by penny watson
“I am not feeling in the slightest bit amused at the moment. You are nothing but a big bully, Tom Jenkins.”
“I can live with that.” He let out a long sigh and squeezed her hand gently. “Come on, Bev. Don’t make me go over there…alone.”
All the tension in Beverly seemed to melt away. “I guess you don’t make many social calls, do you? Feeling a little rusty?”
“Rusty enough to warrant a tetanus shot, probably.”
Bev squeezed his hand back. She wasn’t tugging anymore or trying to get away. That was good.
“Fine. I’ll go. But I’ll tell you something, Mr. Jenkins. You will be helping me with the extra casseroles.”
He smiled.
She rolled her eyes.
They spent half an hour at the neighbor’s house. He pumped up the flat bike tire and watched the little kid zoom around the neighborhood. Bev met the mom and patted the baby’s back. When Jason smeared peanut butter all over Beverly’s jeans, she hardly flinched. He caught her eye and shot her a wink.
She tried to suppress her smile, but failed.
All in all, it wasn’t the worst experience of his life.
Beverly surveyed the Hardin Market with a critical eye. It was perfectly functional, but nothing special. She really only needed odds and ends for her holiday meal, but she was planning to drag out this shopping event for as long as possible. Tom had pulled the rug out from under her, and it was not a comfortable feeling. He’d kissed her! Which wasn’t the worst part.
The worst part was that she’d liked it.
She was used to Tom being an ass…rude and insulting. This new Tom—the one who revealed a vulnerable side, a sympathetic side, and most shocking to her, a sensual side—was throwing her for a loop.
The market was one place she had her bearings. Produce, dairy, baked goods. Everything had its place. Everything made sense. No surprises.
“So you see what you’re looking for?”
Bev jumped and reached for her pearls. Her missing pearls. She took a deep breath.
“Tom, I have asked you not to sneak up on me, please. Also, what are you doing here? I thought you were going to wait in the truck.”
“I got bored. And I remembered a couple of things I wanted to get.” He lifted a six-pack of beer.
She shook her head. “Thank goodness you didn’t forget the beer. Thanksgiving would have been ruined.”
“I know.” Tom leaned against the cooler, looking like he didn’t have a care in the world.
A plump middle-aged woman pushed her cart past Bev and glanced at Tom. “Well, Mr. Jenkins, how are you doing? Looking forward to Thanksgiving? Will you be seeing your son and his wife?”
Tom grumbled something under his breath.
“Mark and Celia are coming with all the grandchildren! We can’t wait to see them.”
He shoved his hands in his pockets and looked at the squash.
“Well, it was nice talking to you. Hope you have a nice holiday.” The woman smiled and continued on her way.
“Honestly, Tom, that wasn’t very nice. That woman was attempting a conversation with you,” Bev said, not bothering to cover up the disapproval in her voice.
“That woman never shuts up. If I had squeaked out even one word, I would still be here, three weeks after Thanksgiving Day. Believe me, the best way to discourage her is the silent treatment.”
“Did it ever occur to you that having social interactions might actually be a nice change of pace? You just spent some time with your new neighbors and it didn’t kill you, did it?”
He shrugged. “I’ll bet you’re in a knitting club. And a card club. And a birding club—”
Bev laughed. “Yes, I have some social clubs. I enjoy spending time with other adults.”
“Well, I don’t.”
“You must have to deal with people for your job.”
Tom tapped the cigarette pack in his front pocket. “Not too much. That’s one of the reasons I like it. Folks tell me what they want, and then they leave me alone. I like the solitude of working on design projects.”
She chose a large bunch of sage and stuffed it into a brown paper bag. “Is that why you left engineering to work as a contractor? I always wondered why. You spent so much time in school, and then didn’t use your degree.”
“I’ll just bet old Roger had something to say about that.” Tom shot her an icy look.
She was silent, waiting for his answer.
He picked up a gourd and tossed it into the air. “I didn’t want to spend my days in an office, pushing pencils. Dealing with dumb-asses who wasted God-knows-how-much time running around trying to make decisions, scrambling on top of each other for promotions. Not my thing.”
Bev nodded. “I understand. I can’t imagine you in a cubicle anyway. You’re too…”
“Too what?” he asked.
“You just look like someone who needs to be active, outside, doing something…something practical, I guess.” She bit her lip. “I…I still use the table you made for my garden studio.”
“That old thing? That only took me about half an hour to whip up. I could make you something a bit more functional if you want. Something with cubbies, drawers. How do you use it?”
“I pot up my plants for the garden and organize my tools there.” She smiled at him. “It’s perfect, actually. Thank you.”
Tom stared at her for a minute, saying nothing. The silence grew awkward. Beverly wasn’t sure how to interpret his look, and she didn’t have the courage to figure it out. If she calculated wrong, then he would snub her. Again. If she calculated right…that was even more intimidating.
An older gentleman walked by and said hello to Tom. He barely grunted a response.
Bev sighed. “I’m going to get a few more apples. We’ve been eating them and I need some more for the stuffing.” She grabbed another paper bag.
“Get some Ginger Gold. I like those.”
“I don’t like yellow or green apples. Apples should be red.”
“What? That is the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“No, it’s not. Green and yellow apples are too tart, too mild. Red apples are the best.”
“How about Granny Smith?”
“Too tart. Not enough sugar.”
“How about Bramley?”
“Too sour. Ugh.”
“Golden Delicious?”
“Mealy, no flavor.”
“Dorset Golden?”
“No.”
“Only red?”
“Yes, red.” She slid several McIntosh apples into the bag.
Tom lifted a Newtown Pippin from the bin and removed a pocketknife from his jeans. He sliced a piece and popped it into his mouth.
“Tom! What are you doing? You haven’t purchased that fruit.”
He cut a small piece and held it to her mouth. “Try this.”
Bev pursed her lips. “No, I—”
He took a step closer to her. “Try it, Bev. Just one bite.”
She folded her arms across her chest. “Don’t be ridiculous. I don’t like those apples.”
“This is good. Got a nice tang to it. Come on.” He took the slice of apple and ran it along her lips.
She stopped breathing.
“Beverly Anderson, you’re not afraid of a little yellow apple, are you?”
He was so exasperating!
Tom fed her the fruit. Standing there, in the middle of the produce section of Hardin Market, Tom Jenkins fed her a piece of apple, and Bev had an inkling what Eve felt like. Seduced by a plump, juicy fruit, by the touch of his hands, sweet and tart, sour and tangy.
This was ridiculous.
She swallowed. “Are you happy? I did it.” Her gaze left his face and focused on the parsley behind him. She could feel her cheeks flaming.
“I’m getting a whole bag of green and yellow apples.”
Her eyes shot back to his face, expecting to see a triumphant and gloating grin. But no. He looked determined. And something else
she wasn’t touching with a ten-foot pole.
“Fine. Waste your money. I’m getting red apples.”
“Suit yourself.”
When they got home, they filled up three enormous bowls with apples. Green, pink, golden, fiery red. The colors of autumn jewels.
Beverly would never admit it to the stubborn old goat, but she’d liked the Newtown Pippin.
The eggplant parmesan was perfect. Golden brown on the top. Cheesy and rich on the inside. Tom shoveled the meal into his mouth. When he cooked for himself, he made something simple like fried eggs. Or meatloaf. Which he could freeze for the rest of the week.
“Well, what do you think?” Bev asked. She stared at his near-empty plate. “Would you like seconds?”
“I’d like seconds, thirds, and fourths. This is delicious.”
She beamed. “I’m so glad you like it. I haven’t made this recipe for years. I guess I didn’t forget how.” She served him a huge portion.
“Thank you for cooking.”
Bev looked startled. And then her eyes got suspiciously shiny. “Thank you for…thanking me.” She took a ragged breath.
Tom wasn’t sure what to say. “You’re welcome.”
Beverly fiddled with the napkin on her lap. “You must miss Alberta’s cooking. She loved to putter in the kitchen. I remember.”
He laughed. “Putter is a good word. She puttered in the kitchen, she puttered in the garden, she babbled on the telephone, she tinkered with her crafts projects. She puttered and babbled and tinkered.”
Beverly slowly, deliberately, placed her fork on the table. “That wasn’t very nice.”
“What?” He wondered if there was any more garlic bread.
“Making fun of Alberta, when she isn’t here to defend herself. She was a good wife to you.”
Tom looked up and was surprised to see Bev seething with anger. “Just relax, Bev. Alberta did the best she could. But I’m being honest. She puttered. She babbled. I tuned her out most of the time. She meant no harm. We were just…well, I guess we had nothing in common.”
“It’s not easy being a wife and mother. It’s exhausting. There’s not a lot of energy left over to be scintillating and sexy and exciting. Someone has to clean the damned toilet. It’s not sexy, but it needs to get done.”
Her lips were pursed so tight, her jaw looked like it might crack.
Tom held up a restraining hand. “I appreciated the work Bertie did for me. Always. And I always helped out.”
Bev slumped in her chair. “You’re right. I know you did. You two had a good partnership.”
“No, not really. We got stuff done around the house, but we never talked. She wanted to chat about her knitting project or a television show or her sister’s new dog. Hell, she drove me batty. It wasn’t that great, believe me.”
“When did you two get married?”
“I was twenty six. She got pregnant the next year and had John.”
“I married Roger right after college graduation. I was only twenty-one. I never even had my own apartment or job. My job was waiting on him.” Bev took her fork and poked at the meal. “Do you think anyone has a good marriage? Really? Can you think of one?”
“Well, our kids seem to be doing okay.”
She perked up. “That’s true. They’re actually good friends, aren’t they?”
“Yep. They are.” Tom swallowed another mouthful of casserole.
“Tom?”
“Yeah?”
“Aren’t you lonely? I sometimes feel odd being alone in my big house. It echoes so much…all that empty space. If I didn’t have my weekly activities, I’d go stir-crazy.”
“Nope. Not lonely. I have work. I have chores. I don’t bother anyone, and they don’t bother me. That’s the way I like it.”
“Doesn’t your neighborhood have a street party every fall? Did you help with that?”
“Don’t get me started. Bunch of irritating househusbands who don’t know how to start a grill. They want me to loan them a table, and chairs, and a grill, and bring hamburgers, and make a bonfire for the kids. Bunch of moochers.”
Beverly rolled her eyes. “For goodness’ sake, Tom, not everything is a battle. Maybe your neighbors just wanted to see you and get to know you better.”
She crossed her arms and surveyed him with a critical eye.
He didn’t like it one bit.
“You know what your problem is?” she asked.
“I don’t have a problem. And to be perfectly frank, I could give a shit what you think.”
She continued on, ignoring his comment. “Your problem is you’ve turned into a hermit. You’ve isolated yourself. Alberta connected you to the community, and now that she’s gone, you’re all alone in this house. Puttering.”
Tom’s left eyelid twitched. She’d put enough emphasis on the word “puttering” to piss him off.
She started it.
He would end it.
“Are you psychoanalyzing me, Bev? I didn’t realize you got your degree in bullshit.”
“That’s why your front yard is a mess and so unwelcoming. You’re trying to keep folks out. Why not invite them in and see what happens?”
“Should I call you Dr. Beverly now? Are you getting your own talk show soon?”
“Also, Tom, not everything is warfare. The garden is at Defcon One. The neighbors are a bunch of no-good moochers. Your poor late wife was a babbler who drove you crazy.” She paused for effect. “You sure are hard to please.”
“Well, at least I’m honest. And I don’t pretend to be something I’m not. Ms. Stepford Wife with her perfect strand of pearls and manicured garden and bastard of a husband.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You’re a hermit. And you’re scared. What are you scared of?”
He shoved a cigarette in his mouth. “I’m scared your motherfucking termites will never leave your house, and I’ll be stuck with you forever. That’s my biggest nightmare.”
She smiled sweetly at him. “You’re scared of being rejected. That’s why you won’t reach out to anyone.”
He lit his cigarette angrily. “Your psychobabble is starting to get on my nerves, Bev. You’re embarrassing yourself.”
She shook her head. “No, no, I don’t think I am. I think my observations are hitting just a little too close to home, and it’s making you uncomfortable.”
“You know what? I think that eggplant parmesan gave me indigestion. You need to work on that recipe.” He stood up abruptly and pushed his chair back.
He stomped out to the porch, sat on the stoop, and took a long, hard drag on his cigarette.
Beverly Anderson was a pain in the ass and he was not the slightest bit interested in her evaluation of his life and shortcomings.
Too bad he couldn’t stop thinking about that kiss and the little whimpers she’d made.
Damn him for a fool.
“You sure are up early.” Tom narrowed his eyes as Beverly nibbled on her morning toast. “I heard you take the car out. Where’d you go?”
Beverly tried to paste an innocent expression on her face. Tom slid a cigarette out of his pack and added hot water to the coffee grinds.
“Is that your breakfast every day? Coffee and cigarettes?”
“Yep. Breakfast of champions.” His look dared her to comment.
She stayed silent and sipped her tea.
“So where’d you go?”
Bev cleared her throat. “I have a little project I’m going to be working on this morning. Then I’ll start cooking this afternoon.”
“Project? What sort of project?”
“Just something I think you’ll like. In spite of yourself.”
“Just what the hell is that supposed to mean? What are you planning, Beverly?”
She carried her dirty dishes to the sink. “Something to brighten up the front of your property. Make it look more welcoming and improve your curb appeal. Not scare off the new neighbors.”
His cigarette almost fell out of his mouth. “Are you
kidding me? What is this? A new reality TV show for HGTV? Fix up the old geezer’s house? No thank you.”
“I’ll do all the work myself. I got delphinium and English daisies, some baskets of pansies for the porch. Compost…”
“Compost! I have enough compost in the back to fertilize the whole fucking state of California. You didn’t need to get any compost.”
Beverly folded her arms across her chest. “Well, I didn’t think of that. I wanted to make sure I got everything I needed at the farm stand down the street. It’s very sweet.”
“I know it’s sweet. But hell. I’m not interested in a home fucking makeover.” He backed her up into the counter and scowled. “I’ve had just about enough of your helpful hints and suggestions and—”
Beverly saw a host of emotions on Tom’s face. Anger. Irritation. And buried deep within his icy blue eyes, she saw just the slightest hint of curiosity. He might rail and yell and throw a fit, but down deep he was ready for a change.
Baby steps.
“Well. I’ll tell you what. You can sit on the porch.” She paused. “The stoop, I mean, and watch me work. Heckle me if you want to. Sip a lemonade while I do all the work. And when I’m done, if you hate it, you can rip the whole thing up and throw it in the compost pile.”
Tom bracketed her with his arms on the counter. Now she was trapped. He leaned closer and stared at her mouth.
She was sure this was his idea of intimidation, but he had no idea how stubborn she could be. And this morning when she woke up—listening to the crows cawing on the telephone wires—she had a vision. Of his front porch looking sweet and lovely and welcoming.
And no matter how much he fought her, she was going to make that vision a reality.
“Me sit on the stoop and watch you sweat it out. There’s a thought.”
“See? You’ll enjoy it.”
He grunted. “You are the biggest pain-in-the-ass busybody I have ever goddamned met in my life.”
She raised an eyebrow.
Tom backed up and swept an arm toward the front door. “Knock yourself out. But don’t be surprised if the motherfucking daisies end up in the compost pile.”
It was difficult, but Beverly only smiled on the inside.