Apples Should Be Red (2 page)

About the Author

Other Works by Penny Watson

A Romantic Comedy Novella

“I
would like to reiterate that I think this is a horrible idea. Awful. What the hell were we thinking?” Karen let out a long-suffering sigh and glared at her husband.

John attempted to toss his empty beer bottle into the recycling bin. He missed. It rolled across the warped kitchen floor and stopped a couple of inches from the door.

“You’re overreacting. It’s not that big a deal. Your mom can handle my dad for a few days. We’ll be there Thursday. How bad could it be?”

Karen leaned over to collect the errant bottle. She whipped it side arm across the kitchen. It sailed right under the counter and banked off the back of the bin. John was impressed. But then again, she often impressed him. The woman could cook like a pro, throw a perfect spiral football, and blow him till his eyes crossed. She was a great wife. But she worried about her mom. And although he wouldn’t admit it, she might have a good reason to at the moment.

“Your dad is a son-of-a-bitch. He has no social skills, hates visitors, and is down-right combative when anyone tries to tell him what to do.” She planted a hand on her denim-covered hip and took a deep breath. Her breasts, plump and ripe, rose and fell under John’s watchful eyes. “My mom is polite to a fault, wants to please everyone, and gives advice like Dear Freakin’ Abby. Those two are going to kill each other after spending three days together. I should have booked a room for my mom at the South Hardin Inn.”

John pushed himself off the island and sauntered over to Karen. He planted his arms on either side of her lush hips and smiled. “Honey. We tried to get her a room. It was booked because of the holiday. There’s nothing we can do. Your mom and my dad will manage to survive three days alone together, and everything will be fine.” Secretly, he was thinking Mrs. Anderson might end up sleeping in her car after twenty-four hours. Maybe twelve. His dad was tough. John shrugged and lowered his face to his wife’s cleavage. “Nice view.”

Karen giggled. “Don’t try to distract me, you horn dog.”

He rubbed his face back and forth and then howled mournfully.

Karen grabbed a handful of his hair and yanked up his head.

“Ow! Take it easy, hon.” Well, hell. She had that goofy look in her eye. They could probably squeeze in a quick BJ before the game started.

“I can’t believe we got a burst pipe this week. Thank God Joey can repair it tomorrow. Hopefully my mom will make the best of it.” She kissed his forehead. It was sappy, but he loved it when she did that. “I guess my mom will stay busy cooking Thanksgiving dinner. We’ll probably have a seventy-two course meal by the time we get there.”

He laughed. “Yeah. With my dad’s head on a platter.”

Karen laughed, too. “With an apple stuffed in his mouth.”

“And a cigarette hanging out the side.”

“My mom makes really good apple stuffing.” Karen bit her lip. She was still nervous, he could tell. He slid down to the floor and kissed the front of her jeans.

“How ’bout I stuff you, sweet thing?”

Karen shook her head. “You have a way with words, John.”

He missed half of the first quarter.

“Frank Bucknell is a fucking retard.” Tom took a long, lingering drag on his cigarette and squinted at the checkout girl. “There is no way in hell that grill is worth more than three hundred. Seven hundred for a grill? Bullshit.”

The checkout girl sent him a glazed look. “Whatevs. We don’t allow smoking in here, Mr. Jenkins. And the grill is six hundred and ninety nine dollars. Plus tax. Do you want one?”

He ashed on the floor. “Not for seven hundred goddamned dollars I don’t. I’ll head over to Evanston and see if I can get a better deal there.”

The girl shrugged.

“What the fuck does ‘whatevs’ mean? Is that some sort of code for ‘I’m too fucking lazy to speak English?’”

“Yeah. That’s it.” Little Miss Attitude rolled her eyes at him. Rolled her fucking eyes! The girl would probably get pregnant, drop out of high school, and mooch off his motherfucking taxes for the rest of her life. Jesus.

Tom dropped his cigarette on the dirty wood floor of Bucknell’s Hardware and ground it out with the heel of his boot.

“That’s a fire hazard, Mr. Jenkins.” The checkout girl was getting cocky.

“Huh. A fire is probably Bucknell’s secret desire. Insurance money and a one-way ticket to Seaside, Florida.” He hacked up a gruff laugh and sighed. Now he had to drive all the way to Evanston, goddammit.

This whole holiday bullshit was going to drive him to drink.

More.

Drink more.

Thanksgiving was always a pain in the ass. He dragged himself to John’s house for the fake “family time” thing because his daughter-in-law insisted. He was sure John would be perfectly happy to get take-out from the grocery store and watch football with a six-pack. Or two.

But no.

Miss Fancy Pants Karen had to host a traditional Thanksgiving meal. With real china, silver, and a dried-out turkey that not even a gallon of gravy could save. She and her mom were two birds-of-a-feather.

But this year fate had tossed a giant wrench into the holiday plans. John and Karen’s house was under renovation, and Karen’s mom had a termite infestation that involved a five-day tent job. They’d asked Tom to host. He figured what the hell, he’d throw a bird on his grill with a beer in its ass and slide a can of cranberry onto a plate. Mrs. Anderson, Karen’s mom, would be horrified. Which made the whole debacle even more appealing. She was so buttoned-up, he wondered how she didn’t choke on her perfect strand of pearls. Four, maybe five hours of entertaining. Not so bad. And the ladies would clean up the colossal mess he was sure to make in the kitchen.

But then a pipe burst at John’s place, and Mrs. Anderson needed somewhere to crash. And John and Karen wouldn’t be arriving until the plumbing was fixed.

Beverly was on her way.

Fuck.

He had no idea what Mrs. Beverly Anderson expected. But he wasn’t a goddamned bed-and-breakfast. Also, he wasn’t feeling particularly welcoming. Mrs. Anderson was a snooty-ass bitch, and her late husband, who’d keeled over from heart disease the year before, had been a slimy snake dressed up in a three-piece suit.

Tom pulled out a rumpled pack of Marlboros from his front shirt pocket and grunted. Empty.

Fuck.

“What do you mean, you don’t have fresh sage? It’s Thanksgiving Week.” Mrs. Beverly Anderson gripped the shopping cart handle so hard her knuckles turned white and started to burn. She forced herself to relax. Fingers splayed out, diamonds glinting in the fluorescent lights of Greene’s Shopping Center.
Straighten, bend, straighten, bend
. She placed her hands lightly on the handle and tapped one perfectly rounded burgundy nail on the plastic guard.

“Of course you have sage. It’s mandatory for a proper gravy and stuffing.”

The employee had the decency to look sheepish. “I’m sorry, ma’am. But we ran out of sage this morning. We should have more in tomorrow.”

This time Bev gripped the handle so tight, her nails dug into the soft, pink, vulnerable skin of her palms, tattooing them with crescent moons.

“I won’t be here tomorrow. I need it. Now. I need it now.”

The young man shook his head. “Sorry, Ma’am.” He resumed the preposterous task of organizing golden apples in the bin. So they were all lined up, stems out, like a Warhol painting.

Golden apples were a complete waste of time. Not sweet enough for pies or cakes. Not crisp enough for a snack. Not red enough.

Apples should be red.

She took a deep, cleansing breath. In with the good air, out with the bad air. She’d seen this advice somewhere, a long time ago. Perhaps in a woman’s magazine.

But all the air was bad. It smelled like sweaty workers, fish from the seafood section, mildew and mold, desperation. Imperfection.

Bad air.

Bev swallowed. “Well, I guess I’ll just have to do a spot of shopping in Hardin. Hopefully the grocery store there will be better prepared for the holiday.” She sent the young man a sullen look, but he completely ignored her.

Just like Roger used to do.

Invisible. Ignorable. Like an end table next to the sofa. No one ever notices the end table. A spot for the lamp. A place for the dusty family photo, smiles wide and frozen, too much perfume. The nineteenth century French coffee table, with inlaid edging, was the focal point of the room. Spotless, dust-free, a conversation piece. Never ignored. A mistress in a bright red sweater and red lipstick.

She released her death grip on the handle.

Straighten, bend, straighten, bend
.

In a way, it was a good thing there was no sage. It would give her an excuse to shop and avoid Tom. He was a horrible, rude man. Crude and raw. She would steer clear of him as much as possible. Perhaps she could hide on the porch. His porch had a rocking chair, and as far as she could tell, it had never been used. It looked like a lovely spot to read or knit and enjoy the view.

Tom Jenkins was hardly a man to enjoy the view. He hated everyone, and everything. And talked about it all the time.

Bev wasn’t feeling very thankful this November.

She ripped a bag off the rack and began to place Red Cortland apples inside.

B
everly parked the BMW in front of Tom’s house. It was clear as day this was a bachelor’s residence. Clumps of tall grass skirted the porch, and dandelions dotted the front lawn. It always baffled her that the front of his home—the most important part of the house, the side the neighbors would see, and judge, and discuss—was disorganized and drab. But the back yard—hidden from view, and worthless since Tom never entertained—was perfectly maintained. He had a fifty square foot vegetable garden in the back that he coddled like a fussy baby.

Bev shook her head as she surveyed the mess. She wouldn’t trade her immaculate colonial for this disaster in a million years. But she did covet that porch. A colonial did not invite lingering. You entered the house, conducted your business, went about your day. The farmer’s porch was an invitation to leisure. Lazing about on an Adirondack chair, sipping tart lemonade from a sweaty glass, dawdling. There had been very little dawdling at her residence, 189 Beddington Lane. And now, a widow at the age of fifty-nine, Bev didn’t have the slightest idea how to dawdle. Thirty-seven years of servitude to her late husband had guaranteed that.

She got out of the car and debated asking Tom for help. There were boxes of cooking supplies and food in the back of her vehicle, but Tom was just as likely to watch her struggle as he was to lend a hand. She could picture him leaning against the porch railing with a lit cigarette in his mouth and that smug little smirk. With his legs crossed, like he didn’t have a care in the world. And her dressed in nice slacks and a cardigan and two-inch heels, carting around bags of stuffing mix and cans of broth.

Tom was an ass.

She opened the back door of the sedan and slid the cartons to the edge of the leather seat. A beat-up truck barreled down the street, sprayed gravel onto her bumper, and turned into the driveway.