Imperfection.
Bad air.
Bev swallowed. “Well, I guess I’ll just have to do a spot of shopping in Hardin. Hopefully the grocery store there will be better prepared for the holiday.” She sent the young man a sullen look, but he completely ignored her.
Just like Roger used to do.
Invisible. Ignorable. Like an end table next to the sofa. No one ever notices the end table. A spot for the lamp. A place for the dusty family photo, smiles wide and frozen, too much perfume. The nineteenth century French coffee table, with inlaid edging, was the focal point of the room. Spotless, dust-free, a conversation piece. Never ignored. A mistress in a bright red sweater and red lipstick.
She released her death grip on the handle.
Straighten, bend, straighten, bend .
In a way, it was a good thing there was no sage. It would give her an excuse to shop and avoid Tom. He was a horrible, rude man. Crude and raw. She would steer clear of him as much as possible. Perhaps she could hide on the porch. His porch had a rocking chair, and as far as she could tell, it had never been used. It looked like a lovely spot to read or knit and enjoy the view.
Tom Jenkins was hardly a man to enjoy the view. He hated everyone, and everything. And talked about it all the time.
Bev wasn’t feeling very thankful this November.
She ripped a bag off the rack and began to place Red Cortland apples inside.
B everly parked the BMW in front of Tom’s house. It was clear as day this was a bachelor’s residence. Clumps of tall grass skirted the porch, and dandelions dotted the front lawn. It always baffled her that the front of his home—the most important part of the house, the side the neighbors would see, and judge, and discuss—was disorganized and drab. But the back yard—hidden from view, and worthless since Tom never entertained—was perfectly maintained. He had a fifty square foot vegetable garden in the back that he coddled like a fussy baby.
Bev shook her head as she surveyed the mess. She wouldn’t trade her immaculate colonial for this disaster in a million years. But she did covet that porch. A colonial did not invite lingering. You entered the house, conducted your business, went about your day. The farmer’s porch was an invitation to leisure. Lazing about on an Adirondack chair, sipping tart lemonade from a sweaty glass, dawdling. There had been very little dawdling at her residence, 189 Beddington Lane. And now, a widow at the age of fifty-nine, Bev didn’t have the slightest idea how to dawdle. Thirty-seven years of servitude to her late husband had guaranteed that.
She got out of the car and debated asking Tom for help. There were boxes of cooking supplies and food in the back of her vehicle, but Tom was just as likely to watch her struggle as he was to lend a hand. She could picture him leaning against the porch railing with a lit cigarette in his mouth and that smug little smirk. With his legs crossed, like he didn’t have a care in the world. And her dressed in nice slacks and a cardigan and two-inch heels, carting around bags of stuffing mix and cans of broth.
Tom was an ass.
She opened the back door of the sedan and slid the cartons to the edge of the leather seat. A beat-up truck barreled down the street, sprayed gravel onto her bumper, and turned into the driveway.
Of course. Even his truck was rude.
Tom unrolled his window and leaned out to peer into her back seat. The truck idled in the driveway, muffler rattling.
“You know. We have food in Hardin. You didn’t need to bring your own.” He paused and lit the cigarette dangling from his lips.
“Hello Tom. It’s nice to see you.”
“I guess our groceries aren’t hoity-toity enough for you, huh?” He squinted at her as a plume of smoke curled around his bushy eyebrows.
“Happy Thanksgiving.” She hefted a box of fresh vegetables into her arms.
“For Christ’s sake. I have a vegetable garden. Why did you waste your money on those?”
“Thank you
Bad air.
Bev swallowed. “Well, I guess I’ll just have to do a spot of shopping in Hardin. Hopefully the grocery store there will be better prepared for the holiday.” She sent the young man a sullen look, but he completely ignored her.
Just like Roger used to do.
Invisible. Ignorable. Like an end table next to the sofa. No one ever notices the end table. A spot for the lamp. A place for the dusty family photo, smiles wide and frozen, too much perfume. The nineteenth century French coffee table, with inlaid edging, was the focal point of the room. Spotless, dust-free, a conversation piece. Never ignored. A mistress in a bright red sweater and red lipstick.
She released her death grip on the handle.
Straighten, bend, straighten, bend .
In a way, it was a good thing there was no sage. It would give her an excuse to shop and avoid Tom. He was a horrible, rude man. Crude and raw. She would steer clear of him as much as possible. Perhaps she could hide on the porch. His porch had a rocking chair, and as far as she could tell, it had never been used. It looked like a lovely spot to read or knit and enjoy the view.
Tom Jenkins was hardly a man to enjoy the view. He hated everyone, and everything. And talked about it all the time.
Bev wasn’t feeling very thankful this November.
She ripped a bag off the rack and began to place Red Cortland apples inside.
B everly parked the BMW in front of Tom’s house. It was clear as day this was a bachelor’s residence. Clumps of tall grass skirted the porch, and dandelions dotted the front lawn. It always baffled her that the front of his home—the most important part of the house, the side the neighbors would see, and judge, and discuss—was disorganized and drab. But the back yard—hidden from view, and worthless since Tom never entertained—was perfectly maintained. He had a fifty square foot vegetable garden in the back that he coddled like a fussy baby.
Bev shook her head as she surveyed the mess. She wouldn’t trade her immaculate colonial for this disaster in a million years. But she did covet that porch. A colonial did not invite lingering. You entered the house, conducted your business, went about your day. The farmer’s porch was an invitation to leisure. Lazing about on an Adirondack chair, sipping tart lemonade from a sweaty glass, dawdling. There had been very little dawdling at her residence, 189 Beddington Lane. And now, a widow at the age of fifty-nine, Bev didn’t have the slightest idea how to dawdle. Thirty-seven years of servitude to her late husband had guaranteed that.
She got out of the car and debated asking Tom for help. There were boxes of cooking supplies and food in the back of her vehicle, but Tom was just as likely to watch her struggle as he was to lend a hand. She could picture him leaning against the porch railing with a lit cigarette in his mouth and that smug little smirk. With his legs crossed, like he didn’t have a care in the world. And her dressed in nice slacks and a cardigan and two-inch heels, carting around bags of stuffing mix and cans of broth.
Tom was an ass.
She opened the back door of the sedan and slid the cartons to the edge of the leather seat. A beat-up truck barreled down the street, sprayed gravel onto her bumper, and turned into the driveway.
Of course. Even his truck was rude.
Tom unrolled his window and leaned out to peer into her back seat. The truck idled in the driveway, muffler rattling.
“You know. We have food in Hardin. You didn’t need to bring your own.” He paused and lit the cigarette dangling from his lips.
“Hello Tom. It’s nice to see you.”
“I guess our groceries aren’t hoity-toity enough for you, huh?” He squinted at her as a plume of smoke curled around his bushy eyebrows.
“Happy Thanksgiving.” She hefted a box of fresh vegetables into her arms.
“For Christ’s sake. I have a vegetable garden. Why did you waste your money on those?”
“Thank you
Similar Books
