Recipe for a Perfect Wife

by Karma Brown

  * * *

  • • •

  Later, Nate found Alice lying on the living room floor, still in her funeral ensemble. Hands stretched overhead and eyes closed; the only movement was in her chest, which rose in measured breaths.

  “What are you doing?” Nate asked, sitting on one end of the sofa so he could see her face. His voice carried worry, though he kept his tone light. She wanted to be alone. Though lying in the middle of the living room floor was not the most inconspicuous place to rest when one wanted solitude.

  “Does it feel warmer in here?” Alice asked.

  “Warmer? I don’t know,” Nate replied. “I guess so?”

  “Don’t you think that’s weird? I mean, this room used to be freezing. I had to wear a sweater all the time. And now it’s warm.”

  “Do you want me to open a window?” Nate asked.

  “No. I like it.” Alice’s eyes remained closed as she took in a long breath, appreciating the moment of serenity.

  “Do you need anything? A glass of water?”

  “In one of those magazines it said if you feel tired to lie on the floor with your eyes closed for five minutes.”

  Alice didn’t see Nate’s smile because her eyes were shut. “Which magazine?” he asked.

  “One of the old ones I found in the basement, with the cookbook. From the fifties.”

  Nate’s knees cracked when he crouched, and his arm pressed against hers as he lay on the floor beside her. Things hadn’t been quite right between them since the night Nate blew off dinner—despite his apologies, promises to make it up to her—but it was a lot of work, staying angry. They lay in silence for a while, only the sound of their breath filling the space between them.

  “Do you want to talk about it?” he finally asked.

  Alice shook her head. “No.”

  “Okay.” The blissful quiet enveloped Alice again. “It’s all right to be upset, Ali. He was still your father.”

  “In title only,” Alice replied. She opened her eyes, stared at the plaster ceiling covered with fancy swirls and tiny crests that proved excellent holders for spiderwebs. She should probably take a broom to it tomorrow. “I’m going to start dinner.”

  Nate rolled onto his side toward her, bent his elbow, and rested his head in his palm. “I thought we could order in tonight.”

  “Already thawed the chicken.” Alice sat up slowly and wrapped her arms around her knees. Her head was fogged, probably because she hadn’t yet eaten today, and she waited for the dizziness to pass. “I think the house likes it when I cook.”

  There was a pause from Nate, and then: “You mean, because it smells good?” He sat up as well.

  Alice took a breath in, let it out. Still light-headed. “That too.”

  Nate shook his head, laughed gently. “I’m confused.”

  “I know it sounds nuts, but ever since I started making recipes from Nellie Murdoch’s old cookbook, the house feels warmer. And we haven’t had a house disaster in over a week.” Alice stood, felt okay. “The kitchen tap doesn’t drip anymore, and even the fridge has gone quiet. Did you notice how quiet it is?”

  Nate’s mouth opened and closed; then he smiled and got to his feet as well. He rubbed Alice’s back, her jacket bunching slightly as he did. “I think you need some sleep, sweets.”

  “Go in the kitchen and listen,” Alice said as she walked to the stairs, wanting to change before making dinner. She slipped her shoes off before she started up, Nellie’s last letter outlining a nasty slip and fall down this very staircase—the last thing Alice needed was a broken ankle, or worse. “You’ll see. It doesn’t rattle anymore.”

  Nate put his hands on his hips, frowning as he watched Alice climb the stairs, creaking with each step. Then he went into the kitchen and waited, counting to ten . . . then twenty, listening for the reliable clunks and clatters of their antique refrigerator. But it had gone quiet, after all.

  From the desk of Eleanor Murdoch

  July 18, 1956

  Dearest Mother,

  I’m sorry I’m unable to visit as planned. This broken ankle is keeping me tied to home, and I’m convalescing with an ugly plaster cast on my leg that the doctor feels will have to stay on for some time yet. I’m not typically prone to clumsiness, but the unfortunate combination of a new pair of heels and freshly polished stairs resulted in quite the dramatic fall. It was most upsetting, but the pain has now eased, thankfully. I do hope to be relieved of this plaster sooner than Dr. Johnson has suggested. My accident also ruined Richard’s birthday dinner—I had made a most gorgeous batch of mint jelly to go with lamb chops—but I’ll make it up to him soon enough.

  Helen, our girl, is staying in the guest room for a couple of weeks to help out, but I fear she won’t be able to manage the garden too. It’s going to be an awful mess when I’m finally able to get back to it, with all the rain we’ve been having recently. I wish you could be here—the garden and I would be so lucky to have you! I did manage to cut and dry enough herbs for another batch of herb mix before my fall, and my lovely neighbor Miriam is coming over to help me make it while I’m off my feet. I’d hate for Richard to go without, as he really does love the added spice on his meals.

  His stomach pains had been improving, but the last few nights he’s been quite unwell. I’ve had Helen prepare some of your tried-and-true invalid meals, though they seem not to be making much of a difference yet. My own appetite is down, which I suppose is good, as I spend so much time lying about these days, and getting thick in the middle will only make things worse.

  Will send more news soon. Kisses and all my love.

  Your loving daughter, Nellie xx

  22

  Nellie

  JULY 18, 1956

  Nellie scowled at the bulky plaster of paris cast on her leg, perched on top of a sofa cushion. At least she had painted her toenails before her accident. The wooden crutches leaned beside her as she wrote on her lap, using a stack of magazines to keep her correspondence paper from creasing. She folded the finished letter carefully, lining the edges up and licking the envelope flap to seal it. She wrote out her mother’s address in its center and her own at the top left corner before setting the envelope on the side table within reach.

  “Would you like me to mail that for you, Mrs. Murdoch?” Helen came into the living room to collect Nellie’s barely touched lunch. “I can pop by the post office on my way to the market this afternoon. It’s no bother.”

  “Please, Helen, call me Nellie,” she replied, like she did every time Helen called her by her mother-in-law’s name, Mrs. Murdoch. Helen, who was a head taller than Nellie, with large eyes that always looked surprised, nodded at the request, but Nellie knew she wouldn’t abide by it. “And, no, thank you, it’s fine. I’m planning to write a few more, so perhaps once those are done I’ll have you send them along.” Nellie tucked the envelope inside the front cover of the most recent issue of Ladies’ Home Journal.

  “Anything else I can get for you before I go, ma’am?”

  “I’m fine for now,” Nellie said. “Also, I was thinking about cold lamb sandwiches with mint sauce for dinner this evening. Maybe with a green salad? Do we still have some lamb left?”

  “Enough for at least one sandwich.” Helen reached behind Nellie and fluffed up her pillows, coming close in a way that made Nellie uncomfortable. The bruise across her jaw was merely a shadow now, but Nellie still tucked her chin to the side and out of Helen’s sight.

  “Are you done with your lunch?” Helen asked.

  “I am, thank you. It was delicious, but my appetite isn’t quite back yet.” She smiled in apology. “Save the lamb for Richard. It’s one of his favorites.”

  Helen nodded. “I’ll prepare it when I’m back from the marketing. What about your supper?”

  “I’ll have a small salad, maybe some broth. Thank you, Helen. That’s all fo
r now.”

  “Knock-knock!” Miriam’s voice echoed from the front door.

  “Oh, could you see Miriam in, please?” Nellie asked.

  “Of course, Mrs. Murdoch,” Helen replied, to which Nellie sighed softly. “I’ll leave that sandwich there for you in case you get hungry later.”

  “Fine, thank you.” Nellie fought to keep the irritation from her tone. Helen’s near constant presence and fussing made Nellie claustrophobic and unsettled. She needed the help but had grown used to being alone in her house. However, Richard had been quite insistent: Helen would stay with them until Nellie could manage things on her own, whether she liked it or not.

  “How’s our patient doing?” Miriam moved slowly, clearly suffering with her swollen joints today. She chose a chair across from Nellie and gave a warm smile. “You look better, dear. More color in those beautiful cheeks.”

  “You are too kind,” Nellie replied. “But how are you? You seem to be in some pain yourself?”

  “Oh, I’m right as rain. Don’t fret. You have enough on your plate, dear.”

  Helen popped her head back into the living room. “Can I get you something to drink, Mrs. Claussen?”

  “Oh, that would be lovely. I’ll have whatever Nellie is having.”

  “Iced tea,” Helen said, and Miriam nodded. “Sounds perfect, thank you, Helen.”

  Soon they each had a fresh glass of ice-cold tea and a slice of Miriam’s coffee cake, which she’d brought with her, and they discussed the weather (the sun was supposed to make an appearance at some point) and what to do about a recent explosion of voles—furry little rodents that feasted on succulent roots, bulbs, and especially grass—that had left unsightly bare patches crisscrossing Miriam’s lawn. Eventually the front door shut when Helen left for town, the two women finally alone.

  Miriam took a sip from her glass before placing it on a coaster. “So how are things today, dear?”

  “I can’t complain,” Nellie replied. “Richard has been keeping himself . . . busy.” She didn’t specify with what, or with whom.

  “Well, I suppose that’s a blessing, isn’t it?” Miriam said. Nellie murmured that it was, strangely thankful to Richard’s secretary, Jane, who was keeping him occupied—the how and the what irrelevant now.

  “Are you still able to help me with my herbs today?” Nellie asked.

  “I’d be delighted. Lord knows you’ve helped me plenty.”

  “I promise it won’t be too taxing on those hands of yours.”

  “My hands are perfectly fine,” Miriam replied. Nellie knew that wasn’t true, but she wouldn’t have asked for her friend’s assistance if she was able to do it herself.

  “On that note, I think it’s time to get to work,” Miriam said, slapping her palms against her skirted thighs. “Tell me what to do.”

  “Oh, there’s one other small thing.” Nellie retrieved the envelope from the front of the magazine. “Would you take this for me?”

  “Same as the others?”

  “Yes, please,” Nellie said, and Miriam tucked the envelope into her purse. Nellie was grateful for Miriam’s endlessly supportive presence. The older woman never asked questions Nellie couldn’t bear to answer, understanding that some things were better left unsaid. Despite their age difference, Miriam was Nellie’s most trusted friend.

  “Now, is everything in the kitchen?” Miriam asked.

  “Yes. The herbs are wrapped in a newsprint bundle on top of the refrigerator. Are you all right on a step stool?” Miriam assured her she was. “You need to pull off the dried leaves and seed pods and put them in the mixing bowl. There’s a pestle in the top drawer beside the sink, and two glass shakers on the countertop to store the herbs in once they’ve been crushed. But I can help with that part. My arms aren’t broken.”

  But Miriam wouldn’t hear of it. “Nellie, you stay put. Rest while you’re able, dear. I may be old and a touch rickety, but I most certainly can crush a few herbs.”

  “Thank you, Miriam. And don’t forget to use the rubber gloves,” Nellie added. “Some of those stems are rough, and I’d hate for you to nick yourself. There’s a set hanging over the faucet.”

  “You just lie back and relax.” Miriam tutted, patting Nellie’s good leg. “I’ll have this done in a jiffy, and afterward we’ll finish our chat and cake. Sound good?”

  “Sounds good.” Nellie smiled. “I’ve left the recipe inside my mother’s cookbook, behind the cover. And would you tuck it back inside when you’re done? It’s an old family recipe and I’d like to keep it between us, if you don’t mind.”

  “Of course,” Miriam replied, giving a wink. “Every woman needs a good secret or two.”

  23

  Serving something new? It’s a good idea to try the recipe first. Unless you know your guests well, it’s best not to serve anything that’s too unusual. As a rule, men like simple food and women take to “something different.”

  —Better Homes & Gardens Holiday Cook Book (1959)

  Alice

  JULY 14, 2018

  Still in a time warp, I see.” Bronwyn fingered a fraying edge of the kitchen’s floral wallpaper and crinkled her nose, taking in the peach-hued cabinets, ancient fridge, and chrome-legged Formica table. “I thought you’d have it done by now. Actually, I thought you’d be back in the city already. Aren’t you losing your mind out here?” She clutched Alice’s elbow. “Come back. Please, Ali.”

  Alice smiled at Bronwyn’s plea, continued stirring the sauce, and double-checked the recipe. “I miss you too.” She added the peas, cubed cooked chicken, egg, and onion juice. She had never “juiced” an onion before and had no intentions of doing it again. Her eyes had only just stopped watering half an hour before Bronwyn and her boyfriend, Darren, arrived. “And I know it’s hard to believe, but it’s okay out here. Different, but not in a bad way.”

  Bronwyn groaned, leaning against the tattered wallpaper with flair. “God, we’ve lost you. I told Darren I was worried you’d change. That the suburbs would take you prisoner and that would be that. The end.” Alice bristled at Bronwyn’s assessment, yet couldn’t bring herself to admit that was precisely how she felt, at times.

  “I’m hardly a prisoner, Bron.” Alice rolled her eyes, gave a short laugh. “I just think I’ve finally figured out this ‘adulting’ thing.” To be fair, Bronwyn’s decision to live in Manhattan and work more hours a week than she slept was no less adult than Alice transforming into a suburban housewife and part-time novelist.

  Bronwyn huffed, mumbling something about “adulting” being overrated, then got distracted by a purse hanging over one of the chairs. She whistled, ran her fingers along the quilted black leather. “Where did you get this?” she asked, slipping the gold chain strap over her shoulder and striking a pose.

  “It was in one of those boxes I found in the basement. The previous owner’s old stuff.” Along with the purse Alice had also uncovered a dainty gold watch that still worked when she wound it, and a mother-of-pearl hollow tube that, thanks to Google, she’d learned was an antique cigarette holder.

  “Ali, this is an original Chanel 2.55. Like, the real deal. Coco Chanel designed it herself.”

  Whereas Alice was somewhat indifferent when it came to fashion, Bronwyn was a connoisseur; she slept on a Murphy bed in the living room of her small apartment so she could turn her bedroom into a giant closet. “I figured you’d know,” Alice said, glad they had shifted to a less onerous topic of conversation. “That’s why I left it out for you.”

  “Damn. This is gorgeous.” Bronwyn hummed lightly as she sashayed from side to side, the bag swinging against her hip.

  “So why is it called ‘2.55’?”

  “It’s the bag’s birthday. First made in February 1955. Hand stitched too. And this one looks like it’s never been used.” Bronwyn opened the flaps, peered inside. Sighed with longing. “Whoever o
wned this—what was her name again?”

  “Nellie. Nellie Murdoch.”

  “Right. Well, Nellie Murdoch may not have had great taste in kitchen decor, but her choice of handbags was flawless.”

  “It’s yours if you want it.” Alice licked a drip of sauce from her finger.

  “What? No. No way, lady. I mean, yes, I want it. But you do not give away a vintage Chanel 2.55, Alice Hale. No.” Bronwyn took the purse from her shoulder and set it on the table, touching the stitching with envious fingers one last time. “But promise me you’ll use it, okay? It should get out there, be seen. It’s a crime to keep a bag like this in a dark basement. Or on such an ugly table.”

  Alice laughed and promised to give the purse a “good time.”

  “Did you also find that outfit in your magical basement box of treasures?” Bronwyn gestured to the full circle skirt of Alice’s vintage pale pink cocktail dress. “I have to say, I’m loving this look on you. Especially those.” She pointed to Alice’s stockings.

  Alice’s retro stockings were nude, with a black seam snaking down the back that ended in a bow at the top of her heel. She’d bought the stockings, dress, and simple glass-bead necklace at a vintage shop in Scarsdale and had added a pair of glossy red heels from her publicist days to complete the look. Alice turned and raised one leg, looking at the stocking seam and bow. “I do sort of love these,” she said. “But can I still be a feminist if I wear pantyhose?”

  “Hey, if you like wearing them, then you bet.” Bronwyn smirked. “Nate’s gonna like taking those babies off later. With his teeth.” She wiggled her eyebrows, and Alice laughed easily. She really had missed Bronwyn—the closest thing Alice had to a friend in Greenville was Sally—and the deep bite of homesickness gripped her.