Apples Should Be Red (8 page)

“Well, it would be stupid to rip this up now. It would take me all afternoon. And…uh…the truth is…” He mumbled under his breath.

“What, Tom?” Beverly turned to face him.

“I guess I like it well enough. Doesn’t look half-bad, not too prissy. I like the herbs, too.” He ashed in the grass. “You did good work. I feel like a big asshole for watching you all day.”

“You did mow down the forest.”

“That I did.”

“Oh wait! I forgot!” Beverly ran to the BMW and lifted something out of the trunk. She carried a small statue to the garden plot and placed it next to the stairs. It was one of those grumpy looking gnomes, with the pointy red hat and bright blue coat.

“What the fuck is that?”

She laughed. “It’s you! I couldn’t resist when I saw it at the farm stand. Look at his face. Doesn’t he look cranky?”

Tom turned to Bev and started to laugh. He laughed so hard, it felt like he hacked up a lung. Beverly laughed harder. They had tears running down their cheeks as they stared at the gnome.

“Thank you. Beverly. Not for the gnome. For the rest of it.”

“You’re welcome.”

“The gnome won’t last twenty four hours. One of the druggie teenagers will steal it. Guaranteed.”

“That’s okay. I got it on sale.”

He reached over and grabbed her hand. He lifted it for inspection. Small and soft. “You broke a nail. You broke a nail for this garden. Was it worth it?”

“It was worth it. It was worth seeing you laugh, and knowing you like it. Even though that probably killed you to admit it.”

“Yup.”

She looked down at her hand, still clutched in his. “Maybe it’s time to trim my nails. I guess that would make life a little bit easier.”

“I approve of that decision. I’m tired of you stabbing the shit out of me.”

They laughed again.

Tom sighed. “Just so you know, it’s not going to change anything. I’m not planning to host any neighborhood parties with fucking Ritz cracker snacks. I just like how it looks.”

“Okay. That’s good enough for now.”

B
everly was ready to cook. She had a station laid out for stuffing. A station for the broccoli casserole. A station for potatoes and yams. And a station for pies. Each area had cutting boards, the proper ingredients premeasured, and plastic containers for storage. Tomorrow she would pop everything into the oven just before Karen and John arrived, so it would be piping hot and perfect.

Thanksgiving would be perfect.

“You should have gone into the military, Bev. You would have made a good general.” Tom’s gaze raked over the kitchen with amusement. “Your attention to detail is terrifying.”

“Yes, well, I’m not much for flying-by-the-seat-of-my-pants with party preparation. I have a system, and it works for me,” she said.

“Your system scares the shit out of me. What happens if something goes wrong?”

Bev stiffened. “Wrong? What could possibly go wrong?”

“I don’t know. The oven breaks, the milk goes bad, the pies burn. What happens to your
system
if there’s a melt-down?” Tom asked.

“I don’t have melt-downs,” she answered. “If you’re here to help, wonderful. If not, you should sit out on the stoop for a few hours. I need to get everything chopped, mixed, assembled, and packed for tomorrow.”

Tom grunted. “Fine. I’m out of here. I don’t want to disturb your system.” He grabbed a rolled up newspaper and a beer from the fridge.

Thirty minutes later, Bev inspected her work with pride. Mounds of chopped celery, onions, and apples decorated the counter. She was just about to start chopping herbs when she heard voices on the front porch. Tom entered the kitchen with Mr. and Mrs. Franklin and their two children.

“Bev, you remember the new next door neighbors?” He nodded at the family.

“Of course.” She wiped her hands on her apron. “How are you doing?”

Lily, the mom, shifted the baby to her shoulder and sighed. “Not too good. Our range is broken and we have five pies to bake for Thanksgiving. I was just asking Mr. Jenkins if he could spare a few hours of cooking time in his oven. Otherwise I don’t know how we’re going to get all this done.” The baby gurgled and tugged on her hair.

“It sure smells good in here. You’re already cooking for tomorrow?” Jerome asked. His little boy reached up a hand to snag a piece of chopped apple. Beverly had to restrain herself from slapping the table with her wooden spoon.

“Yes, I am. I have quite a few dishes to prepare…”

Tom leaned back on the counter. “I don’t think Bev is doing any actual cooking yet. Just chopping stuff up. I don’t see why you couldn’t throw your dessert in the oven.”

Bev counted silently to ten. “There’s not a lot of room in here to work—”

Lily smiled. “Oh, no problem. I’ll get these in and out of the oven as fast as possible. Thank you so much. I know our Thanksgiving dinner isn’t going to be a gourmet meal, by any means, but I would at least like to have the pies done.”

Jerome draped an arm around his wife’s shoulders. “We’ll help and try to get this finished as soon as possible. Then get out of your hair.”

Mr. Franklin took a tray loaded with pies and set it on the counter. Bev watched as the scene unfolded in slow motion. The tray smacked the glass jar stuffed with sage. The jar teetered, and toppled. Rivulets of water streamed along the marble and dripped onto the floor. The sage lay in a puddle, and mini tributaries branched out to soak her crisp vegetables and recipe cards.

In with the good air.

Out with the bad air.

“Whoops. I’ll get that.” Tom tugged a rag from the basket and threw it down, then wiped up the spill with his boot. He shot Bev a smile.

She sent him a pleading look.
Please don’t let them stay.

He raised an eyebrow.
It was your idea to get chummy with the neighbors.

“Well, this should be nice and cozy. I’ll go sit out on the stoop and finish my beer. Good luck in here.” Tom whistled on his way out the door. Whistled! Beverly wanted to pick up the glass jar and fling it at his head. She took a deep breath, pasted a fake smile on her face, and pushed her stuffing station into the corner.

“Is this enough room for you to spread out?” There was a slight tremor in her voice, but hopefully the Franklins didn’t notice.

“Yes, thanks again, Beverly.” Lily pulled out her pies and lined them up on the counter. The baby leaned over and drooled on the cutting board.

Bev wondered where Tom kept his aspirin.

He gave them an hour.

He knew Beverly was seething in the kitchen. Her perfect little system was probably all bent out of shape. While he waited, neighbors walked down the street and shouted hello. Said they liked the new garden. Asked about his family. Asked about his holiday plans.

Beverly had cut away his protection from the rest of the world.

Even the hipsters had stopped by to chat. They were walking a bunch of hipster dogs and smelled like marijuana.

He raised the newspaper to shield his face, but they were undeterred. Everyone seemed so damned perky today, it was irritating as hell. After an hour of forced conversation and greetings, he decided to see how Bev was faring in the warzone.

Tom was prepared to laugh, but the look on her face stopped him short. She was wound up tight and ready to crack. The well-organized kitchen had dissolved into flour spills on the counter, a baby crawling on the floor, pies all over the table, and Jason dancing around the room. The Franklins seemed totally oblivious to the fact that Beverly was primed for a nervous breakdown. Her shoulders were hunched over and she flinched every time the little kid screamed. Which was a lot.

The beautifully orchestrated stations no longer existed. It looked like the Franklin family had usurped the battlefield, and Bev had been sent to the outskirts.

“Anybody home?” The screen door squeaked and slammed shut as Paul DiBenedetto—Tom’s nudist neighbor—sauntered into the kitchen. As luck would have it, fully clothed.

“I smelled something good outside. Pies?”

“Do you always walk uninvited into other folks’ homes?” Tom barked.

Paul shrugged. “No, but I figured you were turning over a new leaf with the landscaping. And visitors. And cooking.” He eyed the pies.

Tom reluctantly introduced the Franklins and DiBenedetto. Beverly barely nodded. Her gaze darted to the door.

“I’m a bachelor. Hardly ever get homemade cooking.”

Tom wouldn’t have been surprised to see drool on Paul’s chin as he examined the food.

“Tell you what.” Tom shook a cigarette out of the pack and reached for Bev’s hand. She relinquished it without a fight. It looked like the fight had gotten squashed right out of her.

“Bev and I are going to get some fresh air. Why don’t you all clean up in here, take the pies back to your place, and enjoy a snack? We have guests on the way and need to get ready for our holiday plans.” He didn’t feel in the slightest bit guilty about stretching the truth.

Tom had officially reached his limit for social bullshit.

Without waiting for an answer, he pulled Beverly out the back door and over to the vegetable garden. He continued to hold her hand as he led them to a path between the cabbage and onions.

“Hey.”

Her eyes were shell-shocked. “Hey,” she whispered. Tears leaked down the side of her face.

“Come on, Bev. It’s not so bad. We’ll clean it up and get back on track. Back on your system. Everything’s gonna be fine.”

“No, it won’t.” Her voice cracked. “I wanted it to be perfect. For Karen! This is the first Thanksgiving since Roger died and I need it…want it…to be…” She hiccupped and took a deep breath. “I want her to see I’m okay without him. Everything’s the same. Fine.”

Tom dropped his cigarette butt to the ground and stomped on it. He slid his arms around Bev’s waist and pulled her close. “Beverly. Karen doesn’t care if the dinner is perfect. She just wants you to enjoy yourself. For Christ’s sake, it’s no secret that Roger treated you like crap for almost forty years. Karen just wants you to be happy. She could give a shit if there’s sweet potato pie for Thanksgiving.”

“I won’t let him win. If…if…the dinner is bad, he wins.”

“Bull. And shit. What the hell are you talking about?”

Beverly shook so badly, Tom thought she would faint. He pulled her tightly against him, hoping some body heat would thaw her out. “He’s not gonna win, Bev. You win. You’re alive and doing your thing, and he’s gone. You can’t go back and relive the last thirty-some years, but you can damn well live your life now anyway you want to.” He stepped back just enough to look into her pretty brown eyes. She blinked and tears clung to her lashes. Jesus. This was killing him.

“You hear what I’m saying? You won.”

She gazed up into his face and startled him by touching his chin. “I like your whiskers. Roger didn’t like that scruffy look. He said it was dirty. He was always so primped and doused with cologne. Prissy.” She forced a crooked smile. “Just like the flowers you don’t like.” She stroked his chin, over and over, and Tom had the irrational urge to fling her to the ground of his garden.

She leaned against him and rested her head on his shoulder. “This dinner is going to be a disaster.”

“No, it’s not. We’ve got beer and a big-ass turkey to cook. I’ll do that. I’ll rustle up a nice gravy. It will be fine. Believe me.”

“I’m hungry. Do you think…those people are gone? I wouldn’t mind getting a snack. Maybe a glass of wine.”

Tom pressed his mouth against the top of her head and smiled. “Now you’re talking. Let’s get a drink and some cheese and crackers and take a load off. There’s plenty of time for cooking later.”

Beverly grabbed onto his biceps and squeezed.
Christ, that felt good
. She shot him a sheepish look. “I hate to admit it, but that whole scenario was pretty much my biggest nightmare. Strangers ruining my plans. I felt out of control, angry, and I always have to be polite. I can’t ever say what I really think.”

“Of course you can. Say no. Go ahead and say it. No.”

“No.”

They both laughed. “See. You can do it. Not so hard.”

“You always say what you think. It must be incredibly liberating to do that all the time.”