by C. D. Hersh
“He doesn’t value me—as a teacher.”
Susan leaned forward like a hungry dog at mealtime and nodded.
“I’m not as important as the math teacher or the science teacher. I’m just a music teacher.”
“Oh, my gosh, Rosemary. When people think like that, who knows where the liberal arts in schools will end up? We could all be canned someday if that kind of thinking spreads. We should do something.”
“I didn’t tell you so you could act against him. Please don’t spread that around to the other teachers. I was only sharing with you.”
Guilt gnawed at her over giving Susan ammunition against Patrick. What had she done?
Patrick stuck his head into Rosemary’s classroom as she dismissed her students from her last class. “Got a minute?” he asked.
“Professional?”
He stepped farther into the room. “Personal.”
Directing her attention to the music on the stand in front of her, she replied, “No.”
He ignored her response, crossing the room to where she stood. “Look, Rosemary, I’m sorry about whatever I did to upset you. Let’s start over.”
“Not going to happen, Patrick.” She shoved the music into her briefcase. “We can be friends, if you want, but we can’t start over. We both need to move forward.”
“It’s DeMarco, isn’t it? Don’t try to deny it. I caught you with him at your house after you sent me away. Without a goodnight kiss.” His fists balled at his side. “What were you two doing?”
She watched the motion with dismay. She plopped her briefcase on the music stand with a whump.
“What we were doing is none of your business. I told you we were through earlier that evening, before Anthony offered to take me home after you abandoned me at the restaurant. Your inability to accept our breakup is only one of the things on the growing list of why we aren’t a couple anymore. You ignored me most of the summer. Why?”
“I was busy.”
“All we talked about on dates was school, the other teachers, the things we had in common like music, and theatre. I want more than a surface relationship. We dated for nearly a year, and last night I discovered a side of you I don’t trust. I don’t want to spend my life with someone who isn’t what he pretends to be.”
“You don’t know who DeMarco is.”
“Add jealousy to the list. And stop blaming Anthony.”
“But everything changed after you met him. He’s the problem.”
“I’m the problem. I want something different. Something—someone—who’s not you. And some part of me has wanted that the whole time we’ve been dating. No, I’ve wanted it ever since I was twenty years old. I tried to make this work, honestly I did, but I couldn’t. I’m going after what I want now, and you’re going to have to accept that we’re through.”
“Is it DeMarco?”
“If you’re asking if I’ve cheated on you with DeMarco, the answer is no.” Not physically, although her heart had always belonged to the handsome hippie.
“That’s not what I meant.”
Rosemary picked up her briefcase. “It never is.” Moving to her desk, she retrieved her purse. “If you have no school business to discuss, I’ll be leaving.” Then she stalked out of the music room, leaving him sputtering behind her.
As she passed the band room, Anthony hailed her. “Did you get a chance to check out the music?”
“I did, and it’s great.”
“Something wrong? Your face is all red.”
She stopped and stared at him. “Are you always this observant?” The difference between the two men astounded her, but not as much as her failure to notice Patrick’s lack of discernment. How could she not see the real man?
She scanned the hallway for other teachers or students. Empty. “I had another argument with Patrick. He just won’t give up. He’s blaming you for our breakup.”
“I can see why he won’t give up on trying to get you back. He’s losing a fantastic woman.”
“Humph. A whole year with the man and he never called me fantastic. Two days with you and see where I rate. Why won’t he accept that we’re done?”
“Well, you did let him take you home from the restaurant.”
“I told him I forgave him for leaving me. I didn’t mean I wanted to keep dating him.”
“Potatoes, pah-tah-toes. Same difference to him.” He glanced around the hallway then leaned in and whispered, “We did kiss.”
“After I told him we were through.”
“He’s right about me. I want you.”
The beginning of a blush heated her cheeks. “I told him I was going after my youthful dream. You might get canned. Heck, I might get canned.”
“I’ll take the risk if you will. Besides, remember I read the teachers’ manual. He can’t fire us for romance.” He gave her a mischievous glance. “Unless he catches us in a compromising act on school grounds. I have too much respect for you to do that.” He opened the door for her, waiting for her to exit.
The sound of rustling leaves floated on the air. She stopped and stared deep into his eyes as strains of the poem she’d heard at Woodstock drifted through her mind: Find the soul of their lives if they but believe.
I believe. This time with Anthony would be different.
“I’m in.”
“For romance or compromising acts?”
At the thought of committing compromising acts with him, a heat wave rushed from her core to her head, turning her face so hot she knew he could see her embarrassment. Could he also see how much she wanted what he suggested?
“No compromising acts at school.” She ducked her head shyly.
“Then no burgers and fries tonight?”
“Nope. I’ve got schoolwork. I’ll do what I can before you pick me up. We can still talk about the concert at dinner.”
His eyes darkened. “On our first date I think I can manage something better.”
She shivered at the word date. This was really happening. Me, with Dakota. Finally. She gave him what she hoped was a charming smile. “Come as early as you can. If I have to, I’ll put in a late night after dinner.”
He gave her a brilliant smile as he waved her toward the parking lot. “Just what I wanted to hear.”
She tried to reflect his joy in her smile, but deep in her heart a tiny tremor of terror stirred. If Patrick was so upset because he suspected her attraction to Anthony, what would he do when he became certain?
Chapter 12
At seven sharp, Rosemary’s doorbell rang. Nervously, she tugged up her panty hose and smoothed the skirt of her dress. Then she checked her hair in the mirror and opened the door.
Anthony stood on the stoop, a broad smile on his face. In his hand he held a bouquet of mixed flowers containing a single red rose, some white daisies, a couple of lilies, and a spike of pungent rosemary.
He held them out to her. “You weren’t wearing flowers in your hair at Woodstock, so I wasn’t sure what kind you liked. I hope these are okay.”
“They’re beautiful.” Waving him inside, she took the blooms from him. “How sweet of you.”
“I thought flowers for my flower child, Rose, were appropriate.”
His footsteps behind her stopped, and she turned. He stood staring at her Woodstock collage.
“This takes me back.” He tapped the glass over the Woodstock ticket. “This ought to be worth money someday.”
“Too many memories attached to sell those mementos.”
He closed the gap between them and embraced her, holding her close. “Remember when I held you in my arms at Woodstock?”
She giggled. “Technically, one arm. You held up your guitar case with the other as we slid down the hill.”
“I didn’t tell
you then, but holding you felt right. Still does.”
She lowered her head. He tipped her chin up until she gazed at him.
“This date has been a long time coming, Rosemary.” Then he kissed her.
For a second she didn’t move. Then as his kiss deepened, she fell victim to its power. Her arms wrapped around his neck, the fragrance of rose, lily, and rosemary swirled around them as the bouquet rested against his back. After what seemed an eternity, he released her.
“I should get these flowers in water before the heat of passion wilts them.” And me.
He released her, his reluctance evident in the slowness of his movements.
“Where are we going to dinner?” she called over her shoulder as they headed for the kitchen.
“I thought we’d go somewhere in town.”
“Not your family’s Italian restaurant in Indy?”
“You like Italian that much? Or are you skittish about revealing our relationship to the school staff?”
“I like Italian.” She jabbed a finger at him. “Especially this Italian.”
He grinned. “Italian it is.”
The hostess seated them in a secluded corner booth, then scurried off toward the kitchen. A few minutes later, a rotund man in a chef’s hat came to the table.
“Antonio!” He threw his arms out wide. “I’m glad to see you.” His gaze cut to Rosemary. “And who is this vision of beauty?”
“This is Rosemary. Rose.”
“Woodstock Rose?”
She cast a questioning glance at Anthony. Woodstock Rose? His family knew about her? Had nicknamed her?
The man grabbed her hand and kissed it. “Glad to meet you, my dear.”
“I’m afraid you have an advantage. You are?”
“I’m sorry,” Anthony said. “I should have introduced you. This is my cousin, Franco. He owns the restaurant.”
Franco beamed at them like a proud parent. “Tonight, Antonio, I will fix you and your lady the best meal you have ever eaten. In honor of the special occasion.” He snapped his fingers at a passing waiter. “Bring them wine. The best on the menu.” Then he kissed her hand and rushed toward the kitchen.
“What special occasion?”
“I might have mentioned to Franco I’d met the girl of my dreams. The one from Woodstock who got away.”
“Hence my nickname Woodstock Rose. Does your whole family know about me?”
“Not yet. I swore Franco to secrecy, since I didn’t know how things would work out with us at first. I’m hoping you’ll be open to meeting them.”
She thought about how close she’d come to making the wrong choice with Patrick. The tree promised true love. Until she knew without a doubt Anthony was the one, she wanted to keep things simple. Unfettered and unencumbered from external pressures. Free to explore what she’d been afraid to do at Woodstock.
“After we’ve get to know each other better. Until then let’s keep this between the two of us.”
“Okay, no family. And we’re not telling the school staff. So, let’s get to know each other better. Let’s talk about past relationships.”
That part would be easy. She didn’t have much in the way of past relationships to reveal. She thought about Melody. The girl screwed things up royally for her ten years ago. What would have happened if the witch hadn’t been in Anthony’s life? For a second, Rosemary daydreamed about a life with him. No, she definitely didn’t want to deal with any of his past girlfriends. She’d waited too long for him. Sharing him with other women, even those in his past, wasn’t something she wanted to do until she was secure in their relationship.
“Let’s just live in the moment. Like a couple of old hippies. No past. No family for now.”
Nodding, his eyes closed briefly. Then he exhaled, the sound quiet and deliberate.
He’d given in too quickly. Was there someone he dreaded talking about?
She shrugged off the niggling of discomfort. After all, she had a crazy aunt or two in her family closet she’d rather he not meet until their relationship had a solid footing. Otherwise, he might think her a dingbat, too.
A waiter arrived with a basket of Italian bread. She snapped her napkin onto her lap and slathered butter on one of the rolls. “This smells heavenly.”
“Franco uses an old family recipe.”
She bit into the bread. “Yum. I hope you know the secret, because I could eat this every day. To heck with the calories.” She took a second bite, moaning with pleasure as the taste of rosemary and oregano filled her mouth.
At the sound, his eyes glazed with desire. “Stop it, Rose. You’re killing me with that look and groan.” He reached across the narrow table and wiped a smudge of butter from the corner of her mouth with his thumb. His finger brushed the opposite side of her lips. Of its own volition, her tongue darted out and licked his thumb.
His eyes rounded and his chest rose as he sharply inhaled.
Heat flared in her face. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to . . . I wasn’t intentionally . . .” But she had to admit she liked, no loved, his reaction to her. She dipped her head, glancing at him through her eyelashes, suddenly shy.
“Don’t apologize. I’d bake fresh bread every day if I thought it would lure you to me.” He gently took her hand in his. “How many rolls will I need to make you mine?”
She wanted to scream, None, I’m yours for the taking. But she didn’t. After ten years of waiting and hoping, she feared if she spoke the words aloud he would disappear.
When she didn’t answer, he buttered another and held it out to her. Their fingers touched as she reached for the bread. For a minute, neither of them moved, their gazes locked across the breadbasket. His eyes blazed with passion, an expression she could not misread. She tried to look away, but he held her attention. The noise of the restaurant faded to nothing as she explored his intense face.
She struggled to gain a foothold on her reeling emotions. If a buttered roll and a hot stare from him turned her to mush, what would happen when he really started seducing her? The mere thought set her body tingling. She let the unfamiliar feelings rush over her. Even when he tried his best, Patrick had never made her feel this way. The knowledge infused her with hope.
“Aren’t you going to eat your bread?” he asked softly.
She blinked at him. “What? Oh, yeah.” Holding back a sigh, she pulled her hand away from his and placed the roll on her plate.
He smiled at her, the expression full of gentle amusement.
“What’s so funny?”
He glanced at the plate then at her. “I thought you loved the bread.”
“I’m saving room. I know what the rest of Franco’s food tastes like.” She cocked her head, giving him a saucy grin. “If you can cook as good as he does, I’ll let you in my kitchen anytime.”
“How about tomorrow? I can make you a meal that will knock off your panties.”
Something in his tone made her think he wasn’t talking about food anymore. “Tomorrow?” Her voice wavered like an opera singer’s vibrato. She wasn’t certain she was ready to get her panties knocked off, even though her raging hormones were catapulting her toward that very thing with every look he gave her.
“Honest, I can cook, Rose. I’ll make the best Italian dinner you’ve ever eaten.”
“What’s for dessert?”
His grin grew. “You decide.”
Chapter 13
The student accompanist stopped playing the piano. “Miss Sterling, I thought we were doing ‘Autumn Leaves.’ That’s not what you’re conducting. Did I get the wrong piece?”
Rosemary glanced at the music on her director’s stand. The correct score was spread out in front of her. What had she been directing?
“I’m sorry, Hannah.” She shuffled the music aroun
d to cover up her mistake. “I had the wrong song.” She tapped her baton on the edge of the stand, turning her wandering mind to the task at hand. She’d been making stupid mistakes all day long. Thinking about the man who promised to knock off her panties had her so distracted and weak-kneed, it was a wonder she could function at all.
“Let’s start again, class.”
The pianist played the introduction. At Rosemary’s direction, the vocalists entered, the soprano, tenor, alto, and bass voices falling and rising like spinning leaves in the breeze, mimicking the words of the song.
She led the class through the music. When they reached the lyrics which talked about summer kisses, her mind drifted to Anthony. They hadn’t shared a summer kiss at Woodstock, but they had recently shared several kisses. How many would they share tonight?
Discordant notes sounded in the room. She pulled herself out of her reverie. The class stopped singing and sat staring at her.
Bryan, her most talented bass, spoke. “Are you changing the music, Miss Sterling? You’ve never brought the guys in there before.”
The bell clanged. “We’ll pick the song up tomorrow,” she shouted over the ringing. Relieved she didn’t have any more classes who would see her disorientation, she dismissed the students before she had to make another inane excuse for her sloppy directing.
On her way out Hannah asked, “Are you okay? Your face is all red and flushed. Should I get the school nurse for you?”
“I’m fine, dear. Thanks for asking.” What ailed her wouldn’t be fixed with a school nurse visit. Only one person could take care of her. Anthony DeMarco.
As Hannah exited, the man who’d been distracting her all day entered. “Got a minute?”
“For you, always.”
