Apples Should Be Red by Penny Watson Page B

into her pretty brown eyes. She blinked and tears clung to her lashes. Jesus. This was killing him.
    “You hear what I’m saying? You won.”
    She gazed up into his face and startled him by touching his chin. “I like your whiskers. Roger didn’t like that scruffy look. He said it was dirty. He was always so primped and doused with cologne. Prissy.” She forced a crooked smile. “Just like the flowers you don’t like.” She stroked his chin, over and over, and Tom had the irrational urge to fling her to the ground of his garden.
    She leaned against him and rested her head on his shoulder. “This dinner is going to be a disaster.”
    “No, it’s not. We’ve got beer and a big-ass turkey to cook. I’ll do that. I’ll rustle up a nice gravy. It will be fine. Believe me.”
    “I’m hungry. Do you think…those people are gone? I wouldn’t mind getting a snack. Maybe a glass of wine.”
    Tom pressed his mouth against the top of her head and smiled. “Now you’re talking. Let’s get a drink and some cheese and crackers and take a load off. There’s plenty of time for cooking later.”
    Beverly grabbed onto his biceps and squeezed. Christ, that felt good . She shot him a sheepish look. “I hate to admit it, but that whole scenario was pretty much my biggest nightmare. Strangers ruining my plans. I felt out of control, angry, and I always have to be polite. I can’t ever say what I really think.”
    “Of course you can. Say no. Go ahead and say it. No.”
    “No.”
    They both laughed. “See. You can do it. Not so hard.”
    “You always say what you think. It must be incredibly liberating to do that all the time.”
    “I don’t think about it. I just do it. Pisses folks off, but who gives a shit?”
    “Aren’t you worried about hurting someone’s feelings?”
    “Not really. Are you?”
    “Yes. I guess I am. I don’t want anyone to think I’m rude.”
    “What about your feelings? I think it’s time to start worrying about your own damned feelings, Beverly. Roger is gone. The only one you have to please now is yourself.”
    “I don’t have the faintest idea where to even start.” Tears started to flow again.
    Tom cupped her face. “No more crying. You know where to start. What’s something you always wanted to do? Something you put off. Something Roger wouldn’t approve of.” He smoothed the tears away with his thumbs and kissed the corners of her eyes.
    What the fuck was wrong with him?
    “A garden tour.” Her voice was hoarse.
    “Okay.”
    “In England. The English countryside. Just milling about and seeing the flowers. Roger made fun of me. Said it was a ridiculous idea and a huge waste of money.”
    “Fuck him. You’re going.”
    Her laughter sounded light.
    “I am?”
    “Yep. You’re going. You’re gonna dance with the daisies.”
    Then she really laughed.
    He felt heroic. God help him, he wanted to make her laugh again. That laugh was light and golden and free.
    “If it makes you feel any better, I just got to live my biggest nightmare too.” He brushed his whiskers against her soft cheek.
    She raised her eyebrows. “What’s that?”
    “Since you fixed up the front of my house, I can’t hide behind the tall grass anymore. All my neighbors want to…chat.”
    She giggled. “Uh-oh.”
    “Oh yeah. Chat. And shit, it’s killing me. I hope you’re happy.” He rubbed her back, along the bony ridge of her spine. She sighed, so he figured it was all good.
    Beverly peered up at him. “Well, you’re still standing so I guess you survived.”
    “Barely. Between the chatting neighbors in the front, and the annoying neighbors in the kitchen, and goddamned DiBenedetto showing up—thank God with his clothes on—I’ve had just about enough.”
    Bev nodded. “Me too.” Her arms had wrapped around his waist, and now her soft little hands were stroking his back. Over his dingy white T-shirt.
    It felt like heaven.
    It felt like hell.
    “Let’s open up that bottle of Coppola