by C. D. Hersh
“He never has been before.” She cocked her head, staring at him. “Until you arrived. Seems you hit his hot buttons.”
“At least where Jimi Hendrix and you are concerned.” They stood awkwardly in the glow of the front stoop light. The soft light lit the top of her head, creating an angelic luminosity. He longed to gather her in his arms and give her the goodnight kiss Patrick missed. But he wasn’t certain where she stood with the principal. Or how she would receive that kind of advance from him. He remembered her screaming and beating at River when he’d rescued her from his attack. Anthony’s gut twisted at the thought of what might have happened had he and Melody arrived too late. Better to go slow.
“Well . . .” He drew the word out hesitantly. “I guess I should—”
“Do you want to come in for a minute?” She swung the door wide open. “I always make an evening cup of chamomile tea. Do you like chamomile tea?”
He hated the stuff. But if she offered, he’d drink it. “Yum. My favorite.”
She graced him with a sweet smile, and he fell into its depths.
“Make a big pot. I love chamomile.”
Rosemary led him to the kitchen. After putting on the teakettle and setting out a couple of astrologically decorated mugs, she asked, “Want some music? I’ve got the ‘70 original soundtrack from Woodstock.”
Grinning, he flashed a peace sign. “Far out.” He followed her into the living room where he spotted a guitar leaning in a corner. “You play?” He gestured toward the instrument.
“A little. Flute and piano are my main instruments.”
“Mind if I pick out a tune?”
“Be my guest.” She slid an album from the bookshelf and placed the record on her portable player. “I’m sorry I don’t have a better sound system,” she apologized, “but it’s good enough to take me back in time.”
“We only heard a third of what they played anyway, especially on top of the hill where we met.” He paused and stared at her. “Do you ever think about that weekend?”
“Only every time I hear a folk song or any music by the artists who played there. In many ways, Woodstock was one of the best experiences of my life.”
He caught the juxtaposition of hesitancy in her voice at expressing a happy experience. “There’s a big but there. I hear it and see it in your eyes. I hope it’s not because of what happened with River.”
Her eyelids dropped shut and her face blanched. Then a visible shudder caused her whole body to tremble. She wrapped her arms around her chest as if she was barricading her body from the memories.
The desire to find River and beat him to a pulp rushed over him. He should have done more than bloody the jerk’s nose for trying to hurt Rose like that.
Her tongue darted out, wetting her lips. “No. The but isn’t because of River. What he tried to do was awful, and I managed to put that behind me, with time. I owe a lot to you and Melody for rescuing me.”
Upon speaking Melody’s name, her voice hardened, making her sound like Melody and his other girlfriends when new girls came into his social circle.
Rosemary was jealous of Melody? Still, after all these years? His heart pounded like one of Santana’s wild musical riffs.
Anthony picked up the guitar and strummed the strings. “So,” he asked as casually as possible, “how long have you and Patrick been an item?”
The needle on the phonograph skittered over the record. “Crap!” she exclaimed.
His gaze flew to her. A pink flush crept up her throat and over the tips of her ears. She dropped the needle arm onto the holder and examined the record. Apparently satisfied she’d done no damage, she replaced the vinyl on the turntable and gently laid the needle on the record’s edge. The distinctive swish, swish, swish of the needle running over the grooves sounded, then the strains of ‘Volunteers’ came over the speakers. The scream of the teakettle added an extra layer of music to Jefferson Airplane.
“Water’s ready.” She hurried from the living room.
He placed the guitar in its stand and trailed her to the kitchen.
After pouring water in the cups, she asked, “Sugar or honey?”
“Sugar. Lots.” He’d need a quarter cup, at least, to kill the chamomile taste.
“Cookies?”
“Sure, why not.”
As she busied herself fidgeting with the tea and goodies, arranging everything just so on the table, he got the distinct impression she avoided his question. Not to be put off, he tried again.
“Based on the black jealousy sparking from his face when he found out I planned to take you home, I’d guess at least six months, maybe more. He’s invested in you.”
She stopped arranging things and stared at him. “If you must know, it’s been nearly a year.”
“And not married yet?” He whistled and shook his head. “The man’s an idiot. If I were dating you, we’d have the deal sealed. No way would I let a woman like you get away from me. Some slick-talking, ex-hippie might come along and snatch you up.”
She cocked her head and huffed. “Really? I didn’t see you jumping at me ten years ago.” The minute the words hit the air, she clamped her hand over her mouth, her eyes rounding.
A grin teased his lips. He suppressed it. She had more interest in him than she let on. Good. He stepped closer, invading her personal space, and dropped his voice to a whisper. “I am now.”
When she didn’t back away, he caressed her cheek. “I came to Fish Hook to start a new life, never dreaming I’d find you here. That last night at Woodstock, I searched everywhere for you. When I couldn’t find you . . .” He paused, wondering if he should tell her what he’d seen on the hilltop. Then he remembered the tree’s urging to keep its secrets. For all he knew, he’d lose his chance with her if he mentioned the tree at all.
He was fumbling in the dark here. Playing a game with rules he didn’t know. Better to forge forward without the tree story.
“I know we only knew each other a few hours at Woodstock, Rosemary, but something about you has haunted me all these years.” You and the disappearing tree. Funny how they’d both gone missing on him. Had that been the plan? The thing that made him remember her after so long?
He captured her gaze with his, staring deep into her eyes. “If you really love Patrick, I’ll walk away, but if there’s even a hint of doubt over him in your heart, or a tiny bit of feeling for me, I’ll fight for you. All I need is one word from you.”
She stepped out of his reach. His hand, suddenly empty, itched to touch her, but he respected her space.
“He had a ring box tonight.”
His heart plummeted. Not the words he’d hoped to hear. His hand, now ice cold, dropped to his side. “I see.” His voice sounded flat and emotionless to his ears.
“Actually, you don’t.” Rosemary moved farther away from him and continued, “Three months ago, if I’d seen the box in his hand, I would have been thrilled. If he’d asked me to marry him I probably would have answered yes. Now everything’s upside down.”
Her voice wavered, increasing his anxiety. Was upside down good or bad? He stepped toward her. She must have sensed his motion, because she sidled away.
“Please, don’t touch me,” she begged, “or I might not be able to finish what I have to say.”
His heart hit the floor. Bad. Definitely bad.
“I haven’t been able to get you off my mind, either.”
His heart soared. Good?
“But I’d decided I would move forward. After all, what were the chances we’d ever meet again? You were a summer fling, without any fling.”
“You wanted a fling?” The tree promised more than a fling.
“Didn’t matter what I might have wanted. You had a girlfriend. A jealous, possessive girlfriend. If her looks had been daggers, I’
d have died at Woodstock.”
“In all fairness, Melody and I weren’t a couple. We were just a passing thing.”
“And you and I were just a passing wish on my part. A hopeful promise in the night at a magical, musical festival. Now here you are. Telling me you felt the same way I did. Asking me how I feel about a man I’ve been dating exclusively for almost a year. A man who says he loves me and most likely would have asked me to marry him tonight, if things had gone differently.”
The back and forth of her argument over their relationship slung his emotions around like the treetops in the summer storms at Woodstock. “So, do you?”
She faced him, her eyes bright with fire. “Do I what?”
“Do you want to marry him?”
She opened her mouth and drew in a breath to answer, then expelled it with a heavy sigh. He could clearly see the struggle going on inside her.
“You said you came here to start over. I don’t want to jeopardize your new beginning.”
“That’s not an answer, Rosemary. Do you want to marry Patrick? Yes or no?”
She closed her eyes for a long moment. When she opened them, determination shone brightly. “No. I broke up with him tonight, and in doing so I may have endangered your position as band teacher, especially if we begin a relationship. He’s jealous. Probably as jealous as Melody was over me. He might fire you.”
“I’ll take the risk.” He closed the gap between them, gathering her in his arms. “He’s already threatened to can me if I play Hendrix.”
“As much as I’d enjoy hearing that song, please, promise me you won’t.”
Tipping her chin up, he whispered, “Anything for you.” Then he lowered his mouth to hers and kissed her, savoring the sweet taste he’d only dreamt of. She leaned against him, their bodies molding together perfectly. In the strains of Woodstock music coming from the living room, he swore he heard the lyrics I’ll gift you forever, to have and to hold.
As their kisses grew more passionate, she mumbled against his lips, “We should drink our tea before it gets cold.”
“I hate chamomile tea,” he confessed.
She drew away and stared at him. “You lied?”
“Fibbed a little. But only to get my foot in the door.”
She punched him lightly on the chest. “Don’t do that again.”
“You have my word.” He grabbed her fist and kissed her knuckles one by one, lavishing his tongue over the flesh. A tiny moan escaped from her. He gazed at her in expectation. Her eyes drifted shut, her head dipping backward as an expression of rapture floated over her face.
The doorbell rang, startling them apart.
He checked his watch. “Who’s calling on you this late?” He moved toward the entry.
Rosemary stopped him. “Wait. It might be Patrick. We had words before he left. He could be coming to apologize again.”
“At this hour?”
She shrugged. “My lights are on. There’s music playing. He probably thinks I’m awake . . . and alone.” Panic filled her voice. “Stay here. I’ll get rid of him.” She ran her hands over her hair and straightened her clothing.
He followed, hiding in the hallway where he could hear and not be seen. As he leaned against the wall, his shoulder knocked a picture frame askew. Afraid it might crash to the floor, he grabbed the edge. When he saw what lay beneath the glass, his heart rammed against his rib cage.
Light green leaves glittered in the overhead light. A crease, in the edge of one of the leaves, exposed a silvery underside. He recognized them as the same leaves she’d been wearing in her hair ten years ago. The same leaves he’d seen on the tree. And they looked as if they had just been plucked. How could that be?
Unless the tree was real. Magically real. If so, did that mean they were meant for each other?
Encouraged, he gently straightened the frame and crept closer to the front door. The leaves were his omen. Rosemary was his. He’d do whatever necessary to make sure he ended up with what the tree promised him.
His soul mate.
Chapter 10
“Where is he?” Patrick demanded when Rosemary answered the door. He gripped the edge of the wood, trying to force it open.
“Who?” She braced her foot against the metal kickplate, holding the opening too close to the doorjamb for entry.
“DeMarco.”
“What makes you think he’s here?”
Patrick flung his free hand toward the street. “His car’s parked across from your house.”
“How would you know his car?”
“I make it my business to know all my teachers’ vehicles.” He scowled at her. “But that’s beside the point. I couldn’t come in, yet you let him in.”
Her gut twisted at his attempts to weasel his way into the house.
I told him we were through at the restaurant. I made it clear he was just taking me home. Rebuffed his goodnight kiss. How many more ways am I going to have to say it?
He continued, “You’re playing music. Having a good time. Without me.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Patrick. He came by to make sure I was okay.” She pinned him with a stare she hoped would make him back down. “You were pretty rude tonight. To him and me.”
“And I apologized to you.” He shoved on the door. “Let me in.”
“Not tonight, Patrick. Not any night.” Never now that Anthony and I have found each other again.
Anthony appeared at her shoulder. Placing his hand lightly on her arm, he asked, “Is there a problem, Rosemary?” He nodded at Patrick. “Principal Patrick.”
“DeMarco.” The single word, spoken between clenched teeth, sounded unfriendly. “Why are you here?”
“I promised to see the lady home safely. You didn’t expect me to just go home after seeing the fight you had with her, did you? My grandma raised me better.”
Patrick’s eyes darkened to black as a low, menacing growl rolled from him.
At the sound, Anthony stepped in front of her, his body shielding her from Patrick’s anger. The protection he provided felt right. Reassuring. Romantic. The thought she’d never been this secure in the entire time she’d dated Patrick flashed through her brain.
“It’s been a long night for all of us.” Anthony’s voice, soft and soothing, didn’t seem to reassure Patrick. “We should both leave the lady alone now.”
When he didn’t move, Anthony grabbed the edge of the door, wrenching it from Patrick’s grip.
Startled, Patrick retreated as Anthony advanced on him.
Angling his face toward her, while still keeping an eye on the retreating Patrick, Anthony whispered, “Good night, Rosemary.”
Then he refocused his attention. “I’ll walk you to your car, principal. Let’s see if we can sort this out on the way. Man to man.”
“Don’t do anything stupid,” she whispered to Anthony when she thought Patrick was out of earshot. “Remember what I told you.”
“Romance isn’t a valid reason for canning someone. I read the teacher’s manual. I know the rules. Don’t worry. Everything will work out.”
She watched the two men as they strode to their cars. Patrick’s shoulders hunched, his body tense and coiled to strike. Anthony’s posture mirrored that of a man who wasn’t afraid of anything: tall, straight, and assured. If she’d been comparing them for the first time, she would have seen the difference immediately, and chosen accordingly. Why she hadn’t seen Patrick’s true self sooner flummoxed her. The contrast in the two men was crystal clear.
She’d been searching in the wrong place for true love for so long, her vision had become clouded.
She stood there watching until they both entered their cars. Patrick gunned his engine like a teenager challenging a rival to a drag race and squealed off in a puff of smoke.
Anthony ignored the roaring challenge, smoothly steering his car from the curb. Then he angled to the center of the street directly across from the house, rolled down his window, and threw her a kiss.
“Tomorrow, Rose!” he called. “Our new lives start tomorrow.”
As the car disappeared, she closed the door and leaned against the wood, her knees as loose as the worn-out rubber bands in her school desk.
She’d waited ten years for this to happen. Ten years to find the man who really might be her soul mate. Now that the time was here, she was scared witless. What if Patrick went berserk over the breakup? What if he blamed Anthony and fired him? What if he fired her?
The last melody on the album ended, the needle swishing in rhythm as it circled the record. She crossed into the living room and turned the vinyl over. Then she laid the needle on the groove she knew contained Woodstock’s closing set.
Grabbing the guitar from its stand she played along, singing the national anthem to the wild, wailing riffs. The song represented the strength of Americans, fighting for freedom in a new way. She would do the same. Anthony promised her everything would be all right. Promised a new life. The tree promised a soul mate.
She would grab those promises and become the free-spirited woman she’d been too frightened to be at Woodstock.
The minute Rosemary entered the teacher’s lounge the next morning the tension in the air crackled.
“Your boyfriend’s on the rampage this morning.” Susan dropped her voice to a whisper. “Didn’t you give him any last night?”
“Don’t be vulgar. Whatever I did last night is none of your business.”
Anthony entered, flashing Rosemary a big smile and a friendly wave. She tried to nod noncommittally, but a smile inched up her cheek. Susan followed her gaze then pivoted in her chair.
“Geez, Rosemary, do you have to grab all the men at school? I want this one.”