Apples Should Be Red (6 page)

“Learning to ride a two wheeler is pretty da—darned tough. I took a few spills in my day.”

“That right?” Mr. Franklin lingered on the porch.

“Yep.” Tom stuck the cigarette in his mouth, then glanced down at the boy. He sighed and put the cigarette back in his pocket.

“I got a tip for you, kid. Stay close to the edge of the street. If you think you’re gonna fall, try to land on the grassy part, okay?”

The kid nodded.

“That’s a good tip. Did you hear that, Jay? There’s a lotta grassy front yards here.” He turned back to Tom. “Our old place was in the concrete jungle. No soft landings there.”

“Let me see if I can find the pump. I have an idea where it might be.”

The kid smiled and hid his face completely behind the dad’s legs. Little bugger.

“Thanks—I didn’t catch your name.”

“Tom. Jenkins.” He grumbled under his breath.

“Nice to meet you, Tom. I appreciate the help with the bike.”

Tom glanced back at Bev, who was watching from the doorway. “This is Beverly, my…uh…son’s mother-in-law.” He stumbled over the words.

Jerome held out his hand to Bev. “Nice to meet you.”

Beverly smiled. “It’s very nice to meet you too. It must be hectic prepping for Thanksgiving and moving at the same time.”

The dad laughed. “There’s a lot of chaos at the house right now. We might need to get take-out.”

“Beverly could donate a couple of dishes. She’s been prepping for this dinner since the 1980s.”

Tom wanted to laugh out loud at Beverly’s incensed expression, but he kept a straight face.

“Wow. That would be great. You don’t mind?” Jerome asked.

Beverly pasted on a fake smile. “No problem at all. We have a lot of food.”

“We’ll be over in a moment,” Tom said.

The father and son left, and Tom leaned back on the porch railing. His eyes were glued to Bev whose lips were pinched together.

“Well, you were badgering me about getting chummy with the neighbors, so there you go. I did it. Now they’ll be bugging the shit out of me for the next twenty years. Let’s go find the bike pump and get a lemonade.”

“I can donate a couple of dishes? As if I don’t already have enough work to do for
our
Thanksgiving dinner. Tom!”

He cleared his throat. “I don’t see what the trouble is. Just double up on a couple of casseroles.”

Beverly’s eyes sparked. “Well, you should take the pump over. I’ll be here.
Cooking
.” There was practically smoke pouring out of her ears.

“Thanksgiving is two days away.”

“Yes, and I’m way behind. I have pies and stuffing and—”

“You have plenty of time to do that later. You’re the one who told me to be more neighborly, dammit. This is all your fault. Now you can just tag along and get a drink.”

“I’m not thirsty.”

He grabbed her hand again. She tugged and tried to pull away. He pulled her closer to him. “We’re getting a lemonade.

Bev jabbed him with her fingernails. Stabbed him. He still didn’t let go.

“You are infuriating.”

“A lot of folks think that. Join the fucking club.”

“Are you going to cuss like that in front of the children?”

He shrugged. “I’ll try not to.”

“It’s disrespectful.”

He nodded a couple of times. “Okay. Fair enough. I’ll try to clean up my language. Happy?”

“Not even close.”

He barked out a laugh. “You have a wicked sense of humor, Bev. Who knew?”

“I am not feeling in the slightest bit amused at the moment. You are nothing but a big bully, Tom Jenkins.”

“I can live with that.” He let out a long sigh and squeezed her hand gently. “Come on, Bev. Don’t make me go over there…alone.”

All the tension in Beverly seemed to melt away. “I guess you don’t make many social calls, do you? Feeling a little rusty?”

“Rusty enough to warrant a tetanus shot, probably.”

Bev squeezed his hand back. She wasn’t tugging anymore or trying to get away. That was good.

“Fine. I’ll go. But I’ll tell you something, Mr. Jenkins.
You
will be helping me with the extra casseroles.”

He smiled.

She rolled her eyes.

They spent half an hour at the neighbor’s house. He pumped up the flat bike tire and watched the little kid zoom around the neighborhood. Bev met the mom and patted the baby’s back. When Jason smeared peanut butter all over Beverly’s jeans, she hardly flinched. He caught her eye and shot her a wink.

She tried to suppress her smile, but failed.

All in all, it wasn’t the worst experience of his life.

B
everly surveyed the Hardin Market with a critical eye. It was perfectly functional, but nothing special. She really only needed odds and ends for her holiday meal, but she was planning to drag out this shopping event for as long as possible. Tom had pulled the rug out from under her, and it was not a comfortable feeling. He’d kissed her! Which wasn’t the worst part.

The worst part was that she’d liked it.

She was used to Tom being an ass…rude and insulting. This new Tom—the one who revealed a vulnerable side, a sympathetic side, and most shocking to her, a sensual side—was throwing her for a loop.

The market was one place she had her bearings. Produce, dairy, baked goods. Everything had its place. Everything made sense. No surprises.

“So you see what you’re looking for?”

Bev jumped and reached for her pearls. Her missing pearls. She took a deep breath.

“Tom, I have asked you not to sneak up on me, please. Also, what are you doing here? I thought you were going to wait in the truck.”

“I got bored. And I remembered a couple of things I wanted to get.” He lifted a six-pack of beer.

She shook her head. “Thank goodness you didn’t forget the beer. Thanksgiving would have been ruined.”

“I know.” Tom leaned against the cooler, looking like he didn’t have a care in the world.

A plump middle-aged woman pushed her cart past Bev and glanced at Tom. “Well, Mr. Jenkins, how are you doing? Looking forward to Thanksgiving? Will you be seeing your son and his wife?”

Tom grumbled something under his breath.

“Mark and Celia are coming with all the grandchildren! We can’t wait to see them.”

He shoved his hands in his pockets and looked at the squash.

“Well, it was nice talking to you. Hope you have a nice holiday.” The woman smiled and continued on her way.

“Honestly, Tom, that wasn’t very nice. That woman was attempting a conversation with you,” Bev said, not bothering to cover up the disapproval in her voice.

“That woman never shuts up. If I had squeaked out even one word, I would still be here, three weeks after Thanksgiving Day. Believe me, the best way to discourage her is the silent treatment.”

“Did it ever occur to you that having social interactions might actually be a nice change of pace? You just spent some time with your new neighbors and it didn’t kill you, did it?”

He shrugged. “I’ll bet you’re in a knitting club. And a card club. And a birding club—”

Bev laughed. “Yes, I have some social clubs. I enjoy spending time with other adults.”

“Well, I don’t.”

“You must have to deal with people for your job.”

Tom tapped the cigarette pack in his front pocket. “Not too much. That’s one of the reasons I like it. Folks tell me what they want, and then they leave me alone. I like the solitude of working on design projects.”

She chose a large bunch of sage and stuffed it into a brown paper bag. “Is that why you left engineering to work as a contractor? I always wondered why. You spent so much time in school, and then didn’t use your degree.”

“I’ll just bet old Roger had something to say about that.” Tom shot her an icy look.

She was silent, waiting for his answer.

He picked up a gourd and tossed it into the air. “I didn’t want to spend my days in an office, pushing pencils. Dealing with dumb-asses who wasted God-knows-how-much time running around trying to make decisions, scrambling on top of each other for promotions. Not my thing.”

Bev nodded. “I understand. I can’t imagine you in a cubicle anyway. You’re too…”

“Too what?” he asked.

“You just look like someone who needs to be active, outside, doing something…something practical, I guess.” She bit her lip. “I…I still use the table you made for my garden studio.”

“That old thing? That only took me about half an hour to whip up. I could make you something a bit more functional if you want. Something with cubbies, drawers. How do you use it?”

“I pot up my plants for the garden and organize my tools there.” She smiled at him. “It’s perfect, actually. Thank you.”

Tom stared at her for a minute, saying nothing. The silence grew awkward. Beverly wasn’t sure how to interpret his look, and she didn’t have the courage to figure it out. If she calculated wrong, then he would snub her. Again. If she calculated right…that was even more intimidating.

An older gentleman walked by and said hello to Tom. He barely grunted a response.

Bev sighed. “I’m going to get a few more apples. We’ve been eating them and I need some more for the stuffing.” She grabbed another paper bag.

“Get some Ginger Gold. I like those.”

“I don’t like yellow or green apples. Apples should be red.”

“What? That is the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“No, it’s not. Green and yellow apples are too tart, too mild. Red apples are the best.”

“How about Granny Smith?”

“Too tart. Not enough sugar.”

“How about Bramley?”

“Too sour. Ugh.”

“Golden Delicious?”

“Mealy, no flavor.”

“Dorset Golden?”

“No.”

“Only red?”

“Yes, red.” She slid several McIntosh apples into the bag.

Tom lifted a Newtown Pippin from the bin and removed a pocketknife from his jeans. He sliced a piece and popped it into his mouth.

“Tom! What are you doing? You haven’t purchased that fruit.”

He cut a small piece and held it to her mouth. “Try this.”

Bev pursed her lips. “No, I—”

He took a step closer to her. “Try it, Bev. Just one bite.”

She folded her arms across her chest. “Don’t be ridiculous. I don’t like those apples.”

“This is good. Got a nice tang to it. Come on.” He took the slice of apple and ran it along her lips.

She stopped breathing.

“Beverly Anderson, you’re not afraid of a little yellow apple, are you?”

He was so exasperating!

Tom fed her the fruit. Standing there, in the middle of the produce section of Hardin Market, Tom Jenkins fed her a piece of apple, and Bev had an inkling what Eve felt like. Seduced by a plump, juicy fruit, by the touch of his hands, sweet and tart, sour and tangy.

This was ridiculous.

She swallowed. “Are you happy? I did it.” Her gaze left his face and focused on the parsley behind him. She could feel her cheeks flaming.

“I’m getting a whole bag of green and yellow apples.”

Her eyes shot back to his face, expecting to see a triumphant and gloating grin. But no. He looked determined. And something else she wasn’t touching with a ten-foot pole.

“Fine. Waste your money. I’m getting red apples.”

“Suit yourself.”

When they got home, they filled up three enormous bowls with apples. Green, pink, golden, fiery red. The colors of autumn jewels.

Beverly would never admit it to the stubborn old goat, but she’d liked the Newtown Pippin.

T
he eggplant parmesan was perfect. Golden brown on the top. Cheesy and rich on the inside. Tom shoveled the meal into his mouth. When he cooked for himself, he made something simple like fried eggs. Or meatloaf. Which he could freeze for the rest of the week.

“Well, what do you think?” Bev asked. She stared at his near-empty plate. “Would you like seconds?”

“I’d like seconds, thirds, and fourths. This is delicious.”

She beamed. “I’m so glad you like it. I haven’t made this recipe for years. I guess I didn’t forget how.” She served him a huge portion.

“Thank you for cooking.”

Bev looked startled. And then her eyes got suspiciously shiny. “Thank you for…thanking me.” She took a ragged breath.