Apples Should Be Red (5 page)

“Those are too big, Tom, I’m—”

He kneeled down and grabbed her heel.

“Now just one minute. Don’t even…”

Tom ripped off her garden clog and flung it across the lawn.

“Tom! Stop it.”

He smiled through the cigarette as he shoved the boot onto her foot.

She was extremely uncomfortable with the idea that someone else’s dirty work boot was now on her body. Filled with soil, and muck, and God-knew-what-else.

“Take this off right—”

He snatched the other clog and she almost toppled over. Bev laid a hand on top of his head to steady herself. He wore a faded baseball cap. She liked the feel of it under her fingertips.

She peered down at him. He was brown and rough all over, the exact opposite of Roger. Roger had been soft. He’d had no clue how to fix a leaky toilet or seal a deck or plant a garden. He’d spent his days at a desk and his nights in front of the television.

Or elsewhere.

Tom was lean and hard all over. His dark arms were corded with muscle, his long legs encased in Carhartts. His face always looked prickly with whiskers, something Roger would have never permitted. Her late husband had shaved religiously every day, following up with a generous dose of cologne.

The most disconcerting thing about Tom Jenkins was the feel of his gaze. Icy blue eyes, intense hot glare. Most days it made her uncomfortable, the way he looked at her.

Today wasn’t so bad.

Before she realized what was happening, the other boot was jammed onto her foot. Now she looked ridiculous. In her Scripps T-shirt and dungarees and two enormous dirty boots.

Tom stood up and smiled. “Perfect fit.” Then he hacked from laughing so hard. Bev felt like whacking him on the back.

He captured her hands for inspection. “Your nails are still—”

She tugged her hands away from his grasp and pulled out work gloves from her back pocket. “My nails are fine. I’m wearing gloves.” She squinted at him in the bright sunshine. “Where do you want me to start? Weeding?”

Tom took a step closer to her. She smelled his detergent, his soap, tobacco, and coffee. He removed his cap by the brim and placed it gently on her head. “It’s sunny today. This will keep you from getting a burn.”

His cap perched lightly on her hair, just above her ponytail. She could still feel his heat from the hat warming the top of her head. She had his cap on top, his boots on the bottom.

For some strange reason, she liked that.

“We’re weeding all right. Bastard weeds. You ever seen stinging nettle?”

“No. That doesn’t sound good.”

“How about Jimson weed?”

“No, I get dandelions.”

“Dandelions. For Christ’s sake, those aren’t weeds. They’re food. They’re edible. I’m talking about bastard, motherfucking weeds. Plants that try to kill you, poison you, shoot you with chemicals. This garden isn’t some pansy-ass annual border with mari-fuckin’-golds. This is war. I’ve got weeds that try to strangle the other plants. I’ve got poison ivy that will send you to the ER. War. We’re at Defcon One. Got it?”

Tom’s face was so close, Bev could see every wrinkle around his eyes, every black and white whisker on his cheeks, a scar on his chin. She nodded. “Got it.”

He looked pleased. “All right, then. Let’s get to it. Follow me. I’ll point out the hot spots.” He grabbed her hand and led her through the garden gate. “This”—he ashed on a plant—“is stinging nettle. This is the worst. It shoots chemicals on you, and stings like a motherfucker. Do not touch it without your gloves.”

“How does it shoot you? I don’t understand.”

“It’s got hairs that are like needles, filled with chemicals. If you touch it the wrong way, it releases all sorts of good stuff, like histamine, acetylcholine—”

She gasped. “It looks so…so harmless. I can’t believe it’s capable of that.”

“Don’t be fooled by a harmless appearance. There are a lot of things in life that want to hurt you, Bev. Some are easy to spot. Some aren’t.” He paused and nodded at her neck. “You’re not wearing your pearls today. That’s good. Don’t want to get your fancy jewelry covered with chicken shit.”

“Why do you hate my pearls so much?”

They faced each other, still clutching hands.

“Because he gave them to you. And you were always so proud of them. And it pissed me off. That’s the best he could do? A fucking strand of pearls? He was a piece-of-shit husband to you, but you were so easily placated by some jewelry, you didn’t care? Jesus, Bev.”

“I cared.” Her throat hurt.

Tom took a step closer to her. “Did you?”

“It’s the only thing of value that he ever gave to me. I know he gave her more. Probably jewels and clothing and trips.” She tilted her chin. “Those pearls were it for me.”

“You knew about her? I always wondered about that. If you knew.”

“You knew?”

“Yeah. I knew. I saw them together.”

She stumbled backwards, but Tom caught her by the elbow.

“Steady there.”

“You, you saw her? What did she look like? I knew her perfume. I could smell it on him when he got home. At first he would shower right away. After a while, he didn’t even care about that. And neither did I. By that time he was sleeping in the guest room with the television going all night.”

Tom scratched the back of his neck. “I saw them, but they didn’t see me. She was trashy. Couldn’t hold a candle to you. Roger was an idiot.”

“Yes, well, perhaps
I
was the idiot. I stayed with him.”

“No. You’re not the idiot. Now you’re free. What you decide to do with that…that either makes you an idiot, a coward, or someone a little bit fierce.” He smiled at her. “Feeling fierce, Bev?”

Tom’s eyes raked over her face, but for the first time his gaze felt gentle. She filed that interesting sensation away to explore later on.

“Me? Fierce?” Her laugh sounded strained. “Do I look fierce? I look like a tired old woman standing in a pile of chicken shit.”

Tom’s face broke into a huge grin. And then he started to laugh. He bent over at the waist and wheezed, with his hand on his knees. “Well, how about that? I got Miss Goody Two Shoes cussing.”

Bev felt herself blush and rolled her eyes. “It’s not that funny.”

“Yep. It is.” He glanced at something in the corner of the plot. “Come here.” Tom dragged her to the far end of the garden. He was still holding her hand. She liked his touch. It brought tears to her eyes.

“Look at that eggplant.” He lifted the gigantic vegetable and hefted it in his hands, as though calculating the weight. “Do you know how to make eggplant parmesan?”

“Yes. I have a great recipe. Roger hated eggplant, so I hardly ever got to make it. Just for neighborhood parties.”

Tom handed her the eggplant. “Roger was a douchebag.” He leaned down to pick several more vegetables. “I’ll go get the basket. Be right back.”

She stood in the middle of the garden, her arms filled with purple eggplants, inhaling the scent of compost and earth and early morning sunshine.

The smell was growing on her.

“S
top fidgeting. It’s not so bad.” Tom squeezed a blob of first aid cream onto Bev’s arm. “The sting will go away in a few minutes.”

“I don’t believe you.” Bev’s forehead furrowed in concentration.

He was so close to her, he could smell the detergent on her clothes and the shampoo she used. Tom liked a woman who looked her age. No plastic surgery, no plastic boobs, no plastic lips. In fact, hard to believe, Bev looked extremely fuckable at the moment. The tip of her nose was pink, her perfect hair had fallen into wispy chunks around her face, and her lips were rosy and plump. No hideous salmon-colored lip gloss today.

“I swear, sometimes I think that plant has a brain and a diabolical agenda.” He could have stopped smoothing the cream on Bev’s arm, but he didn’t.

“What do you mean?”

“It shot you about one centimeter above the edge of your gloves. That’s just plain diabolical. Motherfucking stinging nettle.” Reluctantly, he stopped administering to Bev’s rash. She’d been a trooper for over an hour. Weeding, collecting vegetables, re-mulching the paths.

He really wanted to fuck her.

“It feels like a bee sting.” She blew on the red welts.

“I know. The good thing is it goes away pretty fast.” Tom stared at her mouth.

“Tom? What are you looking at?”

“Uh. Nothing. Tell me what you need for the eggplant recipe. I’ll pick it up for you at the store.”

“Oh! I would love to go to the store. I need a few more things for Thanksgiving dinner.”

He leaned forward and bit her bottom lip. It was just the right size. He hated women with thin, judgmental lips. Smeared with dark red lipstick. Stingy and manipulative. Bev’s mouth looked ripe and vulnerable. He sucked on that soft lower lip for a few seconds.

He pulled back and laughed. Bev could not have looked more stunned if a leprechaun had come dancing into the kitchen.

“
What…are you doing?
” She barely got the words out.

“Kissing you.” Tom leaned forward again and held the bottom of her chin. He worked his lips over hers until she responded. A soft whimper escaped her throat and he kept at it. Biting, sucking and finally spearing her mouth with his tongue. This was a wet motherfucking kiss.

“Oh.” Bev placed her hand over his heart. She was shaking. “What are you doing, Tom? Have you lost your mind?” She stood up suddenly and backed away from him, until she hit the counter. The basket of eggplants tipped over and spilled on the floor. “Oh. My goodness!”

Tom followed her and pinned her against the counter. Her chocolate puppy dog eyes were dilated and confused. Her T-shirt was molded nicely to her chest. He wondered what her bra looked like.

“More.” He kissed her again. This time just brushing his lips over hers. Her could feel her labored breathing, but he kept at it.

He slid his hands to her hips, grabbed on, and pulled her forward. Damn it if he wasn’t turned on like a horny teenager.

“Tom!” Two sharp claws jabbed his arms.

“For the love of Christ.” He took a step back and sighed. “You don’t have to stab me.”

“Yes, I think I do. You have clearly lost your ever-loving mind!”

Bev didn’t realize it, but she looked adorable. Pink-cheeked, disheveled hair, swollen lips. For the first time, Tom got a peek of the woman underneath the hideous fucking salmon lip gloss.

And damn him for a fool, he liked what he saw.

Bev stared at his mouth. Then his eyes. Then his mouth. Back and forth. And just as he was about to remind her what French kissing was all about, a sharp rap on the front door interrupted them.

“Damn it,” Tom growled. “Saved by the bell, Bev.”

She looked equal parts relieved, disappointed, and totally confused.

He still wanted to fuck her.

“Excuse me! Anyone home!” A strange voice bellowed out front.

“Tom, someone’s at your front door. Are you going to answer it?”

“Maybe they’ll go away if I ignore them.”

Bev poked him again with her talons. “That is rude. Go see who it is.”

He grumbled as he pulled open the screen. “What?”

A father and son stood on his porch. The dad looked exhausted, sweaty and covered with dust bunnies and dirt. The little boy clutched his father’s hand and gazed up into Tom’s face with saucer-sized eyes.

“Do I know you?” Tom snapped.

The father held out his hand. “Jerome Franklin. I’m your new next door neighbor. This is my son, Jason. We just moved in yesterday. Hope we haven’t been bothering you with the moving vans and ruckus.”

Tom sighed. He shook the man’s hand. “I’m sure it will settle down soon.”

“We’re trying to get things in order before the holiday. We have family coming over.” He patted the boy on his head. “Jason just learned to ride a two wheeler and he’s raring to try it out, but he’s got a flat, and I have no idea where the bike pump is.” He raised an eyebrow at Tom. “Any chance you have a pump we could borrow? My wife just made some fresh lemonade. She’s at home with our new baby. She’d like to meet you, too.”

“Actually, I’m sort of busy right now.”
Trying to seduce my son’s mother-in-law
. “Not sure I have time to look around in the garage.” He fiddled with the pack of cigarettes in his pocket.

The elder Franklin nodded. “Okay,” he answered slowly. “We’re sorry to bother you. I’m sure ours will turn up sooner or later.”

Tom heard the baby crying next door.

The sooner he set limits with the new neighbors, the better. He didn’t want them stopping by for a cup of motherfucking sugar. Or the kid selling magazines. Or them inviting him over for dinner. He liked eating alone.

He liked being left alone.

He glanced down at the boy. The kid was skinny as a twig and covered with bandages.

“Looks like you’re taking your licks with the bike, huh?”

The kid took a step behind his dad’s leg.

Jesus H. Christ.

The father chuckled. “Jason has a steep learning curve with the bike, it’s true. But he’s determined to master it. Right, Jay?”

The kid dug his fingers into his dad’s pants.

Tom was pretty sure the bike pump was hanging next to the garage door. He shook out a cigarette from the pack.