by Karma Brown
“I will,” she replied. “Though I’d like to write a few things down first.”
“Now?” He was perturbed.
Nellie wasn’t worried; he would be fine as soon as she slipped out of her dress, let him wind her stockings down her long, slim legs.
“Can’t it wait until tomorrow?”
“I promised to give the dessert recipe to Gertrude, and I’d rather do it now, while it’s fresh in my mind.”
Richard watched her with drunk eyes, his mouth slightly open. “Don’t make me wait too long, baby,” he said, his voice thick.
“I won’t.” Nellie hadn’t been intimate with Richard since before the miscarriage—the loss of the baby had wreaked havoc on her body and soul—but she was not one of those frigid wives she’d read about in her magazines. She would give herself to her husband tonight, and the warm glow of gin and the pleasure of a successful party meant she might even enjoy it. Besides, Nellie wanted a child as much as Richard did, and the sooner the better.
After Richard went upstairs, Nellie poured another small juice glass of gin, which she sipped at the kitchen table, pen in hand. She would write out the Baked Alaska recipe for Gertrude, as promised, but not until tomorrow. Nellie had something else to compose tonight. She took another sip of her drink and smoothed a hand over the paper, then started writing.
11
Your mind can accomplish things while your hands are busy. Do head work while dusting, sweeping, washing dishes, paring potatoes, etc. Plan family recreation, the garden, etc.
—Betty Crocker’s Picture Cook Book, revised and enlarged (1956)
Alice
JUNE 8, 2018
Alice sat on the floral sofa, her legs bouncing as she tried to sort out what to do.
The phone call was a shock. Thankfully, when it came Nate was already on the train to work and her mom and Steve on a plane, likely somewhere over Kansas. Every minute closer to the California warmth her mom hadn’t stopped mentioning all week.
Finally alone, Alice planned to go for a jog (even if Greenville’s streets were less inspiring than Central Park) and then do some writing. She was bored of her restlessness, so that morning after everyone left she gave herself a much-needed pep talk. “You live here now, so deal with it. You can fix up this house and write the bestselling novel of your dreams, and make it all look easy. This is hardly the most challenging thing you’ve had to do, Alice Hale. Get your damn running shoes on and stop acting like you don’t know how to get shit done.”
She was tugging on her socks when her phone rang, and her throat parched at the name on the screen. Alice’s instincts told her to ignore it (she had nothing to say to her), yet suddenly her phone was to her ear. “Hello?”
“It’s Georgia.”
Alice stood up quickly, mouth open but nothing coming out.
“Georgia Wittington?” As if she wouldn’t recognize her voice. Alice could picture her old boss: sitting in her corner office at the Wittington Group, her sharply angled bob hanging just so, her reading glasses (purple frames, designer) pushed into her hair while she stared out the floor-to-ceiling windows. The ones she complained endlessly about (“too much light,” “can’t see my screen,” “too hot in the summer”) but liked the status of—only very important people had such big windows.
“Yes, I know.” Why was Georgia calling? For a moment Alice thought maybe she was going to apologize for how things went down. To admit projects were falling apart without her, and would Alice consider coming back? The idea of that pleased her, even though she’d never give Georgia the satisfaction of actually accepting.
“Listen. We have a problem.”
Alice wanted to remind Georgia that they stopped having anything the moment she was fired.
“How can I help you?” Alice kept her tone light, as though what had happened hadn’t destroyed her.
“It’s James Dorian. He’s suing.”
“Oh, well. I can see how that is a problem.” She cleared her throat, still pacing the living room in circles. “For you.” It was satisfying talking to Georgia like that. Like she was no better than a pesky telemarketer. She had spent so many years trying to emulate her, feeling lucky the great Georgia Wittington had chosen to mentor her.
There was a sound of exasperation from Georgia, who was certainly busy and had better things to be doing. Alice knew all of Georgia’s disapproving tones, having heard them enough times over the five years they’d worked together, and her Pavlovian response kicked in. Sweat beaded in her armpits and on her upper lip.
“Obviously I wouldn’t be calling you if I didn’t have to. If you weren’t part of this.”
Alice stopped pacing. “Part of what?”
“You’re named in the lawsuit, Alice.”
“What? Why?” Alice sputtered. But she knew exactly the what and the why, and sat heavily on the sofa as dread filled her belly; James Dorian hadn’t been drunk enough to black out their conversation that night, like she’d hoped.
“He’s suing the Wittington Group, but you’re named in the suit.”
“Georgia, I no longer work for the Wittington Group.”
Her ex-boss tutted with irritation. “I have to take another call, but I need you to come to the office. Meet with our attorneys for the discovery process.”
“Fine,” Alice mumbled, wondering exactly how she was going to explain this to Nate. Especially if it turned into something bigger than an unpleasant and ill-timed meeting with Georgia and her legal team. “When?”
“Monday. Eleven.”
“Georgia, that’s not really—”
“Perfect. See you Monday.”
After Georgia hung up, Alice took shallow breaths, trying to quell her rising worry. The house exhaled through its cracks as a gust of wind lapped the facade, and Alice shivered despite the heavy cardigan she wore over her T-shirt. She was desperate for a distraction and, strangely, for the first time in years, longed for a cigarette. The feeling of nicotine hitting her bloodstream was particularly soothing to jangled nerves. Alice had smoked in college and then sporadically until she met Nate, and hadn’t had a cigarette since.
Alice rummaged through the front hall closet, a tiny rectangle of space that held only one row of shoes and exactly three coats. Shedding her sweater, she crouched, reaching for her sneakers, and quickly slipped them on. Then she grabbed a ten-dollar bill from her wallet and zipped it into her tights. Not bothering to lock the door, Alice sprinted down the sidewalk, knowing there was a 7-Eleven a few blocks away.
Out of shape, the 7-Eleven more like a dozen blocks away, Alice soon got a stitch in her side and opted to walk versus run home. The pack of cigarettes was bulky inside the band of her tights, and the sharp edges dug into her skin. She had no intention of actually smoking a cigarette, yet knowing she had the option relaxed her. Another pep talk ensued, though whispered this time as she walked the tree-lined sidewalks. “James Dorian got what he deserved. You don’t owe Georgia anything. Nate does not need to know any of this. James Dorian got what he deserved. . . .”
Alice was less rattled by the time she got home, until she tried to open the front door and it wouldn’t budge. Trying harder, she grasped the handle and wrenched it to the right. Then the left. What the hell? Stepping back, she put her hands on her hips and scowled. She had purposefully left the door unlocked so she wouldn’t have to carry her keys. She was sure of it.
Grunting with frustration, she tried the handle again, twisting it left and right, and threw her shoulder against the door. Nothing. “Stupid old house,” she muttered as she stomped around its side and to the backyard, the long grass tickling her bare ankles. At least it was a nice day. Warm without feeling muggy, the air fresh and full of the sounds of chirping birds, a nice respite from the somber, cold house. It really is peaceful here.
The backyard was good-size, the gardens carefully designed so so
meone standing exactly where Alice was—on the square of patio stones, back facing the house—would get eyefuls of bountiful blooms and greenery. Roses lined the fence to the left, pink and yellow mingling in such a precise pattern it was almost as though the flowers understood their order. A wooden shed tucked in close to the house held gardening tools—shears and spades and trimmers, stacks of paper garden bags for trimmings.
Alice took the cigarettes out of her tights and sat in one of the plastic garden chairs. Tapping the packet from one hand to the next, she noted glumly that weeds were already pushing back through the soil between the flowers, despite her mom’s efforts over the week. She wished the gardens could be someone else’s responsibility—there was just so damn much of it.
“I should just rip it all out . . . ,” Alice said, closing her eyes and tipping her head back.
“Hello there!” Startled, Alice dropped the pack of cigarettes. Glancing sharply to her left, where the voice came from, she saw the next-door neighbor, a dirt-covered spade in her hands and a flurry of white curls poking out from underneath a large-brimmed sun hat.
“We haven’t officially met,” the elderly woman said, slipping off a gardening glove and extending her hand over the fence. “I’m Sally Claussen.”
Alice stood quickly and walked over to the chain-link fence separating the yards. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Claussen.” They shook hands. “I’m Alice. Alice Hale.”
“Please, call me Sally. Mrs. Claussen was my mother’s name.” The map of wrinkles on her face deepened in a gratifying way as she smiled. “Welcome to the neighborhood, Alice. Where are you coming from?”
“Manhattan. Murray Hill specifically.”
“Ah, a city girl,” Sally said. “Things are a bit different out here, aren’t they?”
“They certainly are. I have no idea what to do with any of this.” Alice gestured around the yard. “The extent of my gardening skills is a fern named Esther I somehow kept alive during college.”
“I’m happy to give you a few tips, if you want. Though be warned these roses have resisted my hard work and dedication until recently. I didn’t think they were ever going to bloom!” The roses weaved in and out of the fence between them, a sea of pink and yellow polka dots if she stood back far enough.
“My gardens won’t win any awards, but luckily the only ones who care are me and the honeybees.” She winked, and Alice decided she liked Sally Claussen.
“I may take you up on that. So how long have you lived here?”
“A while, on and off.” Alice waited for her to elaborate, but she didn’t. Sally placed a hand to her brow and shielded her eyes, the bendy brim of her sun hat flipping up slightly with the breeze. She pointed toward one corner of Alice’s garden. “While I think of it, make sure you wear gloves if you touch those ones there.”
Alice glanced in the direction Sally was pointing. “Which ones?”
“The foxglove,” Sally said. “That pretty purple flowered one there, beside the hosta. It’s toxic for us but is a great deer deterrent. They won’t touch it.”
“There are deer here?”
“Yes, but they’re private creatures. Sometimes at dusk or dawn you’ll see them. They especially love the hostas.”
Alice thought the supposedly toxic plant seemed perfectly harmless. The flowers resembled bell-shaped slippers, grouped in satisfying lines that hung from the main stalk as though weighted from their centers. “This one? It’s actually quite pretty.”
“Isn’t it?”
“The previous owner must have loved it. There’s quite a lot.” Alice noted aside from the bunch in front of her, it grew in two other spots in the garden.
“It seems she did,” Sally said. “The plant also has another name; maybe you’ve heard of it? Digitalis purpurea.”
“Doesn’t sound familiar.”
“They use foxglove to make digitalis, the heart medication.” Sally put her glove back on. “But touching any part of the plant—leaves, flower, stem—with bare hands can cause a whole host of trouble. I once treated a child who made a salad out of the leaves. Managed to eat one leaf before her mom stopped her, but she was hospitalized for a week.”
“I think things were safer in Manhattan.”
Sally laughed. “You might be right there.”
“So you were a physician?” Alice asked.
“A cardiologist. It was a wonderful job.”
Alice thought Sally’s patients had probably loved her.
“Now I’m a full-time gardener and part-time baker. Though I’m not as good at either of those as I was at medicine.” She glanced at Alice’s garden chair, pointedly drew her gaze to the pack of cigarettes. “You’ll have to excuse my forwardness—at my age you simply say what you’re thinking—but are you trying to quit, Alice?”
“Oh, I don’t smoke. I mean, I used to. A while ago.” Alice shrugged, seeing the combination of kindness and pity on Sally’s face. “These are just in case of emergency.”
Sally raised her brows. “I see. What’s today’s emergency?”
“A work thing.” James Dorian’s face came to mind. “It will be fine.”
“I had a lot of smokers on my caseload, as you can imagine,” Sally said. “And the only ones able to kick the habit were the ones who found something they enjoyed more. Something to distract them until they got over the urge of the habit.”
“Good advice.” Alice accepted that she was now a smoker in Sally’s eyes. It was easier than trying to explain what had prompted her to have a pack of cigarettes in hand. “What do I owe you?”
“How about you quit those things and we’ll call it even.” Sally put a hand on her narrow hip, her beige khakis bunched at her tiny waist. “I guess I should get back to it. These roses won’t prune themselves. But I’m happy to continue chatting.”
Alice smiled, watched as Sally snipped the flowers’ thorny stems. “You didn’t say before, but how long have you lived here?”
“This was my childhood home, but when I left for medical school Mother stayed on.” She pruned another few stems, gathering them in her hand before tossing the bunch into the paper yard-waste bag nearby. “Moved back about thirty years ago, after she died. I only meant to stay long enough to sell the place. But, well.” She smiled. “Here I am.” Alice wanted to ask if Sally had been married, or had any children. If she lived alone.
“Did you know the owners of our house?”
“Not well. They moved in after I went away to school. My mother was quite friendly with the wife. Eleanor Murdoch, though she went by Nellie.” Sally kept on pruning, bending to get to the underside of the bush, her body agile for its age. “She kept to herself. Taught piano and voice lessons to children out of her living room for years. In the summer, I often heard her singing with her students, through the open windows. Beautiful voice.” That explained the piano, which was no longer covered in dust thanks to Alice’s cleaning, but still out of tune. “She was quite a stunning woman, and Mother often spoke of her green thumb. Those roses at the front of your house are certainly a testament to that.”
“My mom said our garden was in good shape considering the state of the rest of the house. Someone who knew what they were doing had clearly been taking care of it.”
“Nellie gardened early in the morning, nearly every day, but after she became ill she hired a landscaper to do the work. They stayed on even after she died, which is why your gardens are still so lovely.” Sally placed the cut roses in a neat pile on the grass. “For years we lived side by side after I moved back, but we rarely spoke except for the odd pleasantry. A comment on the rainfall, or a coming cold snap. She once taught me how to bathe my peonies to get rid of the ants. That was the longest conversation we ever had.”
Alice remembered the notation in the cookbook. Eleanor’s 13th birthday—delicious! “I found some old magazines and a cookbook that I think belon
ged to her. Or someone she knew. Do you know the name Elsie Swann?”
“It does sound familiar, though I can’t place why. My mind isn’t as reliable as it used to be.” Sally straightened and arched back slightly, rubbing her lower back absentmindedly.
“It’s fine. I had a thought I’d try to return the cookbook.”
“I suspect if someone left it behind it wasn’t something they needed anymore.”
“Maybe so,” Alice murmured. “Well, it was nice to officially meet you, Sally. And I should get back to work myself.”
“And solving that emergency.”
“Yes. That too.” Alice swiveled to look at her house and then, remembering she couldn’t get inside, sighed. “But I seem to have locked myself out, so I guess I’ll work on my tan until my husband gets home.”
“Check under that pinkish rock by the back steps. I can’t promise it’s still there, but I remember that’s where Nellie used to leave a spare key.”
Alice lifted the granite rock, realizing it was fake—it was light, hollow when she tapped it. A small trapdoor in the rock’s bottom opened to reveal a key. “I’m glad you were out here, Sally.”
“Happy to help,” Sally said. “And it was lovely to meet you, Miss Alice.”
The two women exchanged goodbyes, and Alice scooped up the pack of cigarettes, assuring Sally they were going straight in the trash; she didn’t want to disappoint her new neighbor. Back at the front of the house, Alice slid the key into the lock and before she could turn it the door creaked open, as though it hadn’t been fully closed in the first place. She let go of the key—still lodged in the lock—as the door yawned open. “What the hell?”