Apples Should Be Red

by penny watson

  Tom removed the glass from Bev’s hands and pulled her into his arms. “I’ll catch you. Don’t worry.”

  Karen turned her face away from them so they wouldn’t catch the tears in her eyes. John hugged her from behind and whispered, “I told you it was gonna be okay.”

  She let the tears fall. “I do believe you may be right.”

  “Those goddamned kids. They stole my gnome.” Tom scowled with his hands on his hips and glared at the empty spot in his garden. “I knew it! Not even twenty-four goddamned hours.”

  John settled down on the stoop with his plate of food and peered at the garden. “Is that new? I don’t remember you having flowers in the front.” He frowned. “I don’t remember you having anything in the front. Except tick grass.”

  Karen sat one step up from her husband and set her plate and glass of wine on the porch. “It looks great, Tom.”

  Tom grunted. “Your mom did it. Got a bee in her bonnet about me being a hermit.” He held out a hand to Bev. “Can I help you sit on the stoop? How are your knees this morning?”

  Bev grasped his hand. “Thank you. I can’t believe we are eating Thanksgiving dinner on paper plates, on the stoop. Martha Stewart would not approve.”

  He sat down next to her and slid over until their hips touched. All he could think about was holding onto her naked hips and whispering dirty talk in her ear. Who knew Miss Prim and Proper could be so sexy and shy and sweet at the same time?

  Miss Prim and Proper hadn’t been so proper last night.

  “I’m digging this anti-Martha meal,” John said. “Beer can turkey on the grill, strawberry salad. Budweiser. I’m in heaven.” He dunked a piece of turkey into the gravy pool on his plate.

  “I think we should start a new family tradition,” Tom said. “Thanksgiving on the stoop.”

  “With canned gravy and canned cranberry sauce,” added Karen.

  “My mother is turning over in her grave.” Bev sighed. “But I have to admit everything is delicious.”

  “Especially the apple stuffing. Made with green and gold apples.” Tom taunted Bev with a raised eyebrow.

  “Yeah. I noticed that,” Karen said. “My mom has a thing about red apples. How’d you get her to try the other colors?”

  Bev rolled her eyes. “He harassed me until I gave in and admitted they were tasty. Maybe I was too adamant about the whole apple rule.”

  “Maybe.” Tom jammed a forkful of stuffing into his mouth. “Jesus, this is good. Nice job, Bev.”

  She beamed. Again. Tom swore she was glowing a bit this morning.

  “Thank you, Tom.”

  “Hey, Dad, looks like the neighbors are coming over for a visit.” John gestured to the Franklins who traipsed across his freshly mowed lawn, bearing pies.

  “Remind me why we mowed the grass again?” Tom asked, glaring at Beverly.

  “It won’t kill you to say hello,” she answered.

  “We’re eating our holiday meal, for Christ’s sake.” He grumbled under his breath. “How long do you think it will take to regrow that grass four feet high?”

  Beverly laughed.

  “Happy Thanksgiving.” Jerome waved in greeting. Bev made introductions while the new neighbors took seats on the porch steps.

  “Our family will be here in an hour or so, but we wanted to thank you for the use of your kitchen yesterday.” Jerome handed a pie to Bev. “I hope you didn’t mind our interference. This is one of Lil’s pecan pies. Really good. With bourbon in it.”

  Bev nodded politely. “Thank you.”

  About fourteen seconds later Paul DiBenedetto showed up, with a transparently innocent expression on his face.

  “Time for pie?”

  Tom shot Bev a sullen look. “Maybe I could plant a stinging nettle garden in the front. What do you think of that?”

  She clasped his hand and kissed it. “I’m proud of you, Mr. Hermit. In the immortal words of a wise man, everything’s gonna be fine.”

  “If he’s so damned wise, why doesn’t anyone ever listen to him?” And just because he could, and he wanted to, and he was still feeling irked and somewhat sorry for himself, he leaned over and kissed Beverly Anderson on the mouth.

  With tongue.

  Within half an hour, the hippies from the corner were making small talk with the Franklins, their pissy little dogs were sniffing around Bev’s new garden, and the idiot down the street who’d fallen off the trellis was hobbling over in his brand new cast with a platter of food.

  Tom whispered in Beverly’s ear “Did I put a sign on the front lawn that says please bug the holy living shit out of me, I like it? ’Cause I don’t remember doing that.”

  Bev laughed so hard, her shoulders shook.

  The kid handed him some cookies.

  “What’s this?” Tom asked, confused.

  The kid shrugged. “My mom wanted to thank you for helping out with her stone fence a couple of months ago. She said it fell down in the road and you rebuilt it. And didn’t charge her.”

  Tom waved a hand. “That was nothing. I like stonework.” He peeked under the foil. “What kind of cookies?”

  The kid smiled. “Ginger. They’re really good dunked in milk.”

  Jason Franklin shuffled over the step. “I like cookies.”

  Tom handed him the plate. “Knock yourself out, kid.”

  It took two hours before the crowd dispersed. How the fuck his house had turned into Grand Central Station, he had no bloomin’ idea. But he tuned out most of the ruckus. He was focused on Beverly. Her smile. Her hand casually rubbing his back. Her blush when he kissed her.

  He wasn’t too proud to admit he’d underestimated Beverly Anderson.

  Tom found DiBenedetto in the backyard, investigating his vegetable garden.

  “You need something, Paul?”

  Paul looked shocked. “You offering? You never offered me anything before.”

  “Maybe. Maybe we can make an exchange.”

  DiBenedetto looked dubious. “What are you talking about?”

  “You’re a travel agent, aren’t you?”

  He nodded. “Yes, I am.”

  “I need a couple of tickets. Can you print them up today?”

  “Sure. I can do it on my home printer.” Paul pointed to a row of cabbages. “I’ll tell you what. You give me three of those nice purple cabbages, and I’ll get you the tickets. What do you say?”

  Tom smiled. “I say you got a deal.”

  Karen and her mom scrubbed pots in the sink and loaded up Tom’s archaic dishwasher. In spite of all the surprises this morning, Karen couldn’t remember a nicer Thanksgiving dinner.

  “So, Mom, are you all right?” She dried off a wine glass and put it in the cabinet. “I mean, you know, with…Tom.”

  “Surprised? Because I am.” Bev turned off the water.

  “Oh, you could say that.” The two of them laughed. “I was worried you and Tom were going to kill each other. Instead, you’re…um…”

  “Happy?”

  Karen got tears in her eyes. “Are you happy?” she asked raggedly.

  Bev hugged her. “I am. I know it seems really odd, but Tom and I had a good visit this week. I guess I’ve been fooling myself for a long time. Your dad and I weren’t doing so well. And I needed a good kick in the pants.” She pushed back a strand of Karen’s hair. “And of course Tom was just the guy to do the kicking.”

  “I should have done something. I didn’t know you were so unhappy. I’m sorry. I—”

  “Honey. There was nothing you could do. I raised a smart, happy, healthy child who grew up to be a wonderful young woman. You are my greatest accomplishment. Not the showcase house and garden. I needed to figure out some things on my own. And I guess I just did. At the ripe old age of fifty-nine.”

  “Mom.” Karen’s throat clogged up.

  “It’s okay, honey.”

  The two of them stood in Tom’s kitchen. Embracing, laughing, crying.

  “Mom. You know how you’ve been dread
ing your sixtieth birthday?”

  “Yes.”

  “Something tells me this is going to be the best year of your life.”

  Bev smiled. “Something tells me you’re right.”

  “Hey, Dad.”

  “Yup.”

  “So you like Mrs. Anderson?” John took a swig of his Bud and set the can on the steps of the porch. He and his dad were hanging on the stoop.

  He loved that stoop. He and Karen needed a stoop.

  “Yup.”

  “Hard to believe.”

  “Yup.”

  “She doesn’t seem like your type.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “She doesn’t seem like…um…the casual hookup type either.”

  Tom narrowed his eyes at John. “Nope, she doesn’t. Never thought she was.”

  John grimaced. Okay, this was getting awkward.

  He took a deep breath. “What I mean is, are you seriously interested in her? It sure seems like Bev likes you.” Tom said nothing and John plugged on. “I don’t want to see Bev get hurt. Not after all those years of shoveling Roger’s shit, and um…this is awkward. I’m just wondering—”

  “I’m keeping her,” Tom finally said with exasperation.

  John choked on his beer. “You’re keeping her?”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “Does she know you’re keeping her?”

  “Nope. Not yet. Keep it under your hat.”

  “No problem. Good luck.”

  “I don’t need any goddamned luck. I got daisies.”

  Beverly and Tom watched the kids pull away in their VW.

  Thanksgiving dinner had been nothing like Bev expected. Cranberry sauce from a can. A can! Tom slipped it onto the plate, still intact, with the ridges on the side. He also cooked a surprisingly delicious, moist turkey by inserting a beer can into the cavity of the bird and grilling it.

  They ate on paper plates, they drank from plastic cups. There wasn’t any good china or crystal or gravy boats. But the day had been fun. And relaxed.

  And every time Tom brushed up against her, or squeezed her hand, or whispered something naughty in her ear, happiness bubbled up inside her, fizzing like ginger ale. She felt like a teenager. Giddy. Sexy. Ridiculous. At fifty-nine years old.

  In three short days, Tom had sure managed to shake things up. Shake her up.

  And she didn’t mind at all. In spite of this unfamiliar floundering, untethered sensation, she felt lighter and freer than she had in years.

  It was simply wonderful.

  “Hey, wanna fool around on the sofa? The kids are finally gone.” Tom nuzzled her neck.

  Bev laughed. “Any chance we could try out your bed this time? Not that I didn’t enjoy the couch, but a real bed might be a nice change.”

  “Beds are for pussies.”

  “Tom! Language!”

  He chuckled. “Look at you. You survived Thanksgiving dinner on a paper plate. I think I won this contest. You didn’t think I was serious about the paper plates. But we did it.”

  “Oh no.” She shook her head. “I won. You had visitors all day.”

  “You ate green apples.”

  “You mowed the lawn.”

  “You cut your nails.”

  “You have flowers in the front of your house.”

  He bit her earlobe. “You had an orgasm. No, you had multiple orgasms.” He pulled back and delivered the smuggest smile possible. “I win.”

  Bev giggled. “I think I win. I had multiple orgasms.” She couldn’t deliver the line without blushing, but at least she got the last word.

  Tom pinched her bottom.

  His expression turned serious. “Do you still feel like you’re free-falling without a chute? Or you feeling okay?”

  “I’m doing better than okay,” she answered softly.

  He ran his hands up and down her waist. “You sure look good in my T-shirt.”

  “I like it. It’s comfortable.”

  “You were just making fun of my clothes a couple of days ago. Now you’re wearing them.”

  She laughed. “You’re right. I apologize.” She reached up and stroked his stubbly cheek. “I apologize for not being so nice when I got here. I was nervous and worried about the holiday. Worried about being here with you. Alone.”

  “And now?” He shot her a strange look. Apprehensive. Waiting.

  “And now. I like it.”

  “All of it?” He waggled his brows suggestively.

  “All of it.” She didn’t hesitate with her answer. “I guess I’m a late bloomer.”

  “I sure like you blooming with me, Bev.” The tension drained out of him. “I have an idea.”

  She leaned against his chest and inhaled his familiar scent. “Uh-oh. What sort of an idea?”

  “A damned fine idea. You wanna hear it?” He cleared his throat.

  “Sure.”

  “Say yes first.”

  “I can’t say yes if I don’t know—”

  “Yes, you can. That way I won’t be nervous to ask you.” Tom huffed out an impatient breath.

  “You really are agitated. Okay, yes. There. Feel better?” What was this all about?

  He smiled. And pulled out a piece of paper from his back pocket. “Here. This will explain everything.”

  Beverly read the paper and gasped. It was an itinerary for a British garden tour. And tickets. Two tickets for airfare, the tour, accommodations.

  She started to cry.

  “No crying. Bev. Come on.”

  “Tom. This is too much.”

  “Oh no. No, it’s not. It’s way past due.”

  She covered her face with her hands as the tears flowed. He held her gently and whispered in her ear. Whispered nonsense and reassurances.

  She gulped and looked up at him. “There are two tickets here.”

  “Of course there are. I’m going too.”

  “You hate prissy gardens.”

  “Well, I checked with Paul—my nudist neighbor is a travel agent, did I tell you that?—and he said the tour covers history, which I like, and eating at pubs, which I like, and there’s beer in England. I like that, too. And some of the tour includes culinary gardens. Practical stuff. And even a garden with poisonous plants. And apple orchards.”

  “With green and golden apples?” They both laughed.

  “All kinds of apples, honey. And daisies.” He winked. “So…looks like you’re stuck with me.”

  “Do you even like traveling? You’re going to have to…um…talk to people.”

  “I got us private rooms everywhere. And we have the option to eat on our own or join the group.”

  “I can’t believe you did this. For me.” She stared at him in awe. Rough leather-tanned skin, stubbly chin, blue eyes blazing, body hot and hard and safe. “You’re making my dream come true.”

  “Am I? You tell me.”

  “Just the beginning of it, I think. It’s a good place to start.”

  “Just the beginning.”

  He kissed her and squeezed her bottom with his big rough hands. “We need to go inside before I give the neighbors a show. Although DiBenedetto probably won’t mind. Since he likes giving us a show every goddamned day.”

  “Tom.”

  “Hmm.” He kissed her neck until she groaned. “That’s it. Bedroom. Now.”

  “Wait.” She placed her hand on his chest. “Remember before. When you asked me if I was feeling a little bit fierce?”

  He nodded. “Yup. I remember.”

  “I’m feeling a little bit fierce. Thank you.”

  He cupped her face and smiled. “That’s my girl. Let’s go fool around and then we can pack our bags.”

  Who needed parachutes anyway?

  Card From Cornwall…

  Hello Karen and John!

  Tom and I are having a wonderful time in England. We’ve been gallivanting about the countryside—visiting gardens, exploring castles, and soaking up the history.

  Here are some photos from the Lost
Gardens of Heligan, including the Edwardian estate and swamp. We toured a fascinating kitchen garden, which Tom adored—lots of vegetables! He has been on a mission to try beer at every pub. So far, he’s sampled at least a dozen different kinds (see photo with Tom and barman). He’s hoping the Hardin Market will stock some of them when we get home.

  We also visited a garden with poisonous plants, and Tom got into a rather heated (and profanity-laced) discussion with our guide. I think she was only mildly traumatized.

  Tom wants me to remind you to water the flowers in the front of the house. He said he’ll be peeved if he gets home and everything’s dead. Also, he wants to know if the gnome has shown up since he left those threatening notices all over the neighborhood.

  Last photo! We toured an apple orchard with a remarkable sixteenth century hand-turned cider (spelled cyder!) press. Tom was enamored with the whole thing. They also offered samples of twenty-two varieties of apples. My favorite was the Cornish Honeypin. Wouldn’t you know…a golden apple! Tom has been teasing me relentlessly since then. I don’t mind so much.

  Hope all is well in sunny California. We miss you.

  Lots of love,

  Bev and Tom

  The End

  Acknowledgments

  Huge thanks to the Junior Mints for support, encouragement, and friendship.

  Thanks to my readers, blogger pals, and colleagues, who put up with my quirks and antics.

  Special thanks to Julia Barrett, and my non-romance reading friends Jill and Sarah, who give me perspective from the other side of the fence.

  About The Author

  PENNY WATSON is a native Pittsburgher whose love of romance started at the age of twelve when she discovered Gone With The Wind in the middle school library. This resulted in numerous attempts at a first novel involving a young lady with windswept hair who lived in a tree house.

  A biologist by training, Penny has worked at various times as a dolphin trainer, science teacher, florist, and turfgrass researcher (don’t ask). After taking time off to raise her two spirited children, she decided to rekindle her passion for storytelling. Now she gets to incorporate her wide array of interests—including gardening, cooking, and travel—into her works of fiction.