Apples Should Be Red

by penny watson

  APPLES SHOULD BE RED

  Copyright © 2014 Nina Roth Borromeo

  All rights reserved. Except for the use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means is forbidden without the express permission of the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Cover Design: Penny Reid

  Cover Images: iStock (Alexandra Draghici)

  Editorial: Helen Hardt

  Ebook Production: JW Manus

  Table of Contents

  The Kids

  Gentlemen, Take Your Corners

  Stepping in Chicken Shit

  Day Two: Sitting On The Stoop

  Stranger Things Have Happened

  Clean-up in Aisle Ten

  Just Another Pleasant Evening

  Day Three: Gnomes R Us

  All Hell Breaks Loose

  So That’s What They Were Talking About

  Thanksgiving Day

  Dancing with the Daisies

  Epilogue

  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.

  * * *

  The Old Coot

  “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 a
nd grunted. Empty.

  Fuck.

  * * *

  Mrs. Anderson

  “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.

  Beverly 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.

  Of course. Even his truck was rude.

  Tom unrolled his window and leaned out to peer into her back seat. The truck idled in the driveway, muffler rattling.

  “You know. We have food in Hardin. You didn’t need to bring your own.” He paused and lit the cigarette dangling from his lips.

  “Hello Tom. It’s nice to see you.”

  “I guess our groceries aren’t hoity-toity enough for you, huh?” He squinted at her as a plume of smoke curled around his bushy eyebrows.

  “Happy Thanksgiving.” She hefted a box of fresh vegetables into her arms.

  “For Christ’s sake. I have a vegetable garden. Why did you waste your money on those?”

  “Thank you so much for hosting dinner this year.”

  Tom spit out the window. “Hope you don’t mind if we eat on paper plates.”

  She hesitated for just a split second and Tom smiled. She had a perverse desire to smash his face with the box she held.

  “You don’t mind, do you? Bev?”

  “I’m sure dinner will be lovely. Please excuse me while I carry these boxes inside.”

  “Knock yourself out.”

  Bastard. They were all alike. Roger used to sit on the couch, laughing at some inane television show, while she spent all afternoon preparing his dinner.

  And he never, not once, not once in thirty-seven years, ever said thank you.

  Paper plates.

  Over my dead body.

  Beverly Anderson had commandeered his kitchen. She had bottles of wine lined up next to his toaster. Crates of vegetables stacked on the table. Bunches of herbs already cut and placed in glasses of water, sucking up the fluoride from his tap. Her lips were pursed. She had some god-awful flesh-colored lip gloss on. It reminded him of a slimy piece of smoked salmon. Jesus. Those shiny lips were pursed and judgmental and clearly finding fault with his perfectly reasonable kitchen.

  What a bitch.

  “Bev, you whipping up something for lunch?”

  She didn’t even glance his way. “No. I need to reorganize. To prepare for Thanksgiving dinner.”

  “Thanksgiving is three days from now. Are you going to eat anything between now and then?”

  “Of course. But first things first.”

  “How about first things second and lunch first?”

  She reached overhead to grab something from a cabinet, and Tom watched her silky little cardigan ride up. Her ass still looked pretty good for her age. He wondered what she would do if he gave her a good hard slap.

  She turned to him and narrowed her eyes. “Why are you smiling at me?”

  He grunted. “No reason. So what’s for lunch?”

  Bev folded her arms across her chest and the bangles on her wrists jangled. “What do you normally eat for lunch?”

  “I like tuna melts. I like egg salad. I like roast beef sandwiches with horseradish. I like burgers with mayo.”

  “Do you cook these items yourself?” she asked innocently.

  Too late, Tom saw the trap. “Um.” He cleared his throat. “I do. But they always taste better when someone else makes them.” He shot her a smile, pretty much resigned to her dinging him anyway.

&nb
sp; Unexpectedly, Bev laughed.

  He quirked a brow. He was used to hearing her strained chuckle. But he had never heard the real thing. A real honest-to-God laugh.

  “You have a lot of chutzpah, Mr. Jenkins. Has anyone ever told you that?”

  “As a matter fact, I hear that a lot.”

  She smiled.

  He really wanted to wipe off that god-awful lip gloss.

  “I am not in the least bit surprised to hear that.” She turned back to the cabinets and sighed. “Has it ever occurred to you to organize the canned goods, spices, and sauces into different areas? By alphabetical order? So you can find things efficiently? It would certainly make life easier.”

  “No.” His stomach growled.

  “No? How do you find anything in here?”

  He shrugged. “I rummage around until I find it. And if I can’t find, I go buy a new one.”

  Beverly slid several cans to the left of the cabinet. “Let’s start here. A for artichokes.”

  “A for artichokes. That sounds like a children’s book. That a hippy farmer would write.” His stomach growled again. “So how about lunch?”

  “You are nothing if not stubborn.”

  “You have no idea.”

  “I have a very good idea, actually. Do you have eggs?”

  “Yes, I have eggs.” He tried not to gloat. She was going to make lunch!

  “I suppose I could take a few minutes to prepare egg salad. I have celery, chives, and onions for my stuffing. I could spare a bit for some egg salad.”

  “Oh no. I don’t like that shit in my egg salad. Just eggs and mayo. Maybe some salt and pepper.”

  Beverly hooked one perfectly manicured finger through her pearls and wrinkled her brow. “The word ‘salad’ implies additions to the mixture. Vegetables and herbs. Celery, onions, perhaps scallions, even sweet pepper. And I usually add dill, but we could use parsley instead…”

  “No. I hate that crap. Why do you have to go and spoil a good thing? Egg salad should be eggs and mayo. The end.”

  “Mr. Jenkins, if you would like me to prepare egg salad for you, I will do it my way. The right way. If you don’t approve, then maybe you should prepare your own lunch.”