Storms by Carol Ann Harris Page A

arrangements, and bottles of every conceivable alcoholic drink. It was also filled to capacity with men in suits, milling to fill every gap, networking, on the move, cuff links flashing.
    Lindsey grabbed J.C. by the arm. “Get me out of here!” he pleaded, his voice frighteningly quiet. But he’d been seen and heard. The milling stopped for a moment. The shark pack of bodies seemed to inch toward him. There were hands outstretched, shit-eating smiles on faces.
    J.C. quickly told Lindsey that he’d take him to the tuning room where Ray was waiting with Lindsey’s guitars. Lindsey squeezed my hand and pulled me close. “You’ll be all right here for a while?” he whispered to me, then, turning to J.C., “I’m leaving her in your care. Make sure no one bothers her!”
    J.C. nodded at me and, taking Lindsey by the elbow, made way for him through the glad-handers. I stood where he left me, marooned, shaking. I wasn’t expecting it to be like this. Not like this.
    And then I heard Christine’s warm, throaty laugh, and she was suddenly by my side. She threw her arm around my shoulders as she told me in a loud voice not to pay any attention to the flashy men swarming around us. Explaining that they were “money men”, Warner Bros. execs and lawyers, she guided me to the drinks table and told me I’d be wise to keep away from them. She ordered me to have a drink to calm my nerves.
    â€œI don’t drink—” I started to say, but Christine, holding on to her usual vodka tonic, was already pouring the same for me.
    â€œGet that down you”, she ordered. She winked at me again, poured another drink for herself, and spun away. Immediately someone came up to me, introducing himself as Mickey Shapiro, attorney for Christine, John, and Mick. The name didn’t register with me at the time. He was an attorney for just three of the band, not all five. Fleetwood Mac, with its separated affiliations, wasn’t quite the unified organization it pretended to be. Lindsey and Stevie were each represented by different attorneys and whencontracts needed to be signed there were multiple law firms happily billing multiple hours. I returned his handshake, hoping that I could manage a smile to match his leer, and then caught J.C.’s eye. He was waving to me.
    â€œHey, you!” he grinned. “Lindsey’s asking for you. Let’s ferry you through to him.” He crooked his arm for me to slip mine through. I needed the support.
    Lindsey was in a small room along the hallway, sitting on the floor, surrounded by guitars, strumming an Ovation quietly. “Hey”, he grinned. “Mickey Shapiro just stopped by to congratulate me on my new girlfriend. I guess he thinks I chose well!” He stood and hugged me. He seemed back to his old self, there, in that tiny room, hemmed in by instruments. It was where he belonged. He always preferred to be among objects rather than people, I later discovered, especially if they were objects over which he could have total mastery and control. Instruments obeyed him. They spoke the words he wanted them to say and did whatever he instructed them.
    Lindsey pulled me close and kissed me. He handed me his guitar, stroked it lovingly, nodded to a stand where he wanted me to set it and then began to change into his stage clothes, pulling a loose white cotton shirt over his head. With long full sleeves it was cut exactly like a pirate shirt that looked as though it was straight out of the wardrobe department of a film company. Standing there in his faded blue jeans, swirling shirt, cowboy boots, and dark curling hair, he looked like a fairy-tale prince. I wanted to tell him how much he meant to me, but at that moment, just as his lips touched mine, John McVie loped into the room.
    â€œHey, unhand that woman and pick up your Les Paul!” he shouted. Lindsey laughed, but picked up the guitar with the same tenderness that