Apples Should Be Red (9 page)

“I don’t think about it. I just do it. Pisses folks off, but who gives a shit?”

“Aren’t you worried about hurting someone’s feelings?”

“Not really. Are you?”

“Yes. I guess I am. I don’t want anyone to think I’m rude.”

“What about
your
feelings? I think it’s time to start worrying about your own damned feelings, Beverly. Roger is gone. The only one you have to please now is yourself.”

“I don’t have the faintest idea where to even start.” Tears started to flow again.

Tom cupped her face. “No more crying. You know where to start. What’s something you always wanted to do? Something you put off. Something Roger wouldn’t approve of.” He smoothed the tears away with his thumbs and kissed the corners of her eyes.

What the fuck was wrong with him?

“A garden tour.” Her voice was hoarse.

“Okay.”

“In England. The English countryside. Just milling about and seeing the flowers. Roger made fun of me. Said it was a ridiculous idea and a huge waste of money.”

“Fuck him. You’re going.”

Her laughter sounded light.

“I am?”

“Yep. You’re going. You’re gonna dance with the daisies.”

Then she really laughed.

He felt heroic. God help him, he wanted to make her laugh again. That laugh was light and golden and free.

“If it makes you feel any better, I just got to live my biggest nightmare too.” He brushed his whiskers against her soft cheek.

She raised her eyebrows. “What’s that?”

“Since you fixed up the front of my house, I can’t hide behind the tall grass anymore. All my neighbors want to…chat.”

She giggled. “Uh-oh.”

“Oh yeah. Chat. And shit, it’s killing me. I hope you’re happy.” He rubbed her back, along the bony ridge of her spine. She sighed, so he figured it was all good.

Beverly peered up at him. “Well, you’re still standing so I guess you survived.”

“Barely. Between the chatting neighbors in the front, and the annoying neighbors in the kitchen, and goddamned DiBenedetto showing up—thank God with his clothes on—I’ve had just about enough.”

Bev nodded. “Me too.” Her arms had wrapped around his waist, and now her soft little hands were stroking his back. Over his dingy white T-shirt.

It felt like heaven.

It felt like hell.

“Let’s open up that bottle of Coppola Merlot. I need a drink.”

Tom smiled. “Now that’s the best goddamned idea I’ve heard all day. Let’s go.”

T
he kitchen.

Oh God!
The kitchen.

Bev squeezed her eyes shut and made three wishes. Maybe it would work.

When she opened her eyes the kitchen was still a mess. She whimpered.

“Bev?”

Sniff.

“What? This isn’t so bad. They cleaned up and went away. That’s what you wanted, right?”

“This is clean?” Beverly winced at the shrillness of her voice.

“Looks pretty good to me.”

“Clearly you and I have different standards for cleanliness.”

He chuckled. “I promise I’ll help get your stations reorganized later. Come on. Let’s go into the living room with some cheese and crackers and wine.”

She nodded. She was afraid if she opened her mouth to answer, she would wail.

Tom tugged her into the living room. He thrust a giant glass of red wine into her hands and pushed a plate of food to the edge of the coffee table.

“Eat that. You’re getting shaky. You need some food.”

Beverly looked down at the plate. Ritz crackers, pre-sliced cheese, and a few strawberries. She took a big sip of her wine as she settled on the couch.

“Are these from the farm stand?” She picked up a berry and nibbled.

Tom sat across from her and poured himself a bourbon. “Yep, they’re good. How about we serve turkey and strawberries tomorrow?”

Bev laughed. She couldn’t help it. Tom sure was trying hard to cheer her up.

She bit into the strawberry and focused on that one bite. Sweet, juicy, simple. Why did Thanksgiving have to be so complicated?

She let out a long sigh. “I’ll take care of it tomorrow morning. The cleaning, the cooking. I just can’t face everything right now. I’ll do it in the morning.”

“No.”

Bev glanced up to see Tom looking more irritable than normal.

“What do you mean
no
?”

“Sorry, Bev, but you’re not doing all this by yourself. The cleaning. The cooking. I’m helping whether you like it or not. You might not approve of the way I do things, but I’m officially your partner-in-crime for Thanksgiving. Got it?”

She took another generous sip of wine. “I’m not used to…you know. Having a partner.”

“I know. Roger watched TV while you worked your ass off. I noticed.” Tom sipped his bourbon.

“Well. That’s how it was.”

“That’s how it was with him, because he was a royal douchebag. Bertie and I always divvied up the chores for holidays. I might not be Miss Fancy Pants Martha Stewart, but I manage to feed myself on a daily basis.” He reached across the table and squeezed her hand. “Partners.”

How tempting to share the burden. How tempting to let down her defenses. To let Tom in. Did she dare?

“I can only imagine what you would prepare for Thanksgiving.”

Tom chuckled. “How do you feel about beer can turkey on the grill?”

Bev barked out a half laugh/half cry and spit out the berry. It landed on the table, right next to her plate. Horrified, she covered her mouth. “Excuse me.” She could feel her cheeks flaming.

She reached over with a napkin to pick up the offending piece of food, but Tom beat her to it. He snatched it up and popped it into his mouth.

“Well, isn’t that tasty?” He chewed the strawberry slowly and smiled at Beverly.

Her mouth hung open, stunned into silence.

“No use wasting a perfectly good strawberry,” he said.

“Tom! You are insane! That is…that is…I don’t even know what to say. I spit that out!”

“So what. I’ve already been inside your mouth.” The heated look he sent her shocked her senseless.

Beverly didn’t think it was possible, but she felt her blush intensify.

“That is…oh my God!”

He stood up and took another gulp of bourbon. Then moved to the sofa and sat down perilously close to her, crowding her into the corner.

“Tom? What are you doing?” She could feel the heat of his leg pressed up against her. Hard as a rock.

“I’ll bet you taste like strawberries. Do you taste like strawberries, Beverly?”

She made the mistake of looking into his eyes. Not so icy blue anymore. His face was too close. She caught her breath as he licked his lips.

“Are you flirting with me? Because this is utterly ridiculous.”

His hand landed on her leg and rubbed up and down her slacks. The sight of his dark rough fingers clutching the silky fabric was mesmerizing. He squeezed her thigh. A heaviness, a fullness, seeped into the space between her thighs, the space she’d ignored for thirty-seven years.
This cannot be happening.

“How am I doing? I’m a little bit rusty with the whole flirting thing,” Tom said, his voice scratchy.

“I have no idea. I need to go clean the kitchen.” She started to get up, but he pushed her down.

“Not yet. I want to taste you. I want some more strawberries.”

Tom leaned over and kissed her. Nipped at her lips, moaned as his tongue slid into her mouth. He was so very different from Roger. She had no idea how to respond. She lifted her hand and stroked his cheek. The pads of her fingers dragged over the stubble and she nipped back at his top lip.
I hope I’m doing this right. The way he likes it.

“Oh fuck, that’s it. Don’t stop, Bev.”

I guess he likes it.

“Better than strawberries.”

She shivered as his hands roamed. His beard rasped her neck.

“You like this don’t you, Miss Prim and Proper?”

“I…I don’t know.”

“I think you do. I’m gonna enjoy every second of watching you come undone.”

It was the wine. It was the exhaustion. Things were uncertain. Up in the air.

It was his touch. Rough and gentle. It was his mouth. Biting, sucking.

If she closed her eyes, she could be anyone. Someone else.

They made out on the sofa. Like a couple of kids. She was melting into a puddle. Like a slab of brie on a platter, bubbling under the broiler.

His hands cupped her breasts, stroked between her thighs, snuck under her blouse. She could feel the lift of her hips, searching for his hardness. He pressed her down on the sofa and ground against her, relieving the ache. Her nails scored his back and he sucked hard on her neck.

She whimpered. “Oh my God. That feels good.”

“What feels good? What? This?” He pushed his erection against her. “Or this?” He nibbled and sucked on her neck.

“Both,” she whispered. “Both. Everything. I think I’m drunk.”

“The hell you are. You’re turned on.”

He lifted his head and gazed into her face. They were both breathing hard. “Have you ever been aroused like this before, Beverly?” He rolled his hips over her and she cried out.

“No.” She was so embarrassed, tears formed in her eyes.

“There’s nothing to worry about. I’m gonna make you feel good, okay?”

“I’m too old for this.”

“Bullshit. You’re only fifty-nine. Why do you keep calling yourself old?” He removed her blouse and nuzzled her cleavage. “Look at these sweet little titties. They’re perfect.”

“You are insane.” She would die if he stopped. Die.

He unsnapped her bra and sucked on her nipples. Back and forth, over and over again. Beverly was vaguely aware she was bucking up against him, arching her back. The noises she made didn’t sound human.

“You like that, don’t you?” Tom appeared entirely too pleased with himself.

She nodded. “Do I get a turn?” Her voice was shaky.

He laughed. “Christ, I sure hope so. I’m about to explode.”

“Are we going to have sex on the sofa?” Bev blurted it out.

“Yep, we sure are.” He pulled off his clothes and flung them to the floor. He gently removed her slacks and underwear, then dragged his rough hands all over her skin.

She was having sex with her daughter’s father-in-law. On the sofa.

Oh my God!

She watched in a daze as he lowered himself onto her. Big, hot, naked man, hard and heavy and sexy. The look in his eyes as he absorbed every detail was stunning. He didn’t look bored, or disgusted.

He looked excited. He looked hungry.

Tom propped himself up on his elbows and rubbed his thick erection over her slickness. Had she ever been wet like this? Her brain wasn’t functioning. Something was winding tight inside of her. Hot and melted, bubbling. Sizzling. This was it. How it was supposed to feel.

“Honey, don’t cry.” Tom kissed the corner of her eyes.

“I didn’t know,” she sobbed.

“It’s okay. It’s gonna get better. Just relax and let go.” He rubbed and rubbed and entered her and moved. Beverly moved too. Not in the least bit self-conscious.

In the morning she would pretend this was all a dream.

“That’s my girl. Give me a ride.” Tom’s breathing fractured in her ear. He shouted and slapped his pelvis against her.

She moaned as he sucked her breasts again and something rushed up inside of her, tortured and ready. Waiting for years, waiting for him.

They erupted together, glued to each other with sweat and heat pooling beneath them.

“That’s my girl.” He kissed her forehead. He kissed the tip of her nose. He kissed her cheeks, wet with tears.

“Oh. My. God.”

“Was that your first orgasm, Bev?”

She nodded, afraid to speak.

“Ready for the second one?”

Thomas Jenkins had a twinkle in his eye. Like a mischievous teenager, raring to go.

Her partner-in-crime. On the sticky sofa.

“I’m ready,” Beverly said.

“W
ell, the house is still standing.” John hefted a box of beer in his arms as he jogged up the steps to his dad’s porch.

“I’m just worried. I tried calling my mom about a thousand times this morning and didn’t get an answer. That’s weird.” Karen cradled a stuffing casserole. “Why wouldn’t she answer?”