Apples Should Be Red by Penny Watson Page A

about his family. Asked about his holiday plans.
    Beverly had cut away his protection from the rest of the world.
    Even the hipsters had stopped by to chat. They were walking a bunch of hipster dogs and smelled like marijuana.
    He raised the newspaper to shield his face, but they were undeterred. Everyone seemed so damned perky today, it was irritating as hell. After an hour of forced conversation and greetings, he decided to see how Bev was faring in the warzone.
    Tom was prepared to laugh, but the look on her face stopped him short. She was wound up tight and ready to crack. The well-organized kitchen had dissolved into flour spills on the counter, a baby crawling on the floor, pies all over the table, and Jason dancing around the room. The Franklins seemed totally oblivious to the fact that Beverly was primed for a nervous breakdown. Her shoulders were hunched over and she flinched every time the little kid screamed. Which was a lot.
    The beautifully orchestrated stations no longer existed. It looked like the Franklin family had usurped the battlefield, and Bev had been sent to the outskirts.
    “Anybody home?” The screen door squeaked and slammed shut as Paul DiBenedetto—Tom’s nudist neighbor—sauntered into the kitchen. As luck would have it, fully clothed.
    “I smelled something good outside. Pies?”
    “Do you always walk uninvited into other folks’ homes?” Tom barked.
    Paul shrugged. “No, but I figured you were turning over a new leaf with the landscaping. And visitors. And cooking.” He eyed the pies.
    Tom reluctantly introduced the Franklins and DiBenedetto. Beverly barely nodded. Her gaze darted to the door.
    “I’m a bachelor. Hardly ever get homemade cooking.”
    Tom wouldn’t have been surprised to see drool on Paul’s chin as he examined the food.
    “Tell you what.” Tom shook a cigarette out of the pack and reached for Bev’s hand. She relinquished it without a fight. It looked like the fight had gotten squashed right out of her.
    “Bev and I are going to get some fresh air. Why don’t you all clean up in here, take the pies back to your place, and enjoy a snack? We have guests on the way and need to get ready for our holiday plans.” He didn’t feel in the slightest bit guilty about stretching the truth.
    Tom had officially reached his limit for social bullshit.
    Without waiting for an answer, he pulled Beverly out the back door and over to the vegetable garden. He continued to hold her hand as he led them to a path between the cabbage and onions.
    “Hey.”
    Her eyes were shell-shocked. “Hey,” she whispered. Tears leaked down the side of her face.
    “Come on, Bev. It’s not so bad. We’ll clean it up and get back on track. Back on your system. Everything’s gonna be fine.”
    “No, it won’t.” Her voice cracked. “I wanted it to be perfect. For Karen! This is the first Thanksgiving since Roger died and I need it…want it…to be…” She hiccupped and took a deep breath. “I want her to see I’m okay without him. Everything’s the same. Fine.”
    Tom dropped his cigarette butt to the ground and stomped on it. He slid his arms around Bev’s waist and pulled her close. “Beverly. Karen doesn’t care if the dinner is perfect. She just wants you to enjoy yourself. For Christ’s sake, it’s no secret that Roger treated you like crap for almost forty years. Karen just wants you to be happy. She could give a shit if there’s sweet potato pie for Thanksgiving.”
    “I won’t let him win. If…if…the dinner is bad, he wins.”
    “Bull. And shit. What the hell are you talking about?”
    Beverly shook so badly, Tom thought she would faint. He pulled her tightly against him, hoping some body heat would thaw her out. “He’s not gonna win, Bev. You win. You’re alive and doing your thing, and he’s gone. You can’t go back and relive the last thirty-some years, but you can damn well live your life now anyway you want to.” He stepped back just enough to look