by C. D. Hersh
Susan shot her an offended expression. “I don’t know why you’re defending him. As a former flower child, I thought you’d be more with-it than the rednecks in this backward town.”
A collective gasp rose in the room at the insult. Rosemary gave Susan a glare intended to stop the rant about Patrick and the lovely town they all lived in. “Attending Woodstock doesn’t make me a hippie, Susan.” She had, in fact, failed miserably at fitting into the counterculture of the Sixties. “Any more than being a New Yorker makes someone as rich as Rockefeller.”
The fifteen-minute warning bell sounded. The rest of the teachers gathered their possessions and hurried from the room, leaving her and Susan confronting each other.
“I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t insult Patrick,” Rosemary said evenly. Even though she planned to end their relationship, she didn’t want the other teachers disrespecting him. “Fish Hook isn’t New York City. We have different values in small town America than you New Yorkers. The principal is just doing what he thinks is best for the students.”
“And running this school like a little Hitler.”
“If you don’t like it here, you should leave.”
“And miss taking a shot at the gorgeous Mr. DeMarco? Not a chance.” Susan skimmed her hands along her body, her hips wiggling seductively.
Rosemary made a note to warn him. He wouldn’t want to get mixed up with this man-eater.
As soon as the last class ended, Rosemary headed to the band room. Mr. DeMarco was bent over the side of a box digging out band uniforms, his snugly trousered rear perched in the air. A few of the band mothers stood behind him, admiring the view. Pausing at the door, she took in the scene. The new band instructor looked good from this angle. Would he be as cute from the front as Susan had declared?
Mr. DeMarco straightened and handed several uniforms to the woman nearest him. “The boys are in room 105. The girls in 104.” He bent and dug out another armful of uniforms and passed them to the next woman. When he’d gone through the waiting line, he spotted her lingering in the doorway.
“Don’t be shy,” he called out. “I’ve got more uniforms.” He waved her in.
“I’m not here to help with the uniforms.” She entered, her hand outstretched in greeting. “I’m the vocal music teacher. I wanted to introduce myself.”
With a jerk of his head, Mr. DeMarco flipped back the length of hair swooping over his forehead. For a split second, the motion transported her back to Woodstock, and how Dakota flipped his shoulder-length hair over his shoulder. She stopped, caught in her memories, staring at the band teacher.
When she didn’t advance, DeMarco strode to her and grasped her hand. His flesh against her palm sent a glissando of shivers up her arm, bringing her focus back to the present.
“Nice to meet you, Miss . . .?”
“Sterling, Rosemary Sterling,” she interjected, struggling to hide the cracking of her voice caused by the warmth of his touch. “You can call me Rosemary. All the other teachers do.”
“Nice to meet you, Rosemary. I’m Anthony. My closest friends call me Tony.”
“So, Anthony—”
“Tony.” His smile almost melted her knees. “I’d like it if you would call me Tony.”
His emphasis on the word you gave her pause. “Are the other teachers calling you Tony?” She thought about Susan’s blatant announcement to go after this man.
Eyes twinkling, he smiled and leaned in closer. “No. I’m only extending the invitation to you.”
She felt her face flush. “I’m afraid the other single teachers might be jealous. If you don’t mind, I’ll stick with Anthony or Mr. DeMarco. It’s safer for both of us.”
“But not as much fun.” He squeezed her hand, reminding her he still held it. Tactfully, she extricated her fingers from his warm grasp. His fingertip slid across her palm, sending a delicious shudder along her spine. It took every muscle in her arm, and a stern order from her brain, to pull away from him.
Mamma Mia! Susan underestimated this man’s gorgeousness factor.
She stepped away from his personal space, hoping his charm would ebb. It didn’t. She changed the subject. “I understand you had a run-in with the principal.”
He raised his black eyebrows in a question.
“School gossip,” she said. “It’s been a while since we had new blood to bandy about.”
“If it brought you here, then I don’t mind.” He laughed, showing a set of perfectly straight, white teeth. “Yeah, we had a minor disagreement about a version of ‘The Star Spangled Banner’ I played for the students.”
“Jimi Hendrix.”
“You know the song?”
“I heard him play it live once.”
“Where?”
She hesitated. Should she reveal her hippie past to a stranger? Something made her answer his question despite her doubts. “Woodstock.”
“Me, too.” He gave her the once-over, his eyes sweeping from the top of her head to the tip of her toes.
A shiver progressed along her body in synchronization with his inspection from her tight French twist, to the white blouse with the bow tied at the neck, her tailored jacket, and knee-length skirt. His gaze continued down her legs to the sensible, unadorned pumps she wore.
“Hard to imagine you with flowers in your hair, wearing paisley, love beads, and no—” His eyes wandered to her chest, and he coughed uneasily. “You know.”
She crossed her arms over her breasts. “Well, I did. Please don’t spread that image around the school. I need to maintain a sense of propriety with my students.” And Patrick. He freaks out any time hippies are mentioned.
“Absolutely not. As long as you don’t tell them I had freak-flag hair, wore psychedelic bell-bottoms and peace symbols, ran around barefooted, and had a hippie nickname.”
She crossed her heart. “Your secret is safe with me. If Principal Patrick knew, he’d fire you on the spot. So, were you in one of the bands at Woodstock?”
“No, I worked there.”
“Worked?”
“As a roadie.”
Her heart leapt. A roadie at Woodstock with a nickname? She only knew Dakota by his nickname. He had long hair and was a roadie.
She studied him closer. His coloring matched. Olive skin. Dark hair. She tried to imagine him with hair to his shoulders and no beard. This man had more muscles than Dakota, but a lot of the hippies had been thin. Heck, most of the population had been thinner ten years ago.
Hundreds of thousands of people attended Woodstock. What were the chances she and Anthony had crossed paths? Or that he might be Dakota? A million to one? An impossibility?
“What did they call you?” Her voice quavered with excitement.
“It was a stupid nickname. A friend gave it to me. He thought Anthony was square.”
She gasped aloud.
“You all right?” he asked. His forehead creased, causing two narrow lines to appear above his nose.
She clapped her hand over her mouth as she recognized him. “Dakota?” Her heart pounded in her chest like the drums in Santana’s band.
Anthony stared at Rosemary. “How did you guess my nickname?”
“We met at Woodstock. I’m Rose. We performed together on the free stage.”
Stepping into her personal space, he grasped her shoulders, peering deep into her eyes. “And slid down the hill with you on top of me.” He remembered the feel of her body pressed against his. The exhilaration of the ride and how easy and cool she’d been about what happened.
Her head bobbed vigorously. “I fell in the mud puddle at the bottom.”
He embraced her. She stiffened and he let go. “I’m sorry. That was forward. I’m just excited to see you. I searched for you after Melody came to get me. And on Monday, d
uring Jimi’s set, I searched at the lean-to and by the fence where you said your friends were. Where did you go?”
She gave a short laugh. “Apparently, we just missed each other. After Melody made it clear I was not welcome, I left. A few hours later, I came back and stayed until about five. When you didn’t show, I joined my friends. The next morning, we headed out as Jimi played.” She paused and stared at him, her eyes dark with sadness. “How is Melody?”
“I don’t know. We broke up at Woodstock, not that there was much to break.”
“She thought so. Threatened to claw my eyes out over you.”
He closed his eyes and dropped his chin toward his chest. “I’m sorry, Rose, for everything that happened to you. River. Melody. Letting you slip away from me.”
Her sharp intake of breath caused him to raise his gaze to hers. Was that hope he saw in her eyes?
“We should go to dinner. Talk. Get to know each other better and start over,” he urged.
Her eyes shuttered over. “I can’t. Not now.” She backed away. “I just came in to tell you to be careful. The principal is a traditionalist. Hippies, Woodstock, and rock ‘n’ roll could get you fired. I wouldn’t want that to happen to you.”
“Me either, now that I’ve found you again.”
“Please don’t say that, Anthony.” She moved to leave, then stopped. “Watch out for Susan Markham, too. She’s a man-eater, and she’s got a thing for you.”
“Are you jealous?”
“No. I just don’t want you to have to deal with another Melody. Once in anyone’s life should be enough.” She rushed from the room.
Anthony plopped onto the nearest chair, head spinning. After all these years, he’d found her. But she’d said, ‘Not now.’ Did that mean never? Maybe? Or later?
I can wait.
He planned to stay in this town and begin a new life. He’d make sure he kept this job. Sooner or later he’d get his chance with Rose.
After all, they’d both seen the tree.
Chapter 8
A honking horn in the driveway alerted Rosemary to Patrick’s tardy arrival. His ill-mannered action annoyed her as memories of Dakota’s gentlemanly behavior at Woodstock flashed through her mind. She shook her head to rid herself of the images of the tall, handsome boy waving his hand in front of his chest and saying, “Ladies first.”
Patrick leaned across the passenger seat and shoved the door open as she approached the car. “If we hurry, we can get there before they give our reservation away.”
“The Literary Lounge doesn’t need a reservation.” She snapped on her seatbelt. Once their relationship was out, they always ate at the Literary Lounge on Thursdays. He liked to show her off to the teachers and townspeople. It was a safe place to break up with him, since she was certain he wouldn’t cause a scene surrounded by people they knew.
“I promised you a surprise when school started. It started.” He gave her a peck on the cheek then rolled the car onto the street.
“I thought it might be the new band teacher hire.”
“DeMarco? Why would he be my surprise?”
“You didn’t tell me about him. That was a surprise. I felt like an idiot when Susan Markham started crowing about him.” She twisted in the seat to face him. “Don’t you think I should have been consulted about hiring someone in the music department? I have to work closely with the band director on musical projects.”
He patted her hand. “No need for you to worry. I’ve got everything covered. Besides, if he keeps playing his subversive un-American trash, he won’t be with us long.”
“Then what Susan said is true? You threatened to fire Anthony for playing Jimi Hendrix’s song?”
His head jerked toward her, a pinched expression on his face. “You’re on a first name basis with him already?”
“I mean, Mr. DeMarco,” she corrected.
“I can’t have a bad influence on the students. They’re my responsibility. Parents are expecting me to protect their minds.”
“Parents are expecting us to teach their children.”
“I don’t want to spoil our evening by arguing about this, Rosemary. Can we table the unpleasant conversation about DeMarco? Let’s concentrate on us.”
His plea sounded so sincere, she decided to do as he asked. There was more than enough unpleasantness scheduled for tonight without talking about his issues with Anthony. She settled back in her seat. “Okay. So, where are we going tonight?”
“There’s a little Italian restaurant that just opened in downtown Indianapolis.”
Indianapolis? That’s nearly an hour away. Too far to walk home if he gets mad and leaves without me. She’d seen his temper enough to know it was a possibility.
“It’s had rave reviews. You need a reservation to get in.”
She swallowed her fear. The breakup would have to wait until tomorrow. She forced a smile. “I love Italian.” The second the words were out of her mouth, visions of a certain Italian stallion leapt into her head. She shoved them aside. Not yet, Rosemary. Not until you’ve broken up with Patrick.
The tiny restaurant, no bigger than a hole-in-the wall diner, squeezed between two taller buildings. They arrived seconds before their reservation time. Patrick let her out of the car at the front door, with instructions to secure their table, while he hunted for a parking place.
The hostess led her to a corner booth. A candle stuck in a fat, green wine bottle lit the cozy space. The smell of oregano, basil, and sautéed garlic spiced the air, making her mouth water. She slid onto the middle of the booth, then scanned the menu.
“Rosemary.” A deep voice interrupted her perusal of the entrees.
She glanced up, expecting Patrick. Instead, Anthony stood beside the table, a white apron wrapped around his trim hips.
A broad smile spread over his face. “What are you doing here?”
“Me?” The single word skittered up the scale in surprise. “What are you doing here?”
“My cousin owns the place. He needed an extra hand. Since I used to wait tables, I volunteered to help him out. What do you want to drink? We have great wines, mixed drinks, tea, and soda.”
Her mouth went dry, and her stomach flipped so hard the thought of putting food into it made her want to run to the ladies’ room and puke. He was going to wait on them?
“DeMarco?” Patrick drew up short as he approached the table. A frown creased his forehead.
“Principal Patrick. You out on the town for a night, too? So’s Rosemary.”
Patrick’s frown deepened. “I know. With me.” He shoved past Anthony and scooted on to the edge of the booth, motioning for her to move over.
Anthony’s confused gaze cut between them. Then his expression changed from friendly to professional. “What can I get you to drink?” he asked in the practiced tone of a polite server.
“Iced tea, for both of us,” Patrick said.
“Lemon?” Anthony asked, glancing at her.
“No lemon for either of us.” Patrick’s voice became more emphatic. “And we’ll both have the pasta special from the blackboard.”
She elbowed him, piqued he’d ordered for her like a domineering man.
“What?” he asked sharply as he rubbed the spot where she punched him.
“A glass of red wine for me, please, Anthony. And put a slice of lemon on the edge of the glass. The pasta special will be fine.”
Anthony’s mouth twitched into a smile. Then he forced it into a straight line, his lips clamped together. “Yes, ma’am.”
As he left the table, she saw his shoulders shake in silent laughter.
Patrick scowled. “You never drink at dinner. What’s got into you?”
She didn’t dare tell him the truth—that the subversive, un-American, song-playing, for
mer-hippie had gotten under her skin. Correction—had been under her skin for ages.
And she immediately regretted telling Anthony she couldn’t go out with him. When he’d asked her for coffee, she should have followed her youthful dream. But that would have been unfair to Patrick.
Rosemary stole a glance at the man tucked in beside her. Adequate. Strong. Steady. Protective. Maybe too protective, but he meant it in a good way. That should have been enough.
He grasped her hand and kissed it. She stared at their clasped hands in amazement. No glissando of shivers rippled up her arm. No shudders. And definitely no knee melting.
“I’m sorry I upset you. The way DeMarco ogled you set something off in me. I just had to show him you were mine. Ordering was the first thing that popped into my head. Forgive me?”
From the depths of her memory, she heard the enticing promise of the Woodstock tree. Adequate wasn’t enough. She wanted the soul of her life.
Now that Anthony had arrived, stirring old memories and desires, she knew her decision to leave Patrick was right. Especially since she was seeing a different side of him. Domineering. Jealous.
No. Patrick could never be the soul of her life.
She untangled her hand from his and patted his forearm. “I accept your apology.”
Anthony brought their drinks. “Your orders will be up shortly.”
Patrick glared at him, not even providing the usual ‘Thank you.’
After Anthony left, she decided to breach the subject of Jimi Hendrix and Anthony. Might as well use what little influence she had left with Patrick to try and smooth things over with Anthony. After the breakup, she wouldn’t be able to be a buffer between him and any of the teachers.
“Are you really going to fire Mr. DeMarco if he plays Jimi Hendrix’s version of The National Anthem?”