this afternoon. Uncle Maynard is fast-tracking you, Maxwell."
"Fast-tracking?"
"You're in the whirlwind now, whether you like it or not."
Claire pulled Maxwell outside into the cold, biting winter wind. His bare feet hit the sidewalk, chasing away his hangover immediately. Ordering James to drive, his new benefactor pushed him into the backseat and plunked down beside him. As they pulled away from the café, Maxwell looked down at himself. He discovered he was wearing Oliver's pajamas.
"I can't go out looking like this!" he exclaimed, flushing with embarrassment.
"Unfortunately, you are already out," Claire remarked sharply. "Wherever did you find such ugly jammies? Fluorescent green and pink paisley? I thought you had taste."
"They belong to Ollie," Maxwell muttered.
"Can't wait to see what Stanley's look like."
Maxwell stared at his companion questionably. Momentarily, he did not understand who Stanley was. Then, it suddenly occurred to him. Claire referenced the old comedic team of Laurel and Hardy. He laughed for the first time in ages.
It felt good to let himself go with jollity. He was homeless for too long to find much mirth in life. Day after day, he trudged the streets looking for handouts. Lost and alone, he had no one to share his thoughts or provide friendship. Although he treasured Oliver's acquaintance, he lacked a companion his own age. Claire smiled at him understandingly and grasped his hand.
The whirlwind began the moment they entered the Record Label Office. Maxwell underwent a complete makeover. He didn't recognize himself when he finally looked in the mirror. His shaggy, unkempt hair transformed into a dark brown mop with frosted tips. A long swoop fell across his forehead provocatively.
A makeup artist worked on his face, smoothing his complexion and creating a pout on his full lips. Dark eyeliner accentuated his eyes, and his brows trimmed neatly. He wore tight leather trousers that hugged his male form. At first, Maxwell felt uncomfortable about the bulge. Then Claire appeared in the dressing room, her eyes assessing him coolly. She nodded her approval, and he grinned his new sexy smile.
"You look as good as you sound," Claire stated, handing him a black leather jacket.
When he donned it, she encircled his waist with her arms and pressed her body against his. He reacted to her nearness immediately. Instead of shrinking away, she moved in closer.
"All right, all right, break it up," Uncle Maynard announced, entering behind his niece.
Maxwell and Claire stepped away from each other immediately. The record exec clapped his arm around his new star's shoulders and drew him away. Claire pouted, then noticed a black fedora sitting on a wardrobe shelf. Grabbing it quickly, she trotted behind Maxwell and her Uncle.
"Here," she stated, extending the hat toward Maxwell. "Put this on."
Maxwell took the hat and studied it. When he placed it on his head, Claire reached up and turned it at a jaunty angle. She stepped back and grinned.
"Turn your head, narrow your eyes, and pout," Claire commanded, surveying the effect. "Perfect!"
"Perfect!" Uncle Maynard echoed, suddenly feeling aroused. He congratulated himself for knowing a good thing when he saw one. "You're on your way, my boy."
Falling in Love
CLAIRE
Claire Ogilvie couldn't get Maxwell's new image out of her mind. At three o'clock in the morning, she was still awake. Behind her mind's eye, she saw him in his tight leather pants with a thick bulge in front. His cockeyed smile and the tilt of his fedora made her pulsing blood run hot. She rolled over, pulling the duvet with her. Finally, she threw it aside and lay across the sheets. Sweat pasted her silk negligee to her stealthy body.
"I can't fall in love," Claire moaned, sitting upright. "I'm married!" She flopped onto the mattress and, pulling her knees up, hugged them tightly.
Dammit, Claire muttered in frustration. Gerald replaced Maxwell in her thoughts. She chided herself for being young and stupid. Her mother and father had wanted her to wait until she was older before plunging into matrimony. Back then, she thought she knew it all. She thought she knew Gerald.
Claire admitted she was wrong. At the time, she was too young to know anything. Now, she wanted Maxwell but could not have him. Her Catholic upbringing would not allow for a divorce. Although her parents were lax in their religion, they clung to certain aspects of it. They were strict about divorce and unhappy about Claire's sudden departure.
Claire did not tell them the reasons for her abrupt flight. She couldn't bring herself to talk about the physical and sexual abuse she endured. Instead, she bottled it inside her and continued her life as though nothing happened. Maxwell's appearance changed the situation drastically. Claire knew she had to do something about Gerald.
Arriving at the recording studio early, Claire sat in on Maxwell's first session with the record producer, Mr. Slim. Maxwell spread out his portfolio on the table, and Mr. Slim studied each one for an interminable period. He had to decide which tracks to record and the arrangements. Finally, he created a pile of possibles and discards.
"What's wrong with this one?" Claire asked, rifling through the discard pile. She picked it at random.
"Nothing wrong with it, young lady," Slim answered curtly. "We are limited to only a few cuts. We might use that one another time, depending."
"Depending on what?" Claire continued caustically.
"On whether Maxwell succeeds or fails," Slim countered abruptly. "I don't see what your interest is, young lady. Either stay in the background or get out."
"I'm an interested party," Claire declared hotly. "I'm going to ensure Maxwell gets a fair shake around here. Uncle Maynard…"
"Your Uncle Maynard wants this guy fast-tracked," the record producer stated, leaning back in his chair. "It won't happen if you interrupt every two minutes. I'll give the boy a fair shake."
Slim returned to his task, and the hours dragged past noon. When Maxwell's stomach growled noisily, Claire insisted on a lunch break. However, instead of breaking up, Slim ordered sandwiches, and they continued to work.
"Dinner tonight?" Claire whispered, leaning into Maxwell's ear. Grinning, he nodded his assent.
"Are you finished playing the dating game?" Slim grumbled.
"Yes," Claire snapped, throwing the producer an arrogant smirk.
Finally, at nine o'clock in the evening, Slim called it a day. Grabbing Maxwell's arm, Claire dragged him to the cloakroom. She pushed his coat at him, donned her own, and rushed for the elevators. On the street, she hailed a cab quickly.
"I thought we would never get out of there," she exclaimed, her heart racing. Giving the cabby an address, Claire sat back and leaned against Maxwell's side. He put his arm around her and drew her close.
"Where are we going?" Maxwell asked. He thought they would stop at Oliver Week's café.
"My place." Claire snuggled closer.
"Don't you live with your uncle?"
"Yeah, but Uncle Maynard went to his country house with Vince. We have the place for ourselves. I'll make an omelet and then…well…whatever."
"I like the whatever part," Maxwell murmured, kissing her temple.
"Me too." Claire wrapped her arms around his body and brought her lips to his. When he pulled up at Ogilvie's flat, the cabby had to clear his throat three times.
******
Claire stretched and rolled over. Her naked body sank into the soft mattress, and a warm sensation overwhelmed her. Reaching out her hand, she explored the silk sheets until she found Maxwell. Flattening her palm against his chest, she rubbed it in rhythmic circles. She breathed deeply and sighed.
Maxwell stirred and turned onto his side. Reaching out, he pulled Claire against his taunt form. She reacted immediately. Their bodies merged as one.
Breathlessly, Claire stared up at the ceiling. Her heart pounded rapidly beneath her heaving bosom. She wanted to shout with glee, to rise from the bed and dance. Her high school experiences with Gerald seemed meager in comparison with Maxwell. Even at his most abusive, her husband could not perform with her current lover's stamina. She chided herself again and again for her past mistakes.
"Are you all right?" Maxwell asked, his voice floating to her as though over a great distance.
"Oh yes," she answered, her voice a mere wisp.
Claire sat up and hugged her naked legs. Strands of platinum hair fell over her eyes; she didn't bother to push them away. A sexy smile spread across her face. When Maxwell reached out to stroke her arm, she shuddered involuntarily.
"Are you sure?" he asked solicitously.
"Make love to me," Claire murmured, her lips barely forming the words, "again."
"And again and again," Maxwell suggested, kissing her lips.
"Again and again."
In the morning, Claire awoke feeling guilty. Maxwell slept beside her, his brown hair forming a halo on the pillow. She should wake him and tell him about Gerald. Although it broke her heart to disillusion him, she longed for an honest relationship. A tear slid from beneath her eyelash, and she dashed it away.
Silently, Claire rose. Draping a silk robe over her shoulders, she wandered into the kitchen. She took out a frying pan and began preparing the omelet she had promised Maxwell the previous evening. Funny how quickly they had forgotten it. She grinned widely.
The scent of frying eggs woke Maxwell up. He slid into his trousers and followed his nose into the kitchen. Framed in the doorway, he appraised Claire. He liked her soft, naked curves beneath her filmy garment. Stepping behind her, he wrapped his arms around her waist and kissed her neck.
"Good morning, beautiful," he sang, his voice deep and resonant.
Claire's body tightened up involuntarily. Her mind was involved with Gerald, and she thought it was her husband behind her instead of Maxwell.
"Something wrong?" Maxwell asked, perplexed.
"No," Claire stated sharply. "Yes," she amended, breathing deeply. "We have to talk."
Claire plated the omelets and placed them on the kitchen table. Indicating the chairs, she asked Maxwell to sit down. She poured coffee and joined him. It was time to discuss Gerald.
Nervously, Claire gnawed on her lower lip. She did not know how to begin. If she spoke about the terrible abuse, she would break down. Until that moment, she had always shown her strong side. What would Maxwell think if she began to sob?
"What is it, Claire?" he asked, reaching for her hand. He took it gently and brought it to her lips. "I love you."
Claire melted when he stated the three words boldly. Sincerity filled his solemn eyes, making her heart pound wildly. She knew she couldn't hurt him, not now…probably never. Her bravado fled, leaving her feeling deflated.
"Uncle Maynard is going to make you a big star," she finally remarked, faltering over her words. Inside, she chastised herself for failing in her objective. "I know you're grateful to me for causing all this. I…I don't want you to think…well…you have to do stuff with me now because…"
Maxwell sat back and pushed his omelet aside. He could hardly believe Claire's words. Somehow, he felt used. If she could think…
"I said I love you," Maxwell stated hotly. "I meant it. I would love you with or without Uncle Maynard. My career is separate from my relationship with you. I'm… I'm just not like that, Claire."
"I'm glad, Maxwell," Claire stated flatly. "I'm real glad."
Lifting his fork, Maxwell started to eat his breakfast. He smiled at Claire without noticing her change in attitude. Across from him, she stared down at her omelet in disgust. She hated herself.
Somewhere down the road, Claire faced a day of reckoning. Gerald hovered somewhere in the background. He must know where she was; someday, he would come for her. She dreaded that day…for her and for Maxwell.
Whirlwind
MAXWELL
Claire's sudden moodiness troubled Maxwell. He feared something lurked in her background, and she wished to bury it. All his senses told him to pursue the subject—make her talk about her distress—but he decided not to pressure her. When she was ready, she would tell him. Until then, he wanted to bask in his newfound love affair.
Maxwell spent weeks in the recording studio, setting down tracks. He sang until his voice grew hoarse and cracked. In the background, Claire supported him and, when he wanted to give up, encouraged him to continue. Finally, his first record debuted on the UK Top 100. It peaked at number ninety-eight for one week and slid into oblivion. His second single didn't make it that far.
"Can't expect miracles, lad," Oliver Weeks exclaimed, leaning on his bar.
"Yeah, sure," Maxwell responded glumly.
"Next one will do better." Oliver smiled reassuringly.
The next single topped at eighty-seven and disappeared with the previous two. Maxwell appeared in small clubs outside London. Uncle Maynard promoted him as the 'Next Big Thing.' Nothing happened.
Maxwell began to despair. Claire reassured him, claiming his rise in fame would start suddenly. Uncle Maynard knew his business—he assured success.
"Release this one," Claire insisted, barging into her Uncle's office.
"It's a ballad; it's too soft," Maynard Ogilvie responded, leaning back in his chair.
"Release it," his niece stated determinedly. "The others died a quick death. What can you lose?"
"All right," Claire's Uncle relented.
'Sunshine on a Rose' debuted at thirty-two and shot into the Top Ten the following week. Claire grasped Maxwell's hands and circled him around Uncle Maynard's office. After the re-release of his previous singles, Maxwell hit big with two number-one songs and a number-three. His head began to spin.
Claire accompanied Maxwell to Berlin for his European debut. When they reached Stockholm, young girls crowded around him with autograph books. They screamed his name and reached out to touch his clothing. Clinging close to his side, Claire warded them off as best she could. Uncle Maynard assigned a bodyguard to protect his new star.
Rome followed Barcelona, then Paris. The crowds grew larger and louder. Finally, Maxwell returned to the UK for a concert in Edinburgh.
"Next stop Wembley," Claire declared, running her hand through Maxwell's unruly hair. She pressed her sweat-soaked body closer to his. They had just finished making love.
"I…I still can't believe it," Maxwell stated, kissing the tip of her nose. "All those young girls screaming my name. I'm going to wake up and find I'm dreaming."
"You're not dreaming," Claire answered, pressing closer. "I love you."
Wembley sold out quickly. Sweat-soaked, Maxwell exited the stage to a cacophony of young voices. During his second encore performance, he pulled a girl from the audience to dance with him. No one had to know the girl was Claire, and they staged the dance. It excited his fan base, and that's all that mattered.
Maxwell rode high on the wave of stardom. Always supportive, Claire remained at his side. He owed her all his gratitude. Without her, he would have remained homeless on the London streets. He never forgot the day she entered Oliver Weeks' café and changed his life.
While the whirlwind of fame and fortune swirled around him, Maxwell suddenly became caught up in another vortex—a more personal one. Although Claire remained bubbly about his success, in private, she grew moody. She acted nervous and restrained, often staring intensely into space. Once or twice, he asked what bothered her. She shrugged and then brightened considerably.
"Did I do something wrong?" Maxwell asked late one night. Claire lay in a rigid posture at the edge of the bed.
"No," her tiny voice returned. Tugging on the duvet, she rolled into a tight ball.
"Are you sure? If something bothers you, I should know about it," Maxwell pursued anxiously. "We should fix our difficulties quickly. If there are difficulties, I mean."
"There's nothing. I…I don't feel right. Probably too much excitement. Let's get some sleep, ok."
"Ok."
CLAIRE
Claire lay at the edge of the bed, unshed tears clinging to her lashes. She loved Maxwell but felt guilty about Gerald. Time after time, she attempted to broach the subject of her marriage. She couldn't force herself to speak about it. Remorse gnawed at her heart.
The European tour's excitement pushed aside her guilt. Caught up in the frantic concerts, Claire forgot about Gerald. The situation quietened when they returned to London, and her mind reverted to her past. She could not stop thinking about her abusive marriage and short-tempered husband.
Claire felt safe with Maxwell. He treated her with gentle dignity and respect. To him, she appeared confident and self-assured. Nevertheless, she knew her frailty and, considering Gerald, became a nervous little girl.
"Maxwell?" Claire rolled over and placed her palm against his back. 'We need to talk.' She thought the words instead of speaking them.
"Yes?" he asked, turning to face her. She buried her face in the chest, and he cradled her in his arms.
"Make love to me." Silently, Claire cursed herself for not speaking her mind. She couldn't talk…she could never talk about Gerald. Instead, she longed to feel close to her lover. She wanted to push aside the past and become a part of the only man she could love.
Maxwell kissed her tenderly. Claire responded with urgency. Together, their bodies merged, and she delighted in his warm release.
They lay side-by-side, holding hands. Claire grasped his palm tightly as though she could never let it go. Desperately, she clung to him and pushed Gerald from her mind. The further away from her mistake she traveled, the easier it became to ignore it. Acting as though nothing happened became her new resolve. She wanted to live in a pretend world of her own creation.
MAXWELL
Maxwell quickly forgot Claire's moody moments following his European tour. She seemed to brush off the sulks and revert to her usual effervescent self. He began compiling his follow-up album by expressing his love for her in song. Uncle Maynard praised his efforts.
Maxwell's star rose over Europe. The promo department scheduled talk show appearances and a special guest slot on "Eastenders," a popular afternoon soap opera. When he took Claire to Paris for a weekend, mobs of teenage girls swarmed them. He still couldn't believe his good luck.
Maxwell lived in a subway only the year before and grubbed for meals at Ollie's café. Often, he recalled his sense of failure and the depression that overcame him. He rode high on the wave of success and showed Claire his gratitude in many subtle ways.
"Will you marry me?" Maxwell asked on bended knee. The Eiffel Tower loomed behind them, casting a romantic midnight glow. He took her hand and slipped a large diamond onto the fourth finger of her left hand.
Claire looked down upon Maxwell. His soft brown hair fell in a gentle wave over his bent head. She longed to run the tips of her fingers through it. She reached out with a trembling hand. Her love for him swelled, and her pulse quickened. For days and days, she hoped he'd ask her. His vibes came at her firmly, and she knew he would. She anticipated his proposal—she wanted to say yes.
Instead, Claire sobbed. Taking off the ring, she dropped it at his feet and ran. Her hollow footsteps resounded in Maxwell's ears. Misery encapsulated him. In the morning, he returned to England alone.
Claire did not return to their flat. When he asked Uncle Maynard her whereabouts, the music exec claimed he did not know. Maxwell detected a lie but didn't voice his opinion. Filling his time, he lost himself in the recording studio.
"If she loves you, she'll return," Oliver Weeks assured him.
Maxwell sat in a back booth of the café. He never sat near a window in case someone on the sidewalk recognized him. Holding his head in his hands, he glanced up at his companion with bloodshot eyes. The only place he gave in to his emotions was the café.
"I asked her to marry me, and she threw the ring at my feet," Maxwell moaned, hot tears streaking his cheeks. "I thought she loved me."
"She does, mate," Ollie stated, a tentative smile crossing his face.
"Then, why?"
Oliver shrugged and looked grim.
"I want to know why."
"Sometimes there are no answers to a woman's behavior," the café owner remarked.
Several weeks passed before Maxwell received a call from Uncle Maynard. The record exec requested his immediate presence at his office. When he arrived, he was delighted to find Claire standing behind her relative's chair. A grin spread across her face—his face lit up like a Christmas tree.
"Pack your bags, lad," Uncle Maynard stated before he greeted Claire. "You're going to America."
Claire flew at him, and Maxwell grabbed her around the waist. The young couple embraced tightly and kissed.
Day of Reckoning
CLAIRE
Claire shoved thoughts about her marriage aside. Uncle Maynard’s announcement concerning Maxwell’s American debut eclipsed her Gerald concerns. Throwing aside her remorse, she joined the celebration.
“Boston, Philadelphia, Atlanta, Chicago,” she listed, cuddling close to her lover. “Lastly, The Meadowlands—closest you can get to NYC without being in NYC. You have a lot to thank Uncle Maynard for.”
“I have a lot to thank you for, sweetheart,” Maxwell exclaimed, pulling her close. Placing his arm across her shoulder, he pulled her close. “I still can’t believe it!”
Maxwell leaned back against the settee and threw his head back. He stared at the ceiling and shook his head. Claire climbed into his lap and ran her fingers through his tousled hair. They embraced.
“Tell me you love me,” Maxwell whispered into her ear, “and not because of fame and fortune.”
“I love you for you,” Claire breathed back.
“You would love me if you found me in the gutter?” he asked, snuggling into her neck.
“I found you in the gutter,” Claire answered in a serious tone.
Maxwell laughed heartily. He could never forget those horrible days he spent wandering the London streets or the nights he slept in the stinking subway. Once upon a time, he was one of the ‘down and outs.’ Without money and starving, he relied on the kindness of others—including his friend Oliver Weeks. Without Ollie, he would have starved. Then, like a miracle, Claire Ogilvie discovered him and introduced him to Uncle Maynard. Maxwell would never forget.
“I doubt I have ever known such happiness,” Maxwell stated, grinning broadly. “I am grateful for all you have done for me. I…” He paused and thought for an extended moment. Then he clasped her hands. “I want you to meet my parents and sister. They’ll love you. They’re going to meet me at Logan (International Airport in Boston) when we arrive. It’s all arranged.”
Claire stood up abruptly and looked down upon Maxwell. He gazed up at her, his face open and innocent. She gnawed on her bottom lip and reality swept over her. She had to tell him about Gerald.
“Don’t worry, honey,” Maxwell assured her. “They won’t bite. My parents are great. Mackenzie is a brat, but she’s my little sister. We’re cool together.”
“Maxwell, I…I’m…” Claire sputtered, trying to force out the hurtful sentence. Without another word, she grabbed her coat and plowed out the door.
Claire walked the night streets, plodded through Hyde Park and along the River Thames. She chided herself for her cowardice. How long could she keep Maxwell hanging on? She had to tell him the truth. When she finally returned to the flat, her lover sprawled across the bed, sound asleep. She didn’t have the heart to wake him.
The following morning, Uncle Maynard called Claire into his office. Expecting to make the final arrangements for Maxwell’s American debut, she entered with a huge smile pasted across her face. The smile turned to a frown when she noticed her parents sitting before the huge oak desk.
“Hello Mom, Daddy,” Claire greeted them cheerfully. It took her a moment to settle her nerves. She advanced toward them slowly, expecting hugs and kisses.
“Hello, Claire,” Gerald exclaimed, rising from a desk chair. He grinned lasciviously.
“Gerald,” Claire gasped, shrinking back. Her heart pounded wildly in her chest.
“Come to claim my wife,” her husband blurted, advancing toward her. Grasping her arms at the wrist, he strengthened his hold.
“I…” Desperately Claire ogled Uncle Maynard. Surely he would assist her. Instead, he turned his swivel chair and gazed out his office window. “Oh, Uncle Maynard.”
Claire rushed to his side and, squatting beside him, implored his help with her sorrowful eyes. He had to do something, say something to chase her nemesis away.
“I’m sorry, child,” her relative stated lowly. “You have to sort it with your husband. I cannot interfere any further.”
Instantly Gerald moved to her side. Taking her arm, he pulled her toward the door. Her parents shadowed them. When they reached the corridor, the elevator slid open, and Maxwell stepped out. Breaking free, Claire rushed forward. Grabbing her lover by the hand, she pulled him into the waiting lift. They exited on the next floor, and she tugged him into an unused office. Hot tears flowed down her cheeks as she faced him.
“I’m married, Maxwell,” Claire blurted, sobbing. “That’s my husband—Gerald Revelle. He’s forcing me to go with him.”
Maxwell’s face collapsed. Sinking into a nearby chair, he covered his eyes with his hands. Betrayed! The word flashed in his mind. Finally, he glanced up at Claire and saw the distress on her face.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” she cried sorrowfully. “I tried. I tried a million times. I couldn’t. I hate him, Maxwell, hate him.” To emphasis her words, she pounded her fists against her thighs.
Claire felt repulsed by Maxwell’s blank state. Grasping his hands, she stared deeply into his eyes. She understood she hurt him deeply.
“I love you, Maxwell,” she cried. Tears followed freely down her reddened cheeks. “Please, tell me you love me too.”
“I…I love you, Claire,” the young musician finally stated. His voice broke and he sobbed.
In the corridor, hurried footsteps approached their sanctuary. Claire fell into Maxwell’s arms. The young couple embraced for the last time. Soon, Gerald would appear and drag her away. Claire’s mind whirled. She felt trapped.
“I have to go,” she sobbed, clasping the front of his shirt with balled fists. “I won’t stay. I promise you, I will get away.”
Maxwell remained silent. A lump formed in his throat, impairing his speech.
“In one year,” Claire stated, her thoughts struggling in her mind. “I will return to you in one year. It’s November. In one year…” Her words sputtered and she regained her self-control. “Meet me…Meet me at Macy’s. Thanksgiving Day, in front of Macy’s. I’ll wait for you there, I promise.”
Behind them, the office door crashed open. Gerald Revelle loomed in the aperture and, lunging toward Claire, grabbed her wrist. Her mother and father entered behind him.
“It’s for the best, sweetheart,” her mother consoled, stepping between husband and wife. Placing her arm across her daughter’s shoulder, she led Claire away from Maxwell. “You mustn’t break your vows. Your father agrees, and Gerald will provide you with a good home. He promised.”
At the door, Claire turned to face Maxwell. She mouthed the words ‘at Macys.’ Maxwell took a deep breath, and his lips formed the same words in return. With her head bowed, she accompanied her parents into the hallway. Gerald followed close behind but, before he exited, he spun around and smirked triumphantly at Maxwell. The door slammed shut, and Claire disappeared.
Meet Me at Macy's
MAXWELL
Maxwell stared at the closed office door. He felt as though he were living a dream. Like a broken mirror, it shattered and left him feeling dazed. Air drained from his lungs, and behind his forehead, his brain pounded unmercifully. Covering his face with his hands, he sat down and sobbed.
"Claire," Maxwell muttered despairingly. "Claire."
"Come, lad," Uncle Maynard stated, squatting beside the young man. "Enough of that."
"Why didn't you help her?" the young musician implored.
Uncle Maynard pulled up another chair and sat beside Maxwell. Drawing a deep breath, he began his own story of woe.
"I began having homosexual urges when I was twelve years old. My parents were strict Catholics and didn't understand my feelings. They wanted me to go straight, but I knew I couldn't," the record producer solemnly explained. "I kept my relationships a secret, but my brother discovered me with my lover. He had more compassion than my mother and father. He helped me as best he could.
"Harry married Claire's mother, and they moved to America. Seeking an escape, I followed them with Vince," Uncle Maynard continued. "Harry was successful in his business and fronted me money to start mine. I returned to London and set up as a record producer. What was more important was my happiness with Vince. I owe my brother much gratitude."
"Under the circumstances, shouldn't you help Claire?" Maxwell asked pointedly. "If she is unhappy with this Gerald fella, doesn't she have the right to break away?"
"I have helped her as much as I could. I've given her a home and a job. I also gave her a lot of leeway with you," the Uncle remarked, sitting back in his chair. "I know talent when I see it, and you have talent, lad. Without Claire, you wouldn't have succeeded as you have.
"I kept Claire's whereabouts a secret for as long as possible. However, she's made appearances with you. She appeared in many of the promotional photos of your European tour. At the moment, they are used in America to pump up your new fan base," the record producer explained. "Naturally, Gerald noticed and, along with your parents, arrived here demanding her return. My hands were tied. I had to let her go. It's up to Claire to work her way out of this situation."
"I promised to meet her a Macys in one year," Maxwell stated, brightening. "I intend to keep that promise. I hope she does, too."
"I'm sure she will." Uncle Maynard rose and faced Maxwell. "In the meantime, you have a lot of work to do. We have to get you on the charts in America."
Although his heart ached, Maxwell put his heart and soul into his music. He arrived in Boston to a cacophony of young voices. Eager hands reached out to touch him as he passed through the airport. Finally, he heard his sister's voice above all the rest. Surrounded by security, he pushed his way through his fans and swung Mackenzie into his arms. Her legs dangled off the floor as she embraced him.
"You've grown, squirt," Maxwell exclaimed, setting her onto her feet again.
"What did you think after two years, dumb ass," his little sister exclaimed, her hands on her hips.
"That's enough of that, young lady," their father intervened. Mackenzie shot her tongue out and wiggled it.
The security team rushed the family into an airport hotel suite and guarded the door. Maxwell collapsed into a chair and let out his breath. The long flight and journey through the excited crowd exhausted him.
"All this nonsense for you?" his father asked, rubbing his hands together.
"Yeah, Dad, all this." Maxwell waved his arms to encompass the entire situation.
"What happened to that young lady you wrote us about?" his mother promptly asked.
"Gone." Maxwell snarled the one word. Claire's disappearance continued to nag at him. He didn't wish to speak about her.
His mother clamped her mouth closed and lapsed into silence. She knew better than to nag her son. Throughout the years, she became used to his stubbornness.
Maxwell made his Boston debut the following night to a sold-out crowd. He hit it big in Philadelphia, Atlanta, and Chicago. Due to his immediate success, his promoter added a Pittsburgh show to his itinerary. The whirlwind continued. Finally, he faced a teaming New York crowd at the Meadowlands.
Eagerly, Maxwell scanned the crowd, hoping to find Claire's face amongst his screaming fans. He longed to extract her from the assembly and dance with her on stage. Memories of past shows tumbled into his mind. He longed to do it again—to go back and repeat those happy days. Without Claire, Maxwell went through the motions. Nothing seemed real.
The songs on his next album held a melancholy feel. Maxwell wrote of unrequited love and sudden breakups. Soulfully, he crooned his heartbreak and sorrow into the microphone. His image shifted from sultry and sexy to a desperate and brokenhearted aspect. His supporters understood and embraced him.
Spring never sprung for Maxwell. His soul remained snowed under with winter thoughts. Every day, he thought about Claire and missed her. Casting his eyes around every gathering he attended, he wished to find her. Although she never appeared, he continued to hope. November seemed far away.
Maxwell clung to the phrase Meet Me at Macy's. Day by day, it kept him going. Eventually, he knew he had to do something with those four poignant words. The new song came to him quickly. Staying up late into the night, he wrote of all his frustrations, the sudden disappearance of his one true love, and his pent-up heartbreak.
"Fabulous," Uncle Maynard exclaimed when he heard the tune for the first time. "It's your best song. It'll make the top of the charts, no doubt about it."
Mackenzie played the record for her friends in August before its release. Her teenage friends loved it. Beaming proudly, Maxwell embraced his sister and called her his number-one fan.
"I love it, Max," his sixteen-year-old sister exclaimed, kissing him heartily. "I love you!"
"Love you right back, Mackie," Maxwell countered, embracing her tightly.
"How 'bout we hit the road together." Mackenzie grinned mischievously. "Maxie and Mackie—together at last."
Maxwell scowled, then pouted. His sister reminded him why he hated the names 'Maxie' and 'Mackie.' Years ago, when the siblings were small, their Great Aunt Mildred had knitted sweaters with nicknames emblazoned on the front. The first time he wore his to school, other students teased him unmercifully. From then on, he hated the shorter versions of his name.
"Maxwell and Mackenzie will do just fine," he snarled sharply.
"Have it your way," his sister responded, giggling. "I still love you, fathead."
******
"You're appearing in the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade," Uncle Maynard announced after Maxwell's song topped the charts. "Special request, lad. They love your song."
"But…uh," Maxwell stammered, dumbfounded.
"No, but…uh, about it," the record producer exclaimed, grinning from ear to ear. "You're a headliner, lad. Millions of young girls are dying to see you perform. And you will perform, no doubt about it."
Although thrilled by his fans' excitement, Maxwell knew there was only one person he wanted to see at Macy's on Thanksgiving Day. He started to mention Claire to Uncle Maynard but stopped him. Her Uncle always cut him short when he mentioned her name.
For all Maxwell knew, Claire could have reconciled with her husband. She could have forgotten all about him. As Thanksgiving approached, he began to grow nervous. Anxiety filled him, and he blanked on his song's words. Then he remembered he was supposed to lip-sync.
When the big day finally arrived, Maxwell climbed into the turkey float. The day was cold and crisp but not freezing. When he reached Herald Square, he performed to a cheering crowd, but his eyes constantly scanned the crowd for Claire. For a moment, he believed he noticed her. His heart pounding in wild expectation, he memorized the location.
Pulling his coat hood up and wrapping a scarf tightly around his neck, Maxwell donned a pair of dark sunglasses. He hoped no one would recognize him as he returned to Macy's. Holding his head down, he pushed through the departing crowd and found the spot where he thought he saw Claire. She was not there.
Frantically, Maxwell searched for her. He approached several similar women, but none were Claire. After a while, the street emptied, leaving him alone. The street cleaners appeared, pushing their brooms. Finally, bowing his head sorrowfully, Maxwell returned to his hotel suite.
In Front of Macy’s
CLAIRE
Claire found a prominent location in front of Macy's on Thanksgiving morning. She ensured she was visible to Maxwell when he performed in front of the popular storefront. The year had gone slowly for her. Every day, she thought of her reunion with Maxwell.
Claire hated Gerald. The day he marched her from Uncle Maynard's office was the worst day of her life. Nothing changed. Although he acted adequately in front of her parents, he continued to abuse her behind closed doors. The more she fought against him, the rougher he became. Gerald resented her affair with Maxwell and never let her forget it.
"You will never leave me again," her husband threatened, tightening his fists around her upper arms. He grimaced in her face and shook her. "And do something about that hair. You look like a tart. What was wrong with your natural color?"
"Maxwell loved my hair," Claire remarked sharply. She never could control her tongue. Gerald slapped her across the face.
"Don't you ever say that name in front of me again," Gerald snarled, grabbing her arms again.
"Maxwell, Maxwell, Maxwell," she chanted loudly.
"If you repeat it," Gerald threatened, grinning crookedly, "I will kill you."
"MAXWELL!" Claire shouted defiantly.
Gerald seethed with rage. Spinning Claire around roughly, he threw her against the wall. She stumbled and hit it with her forehead. The force of the blow knocked her out. When she awoke, she found her husband slumped in a chair facing her. Claire brought herself to her knees and crawled toward Gerald. Realizing he was asleep, she stood up on wobbly legs. She knew she had to escape.
Packing a small bag, Claire sneaked out of her husband's apartment. She had put up with his abuse for three months. Despite her parents' pleas to make it work, she knew she had to leave. Why should she put up with his maltreating her? Half the time, he was too drunk or high to perform sexually. It was a waste of a life.
Claire studied Gerald long and hard. His baggy jeans hung low beneath his paunchy stomach, and his white tee shirt looked grimy. Empty beer bottles lay scattered at his feet. Taking a deep breath, she walked into the kitchen and returned a moment later with a thick black marker. Uncapping it, she wrote 'asshole' in large letters across his chest.
Feeling satisfied, Claire picked up her suitcase and left the apartment quietly. She strode purposefully toward the nearest bus stop and headed to LaGuardia. Her first instinct told her to find Maxwell. Then, she realized she couldn't involve him in her mess. When Gerald awoke, he would try to find her. The scandal she brought with her could destroy his career. Finally, she realized there was only one person who could help her.
******
Oliver Weeks sat in the back booth of his café. Opposite him, Claire leaned forward and grasped his hands. The sorrowful look in her eyes tugged at his heart. He loved her—not in the same way Maxwell loved her—but he knew his emotions were intense.
"You have to help me," Claire moaned, tears clinging to her eyelashes. "I have to hide from Gerald. He's probably already searching for me."
Ollie continued to ponder the situation. He wanted to help Claire. He thought of Maxwell and Claire together and the magic they created. A romantic at heart, he felt he had brought them together. They did, after all, meet in his establishment.
"Come with me," he finally decided, rising.
Pulling her headscarf forward to conceal her face, Claire glanced furtively toward the large front windows. She knew she had to use extreme caution. Gerald could have tracked her already. Quickening her steps, she followed Oliver into his storeroom. The café owner stood near the back, holding open a heavy oak door. Together, they descended a steep stairway and faced another door.
"It's not as luxurious as you're used to, Missy," Ollie exclaimed, throwing open the door, "but it will keep you hidden for as long as you want."
Claire stepped into the small basement room. It contained a seating area with a pullout sofa bed, an oven, and a refrigerator. Oliver showed her a tiny bathroom. Her heart sank a little, but she gratefully accepted the accommodation.
"You can exit into the alley and walkabout a bit," the café owner suggested, opening an outside door. "There are a few shops around the corner and an old cinema. If you're careful, perhaps you could go a bit further afield. Otherwise, you'll find it quite a safe place to hide."
"You don't know how grateful I am, Oliver," Claire declared, kissing her savior on the forehead. "It's only until November. I have to meet Maxwell in front of Macy's. I should make out all right here."
"You see that you do, my dear," Ollie stated, returning a kiss on Claire's cheek. "Mind you, divorce that creep and make yourself free for Maxwell. I don't want to see him getting hurt more than he already has."
"I wouldn't hurt Maxwell for all the world," Claire stated, grinning from ear to ear.
The rest of the year crept past slowly. Claire remained cautious and hunkered down in Oliver Week's basement apartment. Occasionally, she ventured out to the cinema but scurried back home quickly. Once or twice, she thought she recognized Gerald but realized she was wrong upon taking a closer look. Finally, Thanksgiving approached, and she returned to New York City.
Claire joined the crowd in front of Macy's. One by one, the parade floats passed by, along with marching bands and Broadway shows. Her heart thumped when she recognized Maxwell in the turkey float. When he sang Meet Me at Macy's, she felt wild inside. Until that point, she had never heard the song.
The parade finally ended with the appearance of Santa Claus. Around her, the thronging crowd cheered. Someone jostled her, but she didn't mind. Happiness welled inside Claire. Soon, she would see Maxwell, and he would swoop her into his arms. The same person jostled her again, and she took several steps along the sidewalk. Slowly, the crowd began to dissipate.
Anxiously, Claire scanned the mob, expecting Maxwell to stride toward her. She bounced on her feet to look over people's heads and strained around shoulders. Finally, a figure in a dark hoodie and black sunglasses moved toward her. She smiled widely and stepped toward him. The man grabbed her arm and pulled her away from the sidewalk. Joyfully, Claire trotted along beside him.
Her companion hailed a cab and, flinging open the door, thrust Claire inside. She landed on the seat hard and turned to protest. Her lover pushed her across the backseat and plopped down beside her. Leaning into his side, Claire took his arm firmly and pressed close to his side.
The hoodie fell back, and her companion ogled her maliciously. Claire shrank back, terrified.
"Gerald," she managed to croak out.
Claire is Missing
MAXWELL
Maxwell sat rigidly in his chair. Scattered newspaper pages lay at his feet. Staring at the apartment wall, he felt empty inside.
MISSING: NIECE OF PROMINENT RECORD PRODUCER
Last seen standing in front of Macy's Department Store in NYC, Claire Ogilvie disappeared while awaiting a reunion with Pop Superstar Maxwell.
Maxwell Stoddard claims he had a prearranged meeting set for Thanksgiving morning with Ms. Ogilvie. The young lady in question was responsible for Stoddard's sudden rise to fame. The couple met in London and traveled extensively in Europe during Maxwell's first tour.
In an exclusive interview, Maxwell stated he proposed to Ogilvie in Paris, but she refused his suggestion that they marry. He did not know of her previous marriage to Gerald Revelle and was shocked when her husband reappeared. He stated that she left with Revelle to resume her life with him. Ogilvie promised to reunite with Maxwell if the situation with Revelle did not work out. Since Claire arrived at Macy's to fulfill her appointment, we will assume she decided to leave Gerald once again.
The police are conducting a complete investigation into the matter. Since Revelle has disappeared along with Claire, they are assumed to be together. However, we do not know whether she left with him willingly or if he forced her.
Maxwell has offered a substantial reward for knowledge of Claire Ogilvie's whereabouts. Thus far, no one has come forward.
Maxwell slumped further in his chair. Although he reminded himself that Claire kept their appointment, he felt jilted. He refused to make scheduled appearances and had no plans to write another album.
Harry and Amelia Ogilvie kept in constant touch with him. They, too, were gravely concerned about their daughter's whereabouts. Maxwell accepted their apology for forcing Claire to return to Gerald. They claimed they didn't realize he was abusing her. Maxwell took their apology with a grain of salt.
"I did what I could for her," Oliver Weeks lamented when he arrived in NYC. "I wish I'd kept her in London, but she was eager to see you. I was sure that once you reconnected, everything would go as planned."
"I'm thankful, Ollie," Maxwell muttered, barely cracking a smile. "You're a true friend."
"Always willing to help, lad," Ollie stated, returning a downcast expression. "She was such a lovely little thing. Couldn't help but fall in love with the little miss."
"Please don't speak of Claire in the past tense, mate," Maxwell remarked flatly. "I want to believe she's alive and trying to return to reality."
Oliver lowered his head, realizing he misspoke. He could not believe in a world without Claire in it. He hoped with all his heart that she was located soon and safe from harm.
A year passed with no sight of Claire Ogilvie. Uncle Maynard tried to persuade Maxwell to appear in the Macy's Thanksgiving Parade, but the young star refused to accept. Instead, he returned to Graceville, Maryland, and shared the meal with his family. Only Mackenzie tried to bring cheer to the occasion.
Maxwell felt his heart would never mend. Ollie remained close to him, but he rarely saw anyone other than his family and Uncle Maynard. Everyone agreed that, in time, he would grow away from the tragedy. Although no one spoke their feelings out loud, they all believed Gerald had murdered his wife.
In the third year, Claire Ogilvie's case went cold. The police detective in charge explained that they closed their investigation since there was a lack of evidence.
"If new evidence appears, we will certainly reactivate it," Lt. MacDonald advised grimly. "You are free to continue using your private investigators for as long as necessary."
"Thank you," Harry Ogilvie stated tersely. His wife edged closer to his side, and he draped his arm across her shoulders. Maxwell remained mute, his heart breaking.
"If I get my hands on that Gerald Revelle, I'll break every bone in his body," Maxwell exclaimed to Oliver Weeks. They sat in Maxwell's living room, a bottle of whisky on the table before them.
"After I finish with him, lad," Ollie added, tightening his hands into fists. "After I get finished with him."
"I'll tell you what," Maxwell slurred, reaching for the whisky bottle, "you hold him down, and I'll pummel him."
"Deal." The two men shook hands.
Another year passed, and another. The Ogilvie's admitted defeat and spoke about having their daughter declared dead. Maxwell adamantly refused to accept their reality. As time passed, a strong bond grew between the superstar and his lover's family.
"Claire's alive," Maxwell exclaimed, clasping Amelia's hands and searching her eyes. "I can feel it in here." He thumped his chest at heart level.
"I want to believe she is alive too," Claire's mother sighed, tears clinging to her lashes. "Oh, Maxwell, so much time has passed. I want my daughter home, but I have to face reality."
Maxwell could not face that reality. Every part of his conscience believed Gerald had Claire hidden somewhere. Although he continued to hire several private detective firms, their searches always came up empty. He gnawed his lower lip anxiously and wanted to continue to believe. Maxwell had to continue to believe to keep himself from going insane. The search for Claire continued.
Night after night, Maxwell dreamed about Claire. She stood before him with her platinum hair streaming behind her. Stretching out her arms, she begged him to save her. Swinging his legs off his bed, Maxwell stood and ambled toward the door, calling her name. Oliver always rescued him before he could leave the apartment.
"I know she's out there, calling to me," Maxwell stated while Ollie tried to get him back to sleep. "I dream Claire is in a forest. The mist creeps up her legs as she wanders, aimlessly seeking an escape. She calls my name. It sounds hollow and echoes through the woods. If I can find the forest, I can find Claire."
"That's your overactive imagination talking to you, lad," Ollie suggested, yawning. "Let's get back to sleep."
"I see trees and a mountain, Ollie," Maxwell explained, sitting up in bed. His eyes grew wide and alert. "She's in the woods trying to escape. Claire runs and stumbles and falls to her knees. She stands, and her hair falls over her eyes. Furtively, she looked over her shoulder and ran over fallen leaves. It's real; I can see her."
"You should see a psychiatrist if this keeps up, mate," Oliver recommended, meditatively looking down on his friend.
Maxwell flopped onto the mattress and stared at the ceiling. Perhaps his friend was right. Maybe he did need professional help. Still, he wanted to believe he would find Claire. He wanted her back in his arms, safe and sound.
Out of the Woods
CLAIRE
The disheveled woman stumbled out of the woods and fell to her knees on the dirt road. Her matted brown hair surrounded her face, and she swiped it away. She did not know where she was. Kept captive in a rundown mountain shack for an indeterminate time, the woman felt disoriented. She rose to her knees and scanned the area. To the north, the road wound higher into the mountain. The way south led to lower ground.
Claire stood up and walked toward the south. She felt she would eventually encounter a town or a small village if she walked far enough. She had to get away.
Blood stained her faded calico dress, but she was not concerned about her appearance. Vaguely, she recalled a time when she felt conceited about her looks. Once upon a time, she kept a meticulous wardrobe. High fashion was essential to her.
Claire's affair with Maxwell felt like a dream. Long ago and far away, she gave her love freely, and Maxwell returned her passion. Following her abduction, she became Gerald's slave. He took from her all her desires and her fire to survive.
Bending down, Claire scratched her leg. Swollen from the leg iron her husband forced her to wear, the skin around her ankle was raw, and it bled. She knew better than to scratch but could not control herself. At times, it burned.
Claire stumbled down the mountain road. It remained deserted. Neither a car nor a pickup truck appeared. She hoped someone would pass soon and give her a ride. She had much explaining to do. Most of all, Claire wanted to go home.
Gerald kept her in the old shack high up in the mountains. Trees grew close to the shack. It appeared as though no one had lived there in years. It became cold inside in the winter, even with a fire blazing beneath the oak mantle. Gerald kept her scantily dressed but allowed her an old horse blanket to wrap herself in. She kept as close to the fire as she could. Still, her teeth chattered, and she couldn't get warm.
"Body heat will keep you from freezing, slut," Gerald claimed, lifting her and tossing her onto the bed. He landed on her, his body gyrating wildly. Most of the time, he didn't complete his attempt at intercourse. When Claire laughed at him, he pummeled her with his fists.
"Leave me alone," Claire cried, squirming away from him. In the tiny shack, she knew avoiding him was impossible. Still, she attempted to free herself.
When Gerald went away to buy groceries, he chained her to the bed. Claire tried to free herself but couldn't. Exhausted, she slumped against the iron bed frame and cried. Thoughts of Maxwell kept her alive, kept her trying to escape.
Night fell, and Claire felt lost. A mist arose, causing her to shiver. She crawled to the edge of the woods and hunkered down. Tears flooded her eyes, and she cried for Maxwell. Peeking through slit pupils, she thought she saw him walking toward her with open arms. Scrambling through fallen leaves, Claire moved toward her lover and fell into his embrace. When she kissed him, her mouth filled with dirt. She spit it out and curled into a ball. Dream—it was only a dream.
The opportunity to escape came the previous day. Gerald sat on the rickety porch with a bottle of rotgut between his knees. As the day wore on, he became increasingly drunk. Claire hunkered inside the door, watching him. When he slumped on the step, she knew he slept. Cautiously, she rose and, carrying the fireplace poker for protection, crept past him.
Gerald's hand encircled Claire's ankle as she stepped into the gravel dooryard. She froze. Her husband yanked her foot out from under her, sending her sprawling into the dirt. His hollow laughter echoed off the mountain.
Rising, Claire steadied herself momentarily and turned to face Gerald. When he stumbled toward her, she forcefully swung the poker. It connected with his temple, and he staggered. She swung again and knocked him to his knees. As though possessed, Claire continued to beat Gerald. When he stopped moving, she prodded him with her toe. Then she squatted and took his wrist in her hand. Relieved, she sat back on her heels, tears flowing down her sweat-stained cheeks.
Claire continued down the mountain in the crisp dawn. It felt as though she walked for miles before the woods opened into a clearing. A general store stood alone in the clearing. An antique Ford truck stood at its lone gas pump. She staggered past it and pushed open the door. For a moment, she leaned in the frame. Then she collapsed onto her knees.
"I killed him," she cried, burying her face in her hands. "I really killed him."
"Who? Who did you kill?" the store's proprietress asked, squatting beside the disheveled girl and enfolding her in her arms.
"My…my husband," she muttered, grasping the front of the woman's dress. "He…" Claire gasped for breath. "He kept me captive in a shack…up there." She pointed skyward, meaning the mountain. "Gerald…"
"Gerald Revelle?" the proprietress gasped. Claire nodded against her shoulder. "You're Claire Ogilvie? You're the missing niece of the record producer, Maynard Oglivie—the one Maxwell is searching for?"
"Yes…yes…" Claire whimpered, her voice barely audible.
MAXWELL
When Claire awoke in the hospital, Maxwell stood up from his chair. He hadn't had a wink of sleep since Ollie gave him the good news. Accompanied by his close friend, he flew directly to West Virginia and remained vigilant at her bedside until she woke up.
"Maxwell," Claire muttered, smiling wanly.
"Claire." Maxwell took her hands and brought them to his lips.
"Gerald," she whispered. Her parched mouth felt creaky as she formed her husband's name. "I…I think I killed him."
"He is dead," Maxwell stated grimly. "You made a helluva good job of it. Much better than Ollie and I planned to do ourselves."
"Oh." Claire collapsed against her pillow. She stared blankly ahead of her.
"We won't speak of it, dearest," he muttered, smoothing her brow, "until you heal. Don't trouble yourself about it." Leaning forward, he kissed her gently.
Oliver Weeks stood in the doorway, nervously knitting his hat in his hands. He didn't want to interrupt the young lovers' reunion, but he anxiously wished to see Claire. Clearing his throat, he announced his presence.
Claire turned to Ollie and beckoned him in with a huge smile. He remained stiff as he approached her, his back a ramrod. Claire took his hand, and he finally relaxed.
"The three musketeers—together again," the convalescent stated, taking the hands of her two companions. Oliver chuckled and kissed her cheek.
"It looks like you stuck with us, Claire darling," Ollie stated, his voice choking with tears.
"I wouldn't want anything else." Claire grinned.
Maxwell laughed for the first time in years. It came out deep and hearty. Tears glistened in his eyes as he looked down upon Claire. For a long time, he believed he would never see her again. He waited for his miracle, and she reappeared as though sent by an angel.
When he gazed upon her, Maxwell didn't see her straggly brown hair or the ghostly paleness of her skin. He saw her as she appeared in the doorway of Ollie's café many years ago. In his eyes, she was beauty personified. He knew he loved her.
In Front of Macy’s: The Do-Over
CLAIRE
The road to recovery stretched out in front of Claire Ogilvie. Without the support of Maxwell and Oliver Weeks, she would have floundered and eventually given up. Her best friends remained at her side throughout the long haul. She appreciated their efforts.
Uncle Maynard promised to hold open her position at the recording studio. He owed Claire a lot considering the ongoing popularity of his new star. On many occasions, he reminded her of her part in Maxwell’s success. She managed a small smile and assured him of her desire to return to his employment.
The festering wound on Claire’s ankle became a permanent scar. Huge and ugly, it stood out like a sore thumb. When she showed it to Maxwell, he kissed it tenderly.
“No one is going to stare at your ankle,” the superstar stated, gazing into her eyes lovingly. “Not with a beautiful face like yours.”
“You’re buttering me up, Maxwell,” Claire answered, leaning back against her pillow. “I’m not as pretty as I once was.”
Claire avoided mirrors. Her once smooth complexion and cheery expression disappeared following her captivity. Gerald wiped away her happy-go-lucky attitude and replaced it with a gloomy outlook. After much persuasion, she agreed to attend therapy sessions. Her psychiatrist listened avidly to her story and prescribed medication. Nevertheless, she didn’t feel is was helpful.
“Give it some time, Claire.” Maxwell grasped her hands and looked at her pleadingly. “It’s still too close in your mind. Memories fade.”
“Not this one,” Claire responded, glumly. “You can’t know what I faced. Memories of abuse won’t disappear overnight or even years from now. I will always remember Gerald’s horrible leering face and the way he misused me.”
“He’ll never misuse you again, sweetest,” Maxwell proclaimed hotly. “I’m going to make your life sunshine and roses from now on. I promise.” Instead of answering, Claire nodded against his chest when he embraced her.
Claire was determined to support Maxwell as much as he supported her. After much thought, she realized he suffered as much as she did. Oliver told her in confidence about his friend’s decline during what he called ‘the missing years.’ Although he didn’t suffer physically as she had, the mental and emotional scars ran deep. She encouraged him to start writing music again.
Maxwell and Claire returned to London where he cut a new album—his first in several years. She accompanied him on a world tour with stops in Japan, Australia, the US and Europe. His new songs rose quickly on the worldwide charts. Screaming fans met them at the airports and local paparazzi followed them as they sped through capital cities.
At the completion of the tour, the young couple felt satisfied with their lives. Caught up in the whirlwind, they put their troubles aside and lived for the moment.
“I love you,” Claire declared, kissing the tip of Maxwell’s nose. She rubbed her hand in circles on his chest. Their lovemaking delighted her.
Following her experience with Gerald, she cringed at human touches and interactions. It took her a long time to accept Maxwell’s attempts at intercourse. Finally, in a wave of love, Claire gave herself to him fully. At that point, she felt she had taken a long step toward recovery.
“I love you too,” Maxwell proclaimed, drawing her close to his side. His patience and tenderness finally paid off.
Wistfully, Maxwell rubbed a long platinum strand between his thumb and forefinger. He loved the softness of Claire’s hair and the delicate color. It reminded him of the first time they met. Closing his eyes, he saw her once again framed in the door of Oliver Weeks’ café. Had he loved her at that moment? He thought he did; he felt sure he did.
During the middle of November, the song Meet Me at Macy’s reappeared on the Hot 100. Over the years, it became a holiday standard, receiving the most airplay between Halloween and the New Year of any other newly popular song. Instead of refusing Macy’s annual plea for Maxwell’s appearance, on this occasion, he agreed to perform.
“Meet me at Macy’s,” Maxwell begged Claire.
Claire’s face turned pallid, and she shook her head mournfully. Over the years, she had grown away from her tragedy. However, she had not grown far enough to stand in front of Macy’s again. Maxwell continued to persuade her, and she continued to refuse adamantly.
“Face your demons,” Ollie urged when Claire told him her misgivings. “You won’t heal completely until you are able to return to Macy’s.”
“I can’t, Ollie. I’m sorry, I can’t.” Claire covered her face with her hands. Her body trembled.
“I will escort you personally if it makes you feel better,” Oliver offered, placing his arm across her shoulder and hugging her to his side. “No one will harm you.”
Oliver had to get Claire to Macy’s. He knew a secret and promised Maxwell he would take her to a certain spot on Thanksgiving Day.
“C’mon, Claire,” Ollie pleaded, “for Maxwell?”
Claire finally consented.
Thanksgiving morning dawned clear and pleasant. Temperatures remained mild throughout the morning. Claire Ogilvie stood close to Oliver Weeks and entwined her hand in his palm. He pressed it warmly, keeping her close to his side. She shivered, not from cold but from memory.
One by one, the floats and balloons streamed past. Claire barely watched the Broadway performances. They didn’t interest her. Behind her heaving bosom, her heart beat wildly. Several times, she tried to escape but Oliver held her tightly. He soothed her as best as he could.
Finally, Maxwell appeared in the turkey float. The words to Meet Me at Macy’s tore at Claire’s heart. Tears sprang to her eyes, and she buried her face in Oliver’s warm chest. He hugged her closely.
A hand fell on her back and Claire nearly leaped out of her skin. Oliver pushed her gently away, but she clung to him furiously. When her companion spoke soothingly into her ear, she lifted her head and met Maxwell’s pleading eyes.
Tenderly, Maxwell took Claire by the hand and led her into the street. She hung back a moment, but, when he grinned, she realized she was safe. Softly, he crooned his hit song as he held his true love in his arms. Claire smiled weakly, tears glistening on her eyelashes. Around the, the crowd sent up a wild cheer. Oliver grinned proudly from the sidelines.
Unexpectedly, Maxwell knelt before Claire. The Macy’s mob hushed, a stunning silence suddenly surrounding them. He took her trembling hand and slipped a diamond ring on the third finger of her right hand.
“Marry me?” he asked. The microphone he wore hidden in his shirt picked his question up. Around the couple, the crowd went wild with excitement.
“Yes,” Claire sobbed, hearing her response echoing along the street. “Oh, yes.” She collapsed into Maxwell’s arms. Over the loudspeakers, Meet Me at Macy’s began to play once more.
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