Can't Stop the Music (The Soul Mate Tree Book 2)

by C. D. Hersh

  A theatrical groan escaped from him. “Please, Rosemary, let’s not discuss that tonight.”

  “I need to know.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it speaks to something mentioned in the teacher’s lounge. That sometimes, you’re small-minded and vindictive. I don’t want to think you’re that kind of man.”

  Even as she spoke the words, she knew deep in her heart, she’d seen glimpses of his small-mindedness. And defended him, because that’s what a girlfriend was supposed to do.

  “Who said that?” he asked between clenched teeth.

  “Doesn’t matter. I stood up for you. Told them you cared deeply about the students and wouldn’t do that.”

  He smiled, the expression full of gratefulness. “Thank you. That means a lot.”

  “But would you fire him?”

  His eyes narrowed. “Yes, I would—for the very reasons you mentioned. I have a duty to protect the students from harmful influences.”

  Rosemary sighed, her disbelief at his attitude growing. “We’re talking about music, Patrick. Not some unspeakable evil. Music comes in all forms, shapes, and sounds, just like people come in all shapes, sizes, and colors. Music lifts the soul and makes the heart happy.”

  “It also perverts and leads astray. Subliminal messages can be put in music.”

  Tipping her head back, she rolled her eyes. “Not the ‘In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida’ conspiracy again. I suppose you think Hendrix’s National Anthem has hidden Satanic messages, too.”

  “You don’t break the rules, Rosemary.”

  “Sometimes you do, and it’s for the best.”

  He gave her a blank stare.

  “You love classical music, right? Beethoven, Debussy, Stravinsky?”

  “You know I do.”

  “They were all musical rebels, the same as Jimi Hendrix, Iron Butterfly, and all the rest of the modern musicians you hate so much. Your beloved Beethoven broke classical music rules. He blurred the lines between the sections within movements. His rule breaking brought emotion and artistry to his songs. Stravinsky’s composition styles were always changing. His Rite of Spring ballet caused riots in the theater.”

  Patrick shook his head, scowling. “His music didn’t cause the riots, the ugly choreography did. All that stomping and ungraceful poses.” He faced her, leaning forward as he continued to defend his argument. “The plot of the story was brutal, too. A woman danced herself to death as a sacrifice to spring. That choreography changed ballet.”

  “And music,” she insisted, as she mirrored his position on the booth seat. “The composition was dissonance personified. Filled with harsh rhythms, banging drums, and sheer cacophony.”

  “Yes.” He waved his hand in the air as if dismissing her. “I’ll admit the work was avant-garde for his time, an aberration from his earlier works. However, the inclusion of the work in Disney’s Fantasia alongside the great compositions of time like Bach’s Toccata and ‘Fugue in D Minor,’ Tchaikovsky’s The Nutcracker Suite and Schubert’s ‘Ave Maria’ moved Stravinsky to the mainstream.”

  For a second she stared at him openmouthed in disbelief. “You can’t call Rite of Spring an avant-garde ballet and then put its composer into mainstream classical music because you want to win an argument with me, Patrick. The definition of avant-garde is unorthodox and experimental. Just like Jimi’s version of The National Anthem is unorthodox.”

  He shot her a look she knew meant he was not going to budge from his assertion, no matter how many correct arguments she threw at him. But she couldn’t stop trying to convince him.

  “And what about Debussy? His harmonies were also considered radical for his time. All the rules these artists broke changed music. You can’t deny that.”

  “Those composers were creating something new,” he harrumphed, “not altering an established composition.”

  “What about John Cage? His 4’33” became the epitome of his idea that any sounds can constitute music. Including four minutes, thirty-three seconds of silence. Cage created something new, but I don’t see you rushing to listen to his compositions. If you truly believed what you just espoused, wouldn’t he be on your list of beloved composers, too?”

  Crossing his arms, Patrick leaned against the booth back. “Silence is not music,” he stated in a dismissive tone.

  “But Cage was right. Even in silence we hear tones and sounds that can be music to someone.”

  “Silence would be better than Hendrix’s, and DeMarco’s, mangling of our national anthem.”

  She shook her head. “You’re missing the point. Different music speaks to different people. For students who don’t get traditional music, introducing them to Hendrix’s version could be a turning point in their musical appreciation. They might be able to relate to a different arrangement better than the original composition.”

  The intensity in her voice ratcheted up. She had to win this argument. She didn’t want to believe Patrick was the narrow-minded person Susan thought him to be. Nor did she want to believe her judgment of him over the last year had been so off.

  His face remained stoic. “Just because you consider noise music, doesn’t mean I have to like or condone it.”

  She sighed. He was being unbelievably difficult. She switched examples, hoping to find something he related to better.

  “Life is made of change. You can’t stop change and you can’t stop the music just because you don’t like it. You’re a history teacher. You wouldn’t change the history you teach to your students just because you don’t care for it. History is what history is. Just like music is what it is, in whatever form.”

  An odd expression flashed over his face.

  “What is it?”

  “I have changed the history I’ve taught my students.”

  His statement appalled her. “You changed history?”

  “Not exactly changed. However, I’ve not taught what I don’t agree with.”

  “Such as?”

  “I allowed no discussion on the hippies’ counterculture assertion of the Vietnam War’s invalidity. I banned current events of the Vietnam War during my time as history teacher in the late Sixties and early Seventies. All that hippie, anti-war rhetoric was just a device to have sex, get high, and listen to subversive rock ‘n’ roll. Teaching that trash to my students wouldn’t have been responsible.

  “If I even mentioned the war, which wasn’t often, I made sure my students knew the horrors of Communism and how we needed to crush its takeover in any part of the world to stop the domino effect. That was the part of history they needed to know and remember. Not some pretentiousness spouted by a bunch of draft-dodging college students and artists who satirized our great country and used the war as a vehicle to advance their drug-filled lives and careers.”

  For a second, Rosemary sat silent, stunned at his rampage. Where the heck had all this come from?

  “My God, Patrick. You just broke your own rules. History has already been composed, to use musical terms. When you omit parts, you’re changing the composition.”

  He shrugged. “History is formed by the conquerors. Who’s to say what parts are real and what parts are invented by the conqueror? I can make that call as well as the next guy. Besides, I’m not the only person who feels this way. My superiors knew I wasn’t discussing the Vietnam War protesters’ positions.”

  His rebuttal dumbfounded her. “I never knew you were such a narrow-minded man. What you’ve done is unconscionable.”

  “Not unconscionable.” He raised his chin and looked down at her. “I’m being responsible.”

  “Responsibility is measuring all sides of an issue before making a decision. I know you wouldn’t buy a house or a car without examination, getting all the information necessary to form an educated opinion. By deliberately omitting important
aspects of history, you’re cheating the students of knowledge. Knowledge they need to form their own opinions about the world. Without knowledge, we’re doomed to repeat the same mistakes over and over.”

  Rosemary leaned back, her insides trembling. Indianapolis or no, they were through this instant. She calculated the mad money in her wallet. Probably not enough to get her home. Would the cab driver believe she’d bring any balance back from the house?

  She studied Patrick’s face. Haughty. Unyielding. Definitely not the man she thought she’d been dating.

  Taking a deep breath, she sighed. “I can’t do this any longer, Patrick. I’ve been thinking about it for a while now, and tonight’s conversation solidifies my decision. We’re finished. I can’t be with someone who doesn’t tell the truth to his students. Someone who doesn’t understand you can’t stop progress, or change history, and you definitely can’t stop the music.”

  Anthony arrived with their meals.

  “Don’t bother to set his down.” She shoved Patrick to the edge of the booth. “He’s leaving.” She frowned at him. “Go find your own table.”

  Anthony swung from side to side with the tray. His mouth opened, then shut. She heard a low “mmmm” as he waited for directions.

  Glaring at her, then at Anthony, Patrick stood. “Don’t bother with a table for me.” Then he strode from the restaurant.

  “I’ll take his meal to the kitchen.” Anthony placed her order on the table. “You won’t have to pay for his.”

  “Thank you, Anthony.”

  He moved to leave, then stopped. “Did you come in your own car?”

  She stared at Patrick’s disappearing back. “No.” Her voice wobbled.

  “Don’t worry,” Anthony said gently. “I get off at ten. If you don’t mind waiting, I’ll take you home.”

  Meeting his tender gaze, she shook her head. “I can take a cab.”

  “No way. You’re going to wait right here for me. Please?”

  She glanced at her watch. Seven o’clock. “I don’t want to hog your table all night.”

  “I don’t mind. Neither will my cousin. Especially when I tell him you were stranded by your date.”

  “If you’re sure.”

  “Never more sure of anything in my life.” He smiled, his expression sweeping her back in time. Was this why she’d never forgotten Dakota? Was he her true destiny? Only one way to find out.

  “I’d be happy, and grateful, to ride home with you.”

  His smile widened. Desire danced in his dark eyes. “Fantastic!”

  Suddenly shy, she concentrated on flipping her napkin onto her lap. From beneath her lashes she watched as he headed for the kitchen with a spring in his step that matched the leaping in her heart.

  She stared at the plate of pasta. After that fight, she should have lost her appetite. Instead, she was famished. And elated. Tonight, she dodged a bullet.

  If luck smiled on her, she’d win a prize as well.

  Chapter 9

  Rosemary had one bite left of the tiramisu Anthony had brought her as a consolation for losing her date, when Patrick reappeared.

  “May I sit?” he asked, his voice cracking. “I need to apologize.”

  “That’s an understatement,” she harrumphed. “No gentleman would leave a lady stranded.” She stuffed the last bit of the delicious dessert in her mouth so she wouldn’t spew more verbal damage.

  He laid three fifty-dollar bills on the table. “For the dinner check and enough to call a cab if you decide you don’t want to forgive me.”

  Caving because of his belated thoughtfulness, she motioned him to the opposite side of the booth. She’d much rather try to part on a congenial note than the blowup they’d had.

  Giving her a grateful smile, he slid across the seat.

  “This is not how I planned tonight going at all. I wanted to spend a romantic evening with you. Instead, we got embroiled in an argument that destroyed our date.” Patrick reached across the table and grabbed her hand. “I hope we’ve encountered a minor setback. Not a major problem.”

  She withdrew her hand. “Sometimes you can’t fix things that are broken.”

  “Don’t say any more, please. Let me say my piece.”

  Whatever he said wouldn’t change her mind. She nodded anyway, since he seemed determined to talk.

  “You were right, and I was wrong.”

  His confession took her aback. She didn’t expect him to admit his guilt.

  “About?” Rosemary asked hesitantly, still expecting a defense from him.

  “Anything and everything.” He swallowed so hard his Adam’s apple bobbed. “You’re the best thing that ever came my way, Rosemary. I don’t want to lose you. I know you love more modern music, yet you’ve been willing to go along with what I love.”

  “But I love—”

  “Please, don’t interrupt. I need to say this before I lose my courage.”

  “Sorry.”

  He cleared his throat before continuing, “If you say I’m narrow-minded, then I’ll work to broaden my horizons. If you want to play rock ‘n’ roll so loud the neighbors complain, then I’ll defend your right to do so. I’ll reconsider my revisionist history to make you happy.”

  He sighed, the sound filled with reluctant resignation. “I’ll even promise not to fire DeMarco if he plays that wretched Hendrix music. However,” he continued, his voice hardening, “I can’t condone teaching subversive music to the students or playing such noise at a football game. I have to draw the line there. Just please,” he pleaded, “don’t break up with me.”

  He reached into his pocket and withdrew something. Then he held his cupped hands over the center of the table. “I love you, Rosemary.”

  Her breath caught in her throat when she spotted a bit of black velvet through his fingertips. Did he have a ring box under his hands? Surely, he wouldn’t try to propose after she’d just told him it was over.

  “I forgive you for leaving me without a way home, Patrick.” The panicked words whooshed out in a desperate effort to stop what she feared his next sentence would be. “But there’s no need to do anything to make me happy. Except the part about not firing Mr. DeMarco. I don’t want his job to become a casualty of our breakup.”

  Almost as if he’d heard his name, Anthony appeared at the edge of the booth behind Patrick. “Ready to go, Rosemary?”

  Patrick yanked his hands under the table and slid over into Anthony’s view.

  Anthony stopped short, his shoulders slumping. “Principal Patrick. I didn’t know you’d returned.”

  Patrick shot him a scowl. “Obviously.” He pasted a more pleasant expression on his face and addressed her. “Am I interrupting new plans?”

  “Anthony offered to take me home when you left,” she explained. “Rather than pay for a cab, I thought—”

  “That was kind of you, DeMarco. However, I can take the lady home. After all, I did bring her.” Patrick’s tone indicated there would be no question about him escorting her home. He slid a fifty to the edge of the table. “For Rosemary’s dinner.” Then he pocketed the other two fifties he’d placed on the table earlier and slapped two singles on top of the fifty. “And your tip.”

  Bristling at the obvious insult, Anthony’s gaze cut between her and Patrick. “Is everything all right, Rosemary?”

  Anthony’s clenching fist drew her attention. “Everything’s fine,” she said quickly.

  The two men glared at each other like banty roosters preening before a cockfight. Neither one seemed confident of her answer.

  “Patrick apologized for leaving me stranded and offered to take me home.” Her gaze cut between the two men. “That’s all that’s going on here. He’s just taking me home.”

  She rose, gathered her purse, and moved betw
een them before they had a chance to confront one another further. She faced Anthony, blocking Patrick’s view.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow, Anthony.” She laid her hand on his arm. His muscles tensed beneath her touch. “Thanks for taking care of me. You’ve been a real gentleman tonight.”

  Then she yanked on Patrick’s fisted hand, dragging him from the restaurant. Leaving with him, since he’d made his apologies, protected Anthony.

  There’d been no mistaking Patrick’s animosity toward the band teacher, even if he had promised not to fire him. She didn’t want to be the reason for him losing his job. Somehow, she needed to make sure he didn’t get caught in the crossfire of their breakup.

  Although she’d indicated everything was okay, Anthony didn’t believe her. He trailed them to Rosemary’s house, parking across the street where he could monitor Patrick and his shifting moods.

  They exited the car, and walked to the front stoop. After she’d unlocked the door, he swore he saw Patrick’s kiss get rebuffed as Rosemary turned her cheek to him instead. The possessive way Patrick behaved at the restaurant made him think the pair had something going on, but the failed goodnight kiss hinted at something different. The couple exchanged some heated words. Then she went inside. Patrick stomped to his car, slammed the door shut, and gunned off into the night.

  He sat in his car for a few minutes watching the lights come on in Rosemary’s house.

  Should he check on her? Leave since he knew she’d arrived home safely? Was she really okay? Patrick left in a bad mood. Had he threatened her?

  Anthony’s protective instincts took over. He exited his car and knocked on her door.

  When she saw him, her mouth dropped open, then her eyes lit up. “Anthony! What in the world are you doing here?”

  “Patrick seemed put out that I planned to bring you home. Considering your argument at the restaurant I thought I should keep an eye on him . . . and you. He seems a bit volatile.”