by penny watson
Goddammit! He contemplated picking out all the shit from the egg salad for a couple of seconds. Then decided the hell with it.
“Forget it. I’m going to the diner.” He glared at her, waiting for her to back down. Waiting for her to accommodate him.
Waiting.
She tilted up her chin, just a bit. Enough for him to know she was digging in her heels.
“Have a nice meal at the diner, Mr. Jenkins.”
He grabbed his truck keys and slammed the door on the way out.
A is for artichokes.
Jesus H. Christ!
Beverly peered over the edge of the fence in the backyard. Unlike the charming vegetable gardens she saw in glossy magazines, which were always enclosed by a white picket fence and had lush morning glory vines rambling up the stumps, Tom’s garden looked like something out of a prison. There was wavy chicken wire strung between recycled posts. Jagged sticks topped the railing, jutting out in a most unwelcoming manner. There were no sweet garden gnomes, or birdbaths, or crooked signs heralding “The Garden.” There were no colorful flowers. No birdhouses mounted on poles. Just row after row after row of cabbage, onion stalks, broccoli. Nothing was labeled.
The smell practically knocked her off her feet. Her landscape always smelled like freshly cut grass and impatiens. This smelled horrible. Like waste and decay.
“What do you think?”
She jumped. “Please don’t do that, Tom. I hate it when you sneak up on me like that.” She twisted her pearls in her curled fingers.
“Why do you think I do it?” he chuckled. He nodded at the garden. “Pretty goddamned impressive, isn’t it?”
Bev suppressed the urge to roll her eyes. He was puffing up with pride, like a strutting rooster.
“I suppose so.”
“You suppose so?” Tom shouted. “Have you ever grown a vegetable garden? Bev?”
She hated the tone he used when saying her name. Roger used to do that. An inflection insinuating she was an idiot. The image of her stabbing Tom with a pitchfork popped into her head.
She took a deep breath. “No, I have not. I concentrate on perennials, annuals, and shrubs.”
“Nonessentials.” He glared at her.
“I’m not sure I’m following your train of thought.”
“You know exactly what I’m saying, you uptight—” He stopped, pulled out a fresh package of cigarettes from his shirt pocket and pounded the pack on his palm. “You’re all about form, not function, Bev. Your garden looks pretty, but it doesn’t do anything. Your house looks pretty, but nothing ever gets accomplished there. You look pretty, but…”
Her teeth were snapped so tightly together, she could feel the muscles in her jaw ache. “But what, Mr. Jenkins?”
“You know, you’re stepping in chicken shit.”
Tom whistled as he ambled away.
Bev glanced down at her feet. Manure dotted her three hundred dollar designer leather pumps.
She eyed the pitchfork leaning against the fence as she turned back to the house.
“Why are there jagged sticks at the top of the fence?”
Beverly and Tom sat across from each other at the kitchen table, eating a store-bought chicken potpie for dinner. Bev thought it was bland. Tom had smothered his in hot sauce. She stared out the window at his garden as dusk settled.
“Keep out the raccoons.”
She stopped eating. “What are you talking about?”
Tom shook salt on his dinner. “I got critter problems. Gophers tunnel under the fence, raccoons climb over. I have the chicken wire buried three feet deep. Keeps the gophers and moles under control. But the goddamned raccoons are surprisingly agile. I’ve seen one scurry up the wooden posts. My sharp topper will pierce their eyes, their face. I didn’t spend hundreds of hours of hard labor to feed those furry fuck-wads.”
Bev tensed every time Tom cussed. Which was probably why he did it so frequently in her presence. Roger always said Tom was a low-life. But the truth was Tom was more educated than Roger. He just didn’t care about his appearance or car or what anyone else thought. What a thorn in Roger’s side. This cranky, miserable old man, who’d started his career as an engineer, educated at Caltech, now worked as a contractor. Roger, a car salesman, could never understand why a man would trade in a suit job for greasy fingernails and a power saw.
“Is there no other way to prevent the raccoons from eating your garden?” She was surprised to find she was genuinely interested in the answer.
He nodded. “Poison. Cayenne pepper. Traps. One of them impaled himself on a stick one night. I left the carcass there for a while. That did the trick.”
Bev sucked in a breath. “That is sickening. Sick. You are a horrible man. You left his dead body—”
“Don’t get your knickers in a bunch. They’re pests. And they’re a nuisance.”
“I don’t care. That is foul and disgusting.” She shuddered and put down her fork. She’d lost her appetite.
“I’ll bet if you had raccoons and gophers eating up your perfect little flower beds, you’d hire some landscaping company to come out and ‘eliminate’ the problem for you. How do you think they do that? Invite the little fuckers to tea and politely ask them to leave the premises? Fuck, no. They kill them. Do you know how the poison works?”
“I don’t want to know.” She wrapped her fingers around her pearls and peered down at her empty plate. It was paper. He had won that round.
Tom reached over and touched her collarbone. He ran his callused fingers over her skin and tapped the pearls. “I can’t believe you’re still wearing these.”
Bev stilled like a startled wild animal. Tom continued to rub her skin. His fingertips were rough and leathery, nicotine-stained. She felt the brush of that touch all the way down to her polished toes, all the way to the top of her salon-perfect hair, to every fiery nerve in her body.
Her late husband’s touch had made her cringe with nausea.
This.
This.
This was different.
“Why wouldn’t I wear the pearls, Tom?” she asked. Her voice cracked.
He shrugged his shoulders and slouched back in his chair. “I’m just surprised. I thought the second old Rog keeled over, you would lighten up. Lose the tight bun, the attitude. He had you under his thumb for so long, maybe it’s too late.”
“Is that what you did when Alberta died?”
“No, Alberta… Well, that was different. She’d been sick for months. It was like she didn’t even exist. Didn’t talk. I didn’t have any animosity toward her. Just felt bad at the end. For her suffering.”
Bev focused on her breathing. She did not want to hyperventilate in front of this man. “And you think I had animosity toward my husband? Is that what you think? Not, I might add, that it’s any of your business. And it’s extremely poor manners to discuss this at the dinner table.”
“You wanna talk about it on the porch?” Tom kept a straight face, but she knew he was laughing inside.
“I don’t want to talk about it at all.”
“Because your late husband was such a bastard? Treated you like crap for almost forty years? I’d wanna talk about it. I’d take the pearls and chuck them right into the chicken shit pile. He didn’t deserve you. You should have—”
“Enough!” She was shaking. She jerked up from the table and knocked over her chair. “You.” Deep breath. “You.” Black stars dotted her vision. Her legs began to crumble.
She closed her eyes as Tom’s arms wrapped around her. “Take a nice even breath, Bev. No use getting so worked up about the motherfucker. I’m just giving you shit.” Tears leaked down the sides of her face. Tom’s arms were strangely comforting. He smelled like sweat and oil. His whiskers tickled the side of her face. “Better?”
Her eyes fluttered open. “Yes. Please pardon my overreaction.”
“There’s nothing to be—”
“If you’ll excuse me, I’d like to get ready for bed.”
&nb
sp; Tom sighed. “I’ll get you some fresh sheets.”
His gaze, icy blue, searched her face. She stared back, unblinking.
Fifteen minutes later she put on her nightgown.
She glanced at her reflection in the mirror over the dresser. Those fifty-one beads winked back, lustrous in the dim light. She ran her fingers over the gems. Each one soft. Luminous. Perfect.
Beverly removed the pearls and placed them in her travel case, snapping it shut in the silence.
This was his favorite time of day. Early morning. He perched his ass on the edge of the porch steps and sipped a cup of coffee. Instant. When the kids visited, they pulled out his coffee maker and brewed up something gourmet. He knew Bev was a tea-drinker, so she wouldn’t care.
He’d pushed her too far last night.
Once he’d been at a hotel job, working on a renovation project, and he’d seen Roger. Bev’s late husband had reminded him of a weasel. Long narrow nose, weak chin, pasty white and pudding-soft. The woman giggling in his ear hadn’t been much better. She was stuffed into a tight red dress like a slutty sausage, and her grating laugh had echoed off the walls of the lobby. Roger had lipstick stains on his shirt collar and a tent in the front of his polyester pants. Tom had made sure he wasn’t seen. He had no interest in that bullshit melodrama. Hell, as far as he knew, Bev knew all about it.
If he’d had Roger as a spouse, the first thing he would have done after the douchebag croaked would be to paint the house neon fucking orange. Then he’d rip out all the perfect little flowers lined up like toy soldiers in the front yard. Sell the BMW, get a convertible. Chuck the librarian ensemble, dress in ratty jeans. Jump in the car. Live it up. Travel.
But Bev was still in that house, still immaculate as always. Same clothes, same tight bun. Same repressed personality. Just once he would like her to explode like a motherfucking volcano and cuss him out. Say something honest. He’d like to pop her like a boil and watch the bubbling pus leak out. No doubt about it, Bev was filled with pus. Roger had made sure of that.
He usually got a kick out of busting her chops. But last night…last night the look she’d given him lacked the haughty attitude she usually wrapped around her like a shield. That look was vulnerable. It made him feel sort of sick to his stomach, jabbing her when she didn’t fight back.
That sure took the fun out of the game.
Tom wasn’t going to deal with the inexplicable sexual chemistry that had reared up when he touched her. She was clearly as shocked as he was. He’d bet a million motherfuckin’ dollars that Beverly Anderson had never had an orgasm in her life. Christ.
The porch door squeaked. “Tom?”
He turned to see Bev’s shadowy figure through the screen. “Come on out on the stoop. Get yourself a cup of tea.”
“I already did.” She clasped the tea like a lifeline.
“You look like a nun. Is that what nuns wear to bed?”
Bev graced him with a small smile. He noted her puffy eyes, but the smile seemed genuine.
“I don’t know what nuns wear to bed, Tom. But this is a perfectly respectable bathrobe and slippers.” She glanced at his ratty T-shirt and jeans. “You’re one to talk about wardrobe choices.”
“I’m comfortable. Got no one to impress.”
She stepped onto the porch, clutching the tea so tightly he was scared she’d shatter the mug.
“Take a load off, Bev. Sit on the stoop and watch the world go by. Let’s see what my neighbors are up to this morning.”
She hesitated. “I’ll sit on the rocker…”
“No, sit on the stoop.”
“Why are you so bossy?”
“Why are you so stubborn?”
Bev barked out a laugh. “Me? Me stubborn? You are the most stubborn man I’ve—”
“It’s not the same thing,” he said. “The rocker. There’s something about sitting on the stoop. It’s just better. Try it.”
“I’m too old. I don’t think my knees can take it.”
“For Christ’s sake, Bev. You’re not that old. Late fifties isn’t old. Ninety-five is old. I’m sixty-two and still sprightly.”
She refused to make eye contact with him.
“I’ll help you. I promise.” Tom had no freaking idea why he was so damned insistent Bev sit on the stoop, but for some reason it seemed important. He stood up and held out his hand to her. “Come on.”
She stared at his hand for a good sixty seconds. Neither one of them moved. Finally she let go of the mug and reached for him.
Her hands were soft, her nails perfect. Her pale little fingers got lost inside his dark leathery mitt. He tugged. “Come on.”
She pursed her lips but followed him. He led her to the third step down, and they both sat. Bev took a minute to wrap her robe securely around her. Two fuzzy slippers lined up next to each other below the hem of her pink nightgown.
“Now we watch.”
Bev looked amused. “What exactly are we watching, and why do we need to do it here instead of on the perfectly lovely rockers that look as though they have never been used?”
He pulled out a cigarette and lit it. “The teenagers down the street have been sneaking out all the time. I’m waiting to see when the parents will catch on. If ever.” He pointed his cigarette at the dingy Victorian across from him. “Mrs. Martin lives there. She’s a sanctimonious prig. And she’s having an affair with her Mexican gardener. Thinks no one notices, but I do.” He smirked. “A couple of hippy professors live on the corner. I think they’re swingers. Lots of sexy young couples coming and going. Probably smoking pot and having orgies. Got some new folks moving in next door, too. Should be interesting to see what they’re up to.”
“I know what you’re trying to do.”
“Hmm.”
“It’s not going to work.”
“Hmm.”
“You’re trying to embarrass me. You love to make me uncomfortable. See if you can make me squirm. Don’t you have anything better to do?”
Tom ignored her. “Look. There. Down the street. See that kid sliding down the porch roof?”
Bev rolled her eyes, but she complied. They watched the kid contemplate the best way to jump off the two-story roof onto the lawn below. Tom figured the boy was missing quite a few brain cells after smoking drugs every day after school for years.
“You don’t think he’s going to—”
“Jump? Yep. I think he is.”
Bev looked startled. “Dear Lord! He’s going to break his leg!”
“Yep. Probably will.” Tom ashed on the weeds growing in front of the porch.
The boy attempted to crawl down the rickety trellis on the side of the house.
Bev started to laugh. “Oh my God. That looks like a climbing rose. It’s covered with huge thorns. That boy is going to be covered with scratches.”
The kid jumped. His foot got caught in the trellis, and he took the whole thing down with him. It made an enormous crash and the idiot started screaming bloody murder.
Bev choked. “Tom. Tom. Are we going to—”
“Nope.”
“But…”
“…help…”
“Nope.” He turned to Bev. “You’re not quite grasping this whole sitting-on-the-stoop thing. We sit. And we watch. We don’t get involved.”
They could hear the boy bawling down the street. What a loser.
“Oh. My. Goodness.” Bev’s eyes were riveted on his next door neighbor’s upstairs window.
“That…that…that man…”
Tom snorted, then started to laugh. He finished off with a hacking fit. It took him a couple of moments to catch his breath.
“You’re amused, Mr. Jenkins.”
“I see you’ve discovered Mr. DiBenedetto.”
“The naked man next door? Yes. You have a very colorful neighborhood.”
“Everyone has a colorful neighborhood, Bev. You just gotta look for the colors.”
He glanced over at her and made a decision. “Do you have
any normal clothes with you?”
“Normal? All of my clothes…”
“Not fancy. Regular clothes. If you’re weeding your garden at home, what do you wear?”
“I have dungarees, gardening clogs, and an old T-shirt with an apron…”
“Do you have any of those clothes here?”
“As a matter of fact, I did bring my casual clothes. I thought I could help you in the garden.” She paused. “If you wanted my help.”
“I want your help.”
Goddamn if her eyes didn’t light right up. Chocolate brown eyes, like a motherfucking puppy dog.
He was screwed.
He stood up and offered her a helping hand. She grasped his fingers and stood, slowly. Her knees were trouble, he could tell.
“Go change into your jeans.” He took a last puff on his cigarette and threw it into a clay pot filled with water next to the steps. “And cut your nails. You can’t work on the garden with nails like that.”
“I wear gardening gloves…”
“Nope. You can’t feel the soil with gloves on. Cut your nails.”
“Tom!”
“Don’t fight with me, woman. And don’t bother with all the makeup and perfume and that god-awful lip gloss. You’ll attract every freakin’ bug in the state of California. Got it?”
“You don’t like my lip gloss?” Her brow furrowed.
“No. You don’t need that shit. Your lips look fine just the way they are.”
She was staring at him like she’d never seen him before.
“I’ll meet you in the garden in fifteen minutes.”
“Tom…”
“What?”
“Why do you just watch? On the stoop? Don’t you ever speak to you neighbors? It seems…”
Tom raised an eyebrow. “What?” he snapped.
Bev shook her head. “Just seems antisocial. Watching and never speaking to any of them.”
“Got nothing to say to them. They’re busy with their lives. I’m busy with my life. Most of them are a bunch of idiots anyway.”
“I remember, when Alberta was alive, you had cookouts in the backyard, and she always had that cookie exchange at Christmas—”
