Read Apples Should Be Red for Free Online Page A
Authors: Penny Watson
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
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