Free Storms by Carol Ann Harris Page A

went to Scotty’s Steak House in Palo Alto. Lindsey had been going there for dinner with his family since he was three years old. The food was so-so, but the garlic bread was to die for. It was the bread, Lindsey said, that kept the Buckinghams coming back year after year. The topic of conversation:
Rumours.
His family was stunned over the success of Lindsey’s album and I sat next to him happily as they praised his achievement. I could see in Lindsey’s face how much it meant to him to have his brothers and mom so proud of him. I could also see that the three Buckingham brothers were very, very close—and it made me glad for all of them. Watching the three of them talk made me miss my own sisters and I vowed to call them as soon as we were back in L.A.

    Lindsey Buckingham, Greg Buckingham, Jeff Buckingham, Laura Buckingham, Amy Buckingham, Daryl Buckingham.
    On Sunday morning the weather was gorgeous and we drove to Point Lobos, a nature preserve that was a few miles outside of Carmel. Located on the edge of the Pacific Ocean, its miles of wild wetlands and cliffs are absolutely amazing. As I would discover over the years to come, it was one of Lindsey’s favorite places to spend a day smoking weed, walking, and thinking about music.
    As we walked through the beautiful trees and climbed down the rocks to watch the waves crash below us, I clung to Lindsey’s arm and a sense of wonder overwhelmed me. Looking up at his chiseled cheekbones, long, brown-black curls, and piercing blue eyes, I couldn’t believe that I was with him.
I must be in a dream
, I thought to myself.
I’m walking in one of the most beautiful places on earth with a man who takes my breath away. If this is a dream, I don’t ever want to wake up.
As though reading my thoughts, Lindsey looked down into my upturned face and smiled. And I knew that I had never, ever been so in love.
    After a few hours of walking we climbed into the car for our long drive back to L.A. First, though, Lindsey wanted to stop for lunch. We pulled into a roadside diner and on the way inside he saw a newspaper dispenser holding copies of the Bay Area’s free alternative newspaper,
Bam.
It was San Francisco’s answer to New York’s
Village Voice
and on the cover was a small picture of Fleetwood Mac, with a caption that said, “Album review, page 3.”
    Lindsey grabbed the newspaper with excitement in his eyes. Stopping dead in his tracks, he almost tore the paper trying to get to the review of
Rumours.
I stood expectantly beside him as he started to read. Within seconds his face darkened and looks of horror, despair, and rage swiftly moved across his features. He looked up at me and said in a tight voice, “Theyfucking hate the album!” His voice rose in volume. “They basically say it’s
crap!
They trash it!
Jesus, Carol, they hate the album!”
    He started to rip the newspaper into shreds and threw it on the ground. “I’m not hungry anymore. Let’s grab a couple of burgers to go. I want you to eat. I don’t think I can.”
    I felt helpless. I knew I had to make him feel better, but looking at his face left me lost for words. It seemed that in just one moment our world had come crashing down. Even though the afternoon sun was warm, I felt chilled to the bone. We ordered our food to go and climbed back into the car. We’d both lost our appetites, and the food sat forgotten between us.
    Lindsey headed out of the parking lot and back onto the freeway. He was driving about ninety miles an hour, pushing the gas pedal down hard with rage and disappointment. I struggled to think of something,
anything
, to say that would make him feel better.
    â€œIt’s only one review, Lindsey. In a crappy newspaper.
Rumours
is brilliant! Look at all of the airplay it’s been getting. It’s on every radio station!” I said desperately as the car swerved in and out of traffic.
    Suddenly he took