Apples Should Be Red by Penny Watson

said.
    “Your system scares the shit out of me. What happens if something goes wrong?”
    Bev stiffened. “Wrong? What could possibly go wrong?”
    “I don’t know. The oven breaks, the milk goes bad, the pies burn. What happens to your system if there’s a melt-down?” Tom asked.
    “I don’t have melt-downs,” she answered. “If you’re here to help, wonderful. If not, you should sit out on the stoop for a few hours. I need to get everything chopped, mixed, assembled, and packed for tomorrow.”
    Tom grunted. “Fine. I’m out of here. I don’t want to disturb your system.” He grabbed a rolled up newspaper and a beer from the fridge.
    Thirty minutes later, Bev inspected her work with pride. Mounds of chopped celery, onions, and apples decorated the counter. She was just about to start chopping herbs when she heard voices on the front porch. Tom entered the kitchen with Mr. and Mrs. Franklin and their two children.
    “Bev, you remember the new next door neighbors?” He nodded at the family.
    “Of course.” She wiped her hands on her apron. “How are you doing?”
    Lily, the mom, shifted the baby to her shoulder and sighed. “Not too good. Our range is broken and we have five pies to bake for Thanksgiving. I was just asking Mr. Jenkins if he could spare a few hours of cooking time in his oven. Otherwise I don’t know how we’re going to get all this done.” The baby gurgled and tugged on her hair.
    “It sure smells good in here. You’re already cooking for tomorrow?” Jerome asked. His little boy reached up a hand to snag a piece of chopped apple. Beverly had to restrain herself from slapping the table with her wooden spoon.
    “Yes, I am. I have quite a few dishes to prepare…”
    Tom leaned back on the counter. “I don’t think Bev is doing any actual cooking yet. Just chopping stuff up. I don’t see why you couldn’t throw your dessert in the oven.”
    Bev counted silently to ten. “There’s not a lot of room in here to work—”
    Lily smiled. “Oh, no problem. I’ll get these in and out of the oven as fast as possible. Thank you so much. I know our Thanksgiving dinner isn’t going to be a gourmet meal, by any means, but I would at least like to have the pies done.”
    Jerome draped an arm around his wife’s shoulders. “We’ll help and try to get this finished as soon as possible. Then get out of your hair.”
    Mr. Franklin took a tray loaded with pies and set it on the counter. Bev watched as the scene unfolded in slow motion. The tray smacked the glass jar stuffed with sage. The jar teetered, and toppled. Rivulets of water streamed along the marble and dripped onto the floor. The sage lay in a puddle, and mini tributaries branched out to soak her crisp vegetables and recipe cards.
    In with the good air.
    Out with the bad air.
    “Whoops. I’ll get that.” Tom tugged a rag from the basket and threw it down, then wiped up the spill with his boot. He shot Bev a smile.
    She sent him a pleading look. Please don’t let them stay.
    He raised an eyebrow. It was your idea to get chummy with the neighbors.
    “Well, this should be nice and cozy. I’ll go sit out on the stoop and finish my beer. Good luck in here.” Tom whistled on his way out the door. Whistled! Beverly wanted to pick up the glass jar and fling it at his head. She took a deep breath, pasted a fake smile on her face, and pushed her stuffing station into the corner.
    “Is this enough room for you to spread out?” There was a slight tremor in her voice, but hopefully the Franklins didn’t notice.
    “Yes, thanks again, Beverly.” Lily pulled out her pies and lined them up on the counter. The baby leaned over and drooled on the cutting board.
    Bev wondered where Tom kept his aspirin.
    He gave them an hour.
    He knew Beverly was seething in the kitchen. Her perfect little system was probably all bent out of shape. While he waited, neighbors walked down the street and shouted hello. Said they liked the new garden. Asked