Apples Should Be Red (7 page)

Tom wasn’t sure what to say. “You’re welcome.”

Beverly fiddled with the napkin on her lap. “You must miss Alberta’s cooking. She loved to putter in the kitchen. I remember.”

He laughed. “Putter is a good word. She puttered in the kitchen, she puttered in the garden, she babbled on the telephone, she tinkered with her crafts projects. She puttered and babbled and tinkered.”

Beverly slowly, deliberately, placed her fork on the table. “That wasn’t very nice.”

“What?” He wondered if there was any more garlic bread.

“Making fun of Alberta, when she isn’t here to defend herself. She was a good wife to you.”

Tom looked up and was surprised to see Bev seething with anger. “Just relax, Bev. Alberta did the best she could. But I’m being honest. She puttered. She babbled. I tuned her out most of the time. She meant no harm. We were just…well, I guess we had nothing in common.”

“It’s not easy being a wife and mother. It’s exhausting. There’s not a lot of energy left over to be scintillating and sexy and exciting. Someone has to clean the damned toilet. It’s not sexy, but it needs to get done.”

Her lips were pursed so tight, her jaw looked like it might crack.

Tom held up a restraining hand. “I appreciated the work Bertie did for me. Always. And I always helped out.”

Bev slumped in her chair. “You’re right. I know you did. You two had a good partnership.”

“No, not really. We got stuff done around the house, but we never talked. She wanted to chat about her knitting project or a television show or her sister’s new dog. Hell, she drove me batty. It wasn’t that great, believe me.”

“When did you two get married?”

“I was twenty six. She got pregnant the next year and had John.”

“I married Roger right after college graduation. I was only twenty-one. I never even had my own apartment or job. My job was waiting on him.” Bev took her fork and poked at the meal. “Do you think anyone has a good marriage? Really? Can you think of one?”

“Well, our kids seem to be doing okay.”

She perked up. “That’s true. They’re actually good friends, aren’t they?”

“Yep. They are.” Tom swallowed another mouthful of casserole.

“Tom?”

“Yeah?”

“Aren’t you lonely? I sometimes feel odd being alone in my big house. It echoes so much…all that empty space. If I didn’t have my weekly activities, I’d go stir-crazy.”

“Nope. Not lonely. I have work. I have chores. I don’t bother anyone, and they don’t bother me. That’s the way I like it.”

“Doesn’t your neighborhood have a street party every fall? Did you help with that?”

“Don’t get me started. Bunch of irritating househusbands who don’t know how to start a grill. They want me to loan them a table, and chairs, and a grill, and bring hamburgers, and make a bonfire for the kids. Bunch of moochers.”

Beverly rolled her eyes. “For goodness’ sake, Tom, not everything is a battle. Maybe your neighbors just wanted to see you and get to know you better.”

She crossed her arms and surveyed him with a critical eye.

He didn’t like it one bit.

“You know what your problem is?” she asked.

“I don’t have a problem. And to be perfectly frank, I could give a shit what you think.”

She continued on, ignoring his comment. “Your problem is you’ve turned into a hermit. You’ve isolated yourself. Alberta connected you to the community, and now that she’s gone, you’re all alone in this house.
Puttering
.”

Tom’s left eyelid twitched. She’d put enough emphasis on the word “puttering” to piss him off.

She started it.

He would end it.

“Are you psychoanalyzing me, Bev? I didn’t realize you got your degree in bullshit.”

“That’s why your front yard is a mess and so unwelcoming. You’re trying to keep folks out. Why not invite them in and see what happens?”

“Should I call you Dr. Beverly now? Are you getting your own talk show soon?”

“Also, Tom, not everything is warfare. The garden is at Defcon One. The neighbors are a bunch of no-good moochers. Your poor late wife was a babbler who drove you crazy.” She paused for effect. “You sure are hard to please.”

“Well, at least I’m honest. And I don’t pretend to be something I’m not. Ms. Stepford Wife with her perfect strand of pearls and manicured garden and bastard of a husband.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You’re a hermit. And you’re scared. What are you scared of?”

He shoved a cigarette in his mouth. “I’m scared your motherfucking termites will never leave your house, and I’ll be stuck with you forever. That’s my biggest nightmare.”

She smiled sweetly at him. “You’re scared of being rejected. That’s why you won’t reach out to anyone.”

He lit his cigarette angrily. “Your psychobabble is starting to get on my nerves, Bev. You’re embarrassing yourself.”

She shook her head. “No, no, I don’t think I am. I think my observations are hitting just a little too close to home, and it’s making you uncomfortable.”

“You know what? I think that eggplant parmesan gave me indigestion. You need to work on that recipe.” He stood up abruptly and pushed his chair back.

He stomped out to the porch, sat on the stoop, and took a long, hard drag on his cigarette.

Beverly Anderson was a pain in the ass and he was not the slightest bit interested in her evaluation of his life and shortcomings.

Too bad he couldn’t stop thinking about that kiss and the little whimpers she’d made.

Damn him for a fool.

“Y
ou sure are up early.” Tom narrowed his eyes as Beverly nibbled on her morning toast. “I heard you take the car out. Where’d you go?”

Beverly tried to paste an innocent expression on her face. Tom slid a cigarette out of his pack and added hot water to the coffee grinds.

“Is that your breakfast every day? Coffee and cigarettes?”

“Yep. Breakfast of champions.” His look dared her to comment.

She stayed silent and sipped her tea.

“So where’d you go?”

Bev cleared her throat. “I have a little project I’m going to be working on this morning. Then I’ll start cooking this afternoon.”

“Project? What sort of project?”

“Just something I think you’ll like. In spite of yourself.”

“Just what the hell is that supposed to mean? What are you planning, Beverly?”

She carried her dirty dishes to the sink. “Something to brighten up the front of your property. Make it look more welcoming and improve your curb appeal. Not scare off the new neighbors.”

His cigarette almost fell out of his mouth. “Are you kidding me? What is this? A new reality TV show for HGTV? Fix up the old geezer’s house? No thank you.”

“I’ll do all the work myself. I got delphinium and English daisies, some baskets of pansies for the porch. Compost…”

“Compost! I have enough compost in the back to fertilize the whole fucking state of California. You didn’t need to get any compost.”

Beverly folded her arms across her chest. “Well, I didn’t think of that. I wanted to make sure I got everything I needed at the farm stand down the street. It’s very sweet.”

“I know it’s
sweet
. But hell. I’m not interested in a home fucking makeover.” He backed her up into the counter and scowled. “I’ve had just about enough of your helpful hints and suggestions and—”

Beverly saw a host of emotions on Tom’s face. Anger. Irritation. And buried deep within his icy blue eyes, she saw just the slightest hint of curiosity. He might rail and yell and throw a fit, but down deep he was ready for a change.

Baby steps.

“Well. I’ll tell you what. You can sit on the porch.” She paused. “The stoop, I mean, and watch me work. Heckle me if you want to. Sip a lemonade while I do all the work. And when I’m done, if you hate it, you can rip the whole thing up and throw it in the compost pile.”

Tom bracketed her with his arms on the counter. Now she was trapped. He leaned closer and stared at her mouth.

She was sure this was his idea of intimidation, but he had no idea how stubborn she could be. And this morning when she woke up—listening to the crows cawing on the telephone wires—she had a vision. Of his front porch looking sweet and lovely and welcoming.

And no matter how much he fought her, she was going to make that vision a reality.

“Me sit on the stoop and watch you sweat it out. There’s a thought.”

“See? You’ll enjoy it.”

He grunted. “You are the biggest pain-in-the-ass busybody I have ever goddamned met in my life.”

She raised an eyebrow.

Tom backed up and swept an arm toward the front door. “Knock yourself out. But don’t be surprised if the motherfucking daisies end up in the compost pile.”

It was difficult, but Beverly only smiled on the inside.

He had to hand it to her. She was a hard-worker. And stubborn as a mule.

Tom guzzled a beer as he watched the sweat drip down Beverly’s face.

She’d been at it for two goddamned hours. Ripping up weeds and edging a border in front of the porch. He didn’t know squat about flowers. But it looked like she’d chosen some good ones. They seemed sturdy enough. And there were a lot of foliage plants, too. Maybe herbs, he wasn’t sure. He hated to give her the satisfaction of asking about it. But at some point, he might just give in.

She stood, cracked her back, and wiped her forehead with a red bandana.

“Want a cold beer?” he taunted.

“No, thank you. I have water.”

“Sure is nice in the shade.”

She smiled. “I’m sure it is.”

“Hope you didn’t run into any poison ivy. That would put a damper on your holiday festivities.”

“I’m being very careful, thank you. We’re at Defcon Two this morning.” She cocked her head to the side and shot him a fake smile.

Tom chuckled. He couldn’t help himself.

Beverly tipped the wheelbarrow and worked her way over to the mulch pile at the edge of the driveway. She could barely maneuver it across the overgrown grass. He knew his scraggly lawn pissed off the neighbors. Which was why he ignored it. He had a state-of-the-art mower he used for the back.

Bev wrestled the wheelbarrow across the weeds, grunting as she hit a gnarled bunch of crabgrass.

“Goddammit to hell.” He stood up reluctantly and headed to the garage. Five minutes later he roared into the front yard. He refused to look at her. She was kneeling in her garden plot, piling up mulch. He didn’t need to look at her. He’d been watching for the last two hours. He knew exactly what she looked like.

Temptation.

He couldn’t believe how badly he wanted to spank that sexy little ass in her faded blue jeans. Squeeze it and spank it and rub it. And bang it.

He wanted to bang Beverly Anderson.

Jesus H. Christ.

Tom mowed the entire front yard. And by the time he was done, he got a good view of Beverly’s garden.

He hated to admit it.

Really
hated to admit it.

But it looked good. Not prissy and pink and idiotic the way some gardens did. She’d chosen yellow and blue flowers and bunches of white daisies. They looked good with his green house. She’d tucked all kinds of foliage plants into the border. And hung pots from the old hooks on the porch.

“Well, what do you think? Is it going into the compost pile?” Bev blew out a long breath as she assessed her work. “By the way, thanks for mowing. Now I don’t need to leave a bread crumb trail to find my way back through the forest.”

“Not funny.” Tom lit a cigarette.

“Hmm.”

“What’s that?” He pointed to a fragrant green plant.

“That’s rosemary. I like to mix herbs into my borders. They smell nice, and they’re practical.” She glared at him. “I don’t only use
nonessentials
.”

Tom cringed. “I said that, didn’t I?”

“Uh huh.”

“Did I sound like that big of a jackass when I said it?”

“Yes, you did.”

Instead of apologizing, he pointed to another plant. “What’s that over there?”

“Calendula. They’re one of my favorites. The petals are edible.”

“How much work is this gonna be? I don’t feel like fussing with a bunch of flowers.”

“Low maintenance. I put down a tarp with the mulch, so you shouldn’t have any weeds.”