Recipe for a Perfect Wife

by Karma Brown

  “So, speaking of significant others . . . how’s it going with Darren?” Alice asked. Nate had Darren on a tour of the house, where he was surely peppering Bronwyn’s newish, architect boyfriend with questions about the renovations. “Nate’s probably holding him hostage upstairs, forcing him to determine which walls are load-bearing and which ones we could take the sledgehammer to.”

  “Darren lives for that shit.” Bronwyn pulled out a chair and sat cross-legged in her slim black pants, which she’d paired with an off-white lace top. “He’d move us out here in a second. Into a house that would slowly suck out my life force, one wallpapered room at a time.” She pointedly looked around the kitchen, frown in place, which Alice chose to ignore.

  “Moving in, huh? Sounds like things are going well?”

  “Ali, you know how I feel about sharing closet space—I don’t.” Bronwyn twirled her wineglass between her fingers, a small smile taking shape. “But he’s okay.”

  “You know, there’s a house for sale down the block. Loads of wallpaper. I’ll make sure to mention it to Darren at dinner.”

  Bronwyn swatted at her. “Don’t you dare. I told you, I’m never leaving the island.” She picked up a potato chip from the bowl and held it over a glass dip dish on the table. “What’s this?”

  “It’s called ‘Hollywood Dunk.’ An appetizer from the fifties.”

  Bronwyn dipped the chip into the white creamy spread speckled with green dots and popped it in her mouth. She chewed slowly, her face moving through a variety of expressions—none of them good.

  “Yeah, I know.” Alice laughed as she watched her best friend try to get the chip and dip down.

  A giant swig of wine later, Bronwyn sputtered, “What’s in that?”

  “Deviled ham. Chives. Onion. Horseradish.”

  Bronwyn stared at her, mouthed, Deviled ham?

  “It’s chopped up deli ham mixed with mayonnaise, mustard, hot pepper sauce, and salt and pepper, and then you blend it a bit. Then you add the chives, onion, and horseradish. Oh, and the last thing is whipped cream. Can’t forget that,” Alice added.

  “Why would you make this? To eat?” Bronwyn pressed a napkin to her lips and squeezed her eyes shut. “Whipped cream and ham should never mingle. Never ever, never.”

  Alice placed the still-full dip dish in the sink. “Agreed. That’s why it wasn’t out. I was curious, but it’s disgusting.”

  “Thanks for the warning,” Bronwyn murmured, now drinking wine directly from the bottle.

  “You didn’t give me a chance!” Alice replied.

  “I was hungry. I’ve been on a stupid juice cleanse,” Bronwyn retorted, and they both laughed.

  “You’re lucky I didn’t serve the bananas wrapped in ham, baked with hollandaise sauce on top.”

  Bronwyn made a retching sound and took another swig of wine. Then she rested her chin on the bottle’s top. “Did I mention I’ve missed you?”

  “Me too, Bron.” She used to share everything with Bronwyn. But lately there was more her best friend didn’t know—about the lawsuit, her frustrations with Nate and his schedule, her inability to write, how she missed her old job so much some days she had a hard time dragging herself out of bed. Bronwyn tried, responding to texts when she could, promising catch-up calls that didn’t materialize, but the chasm seemed to widen with each passing week.

  “I know you said it isn’t so bad, but are you happy out here, Ali?”

  Alice considered the question. “I’m, like, seventy percent happy.”

  “And the other thirty percent?”

  “Lonely, bored, certain I’ve made a big fucking mistake. Ten percent each.”

  Bronwyn snorted. “Hey, that’s not so bad.” She refilled Alice’s wineglass. “Here’s to your seventy percent suburban happiness, even if it has you making revolting dips to feed to your city friends.”

  * * *

  • • •

  After they’d finished their meal, which was well received by all, the group settled into the living room to have dessert. Alice was full and too warm from the wine, but she felt relaxed and pleased with the success of her first dinner party.

  “This has been great, you guys. Except for that Hollywood Dunk crap.” Bronwyn shuddered, and Alice laughed, handing her a slice of chocolate cake.

  “Thanks for coming all the way out here,” Alice replied, cutting a last sliver of cake for herself. “It has been way too long since we’ve hung out.”

  “I know! I can’t believe I haven’t seen you in, like, almost two months.” Bronwyn and Alice used to have a standing Tuesday-night drinks-and-dinner date, and rarely went two days without talking. “Wait. Has it actually been two whole months?”

  “Not that long,” Nate said, pressing his fork’s tines into the cake. “You guys went to Trattoria Dell’Arte, what, like three or four weeks ago?” He popped the morsel of cake in his mouth and looked at Alice for confirmation. Fluttery panic filled her belly.

  “Right. That was only a few weeks ago.” Alice locked eyes with Bronwyn, who paused to take a sip from her wine. “I’d forgotten about that.”

  “Yeah, me too,” Bronwyn said slowly. “It feels like longer. Doesn’t it, Ali?”

  “It really does,” Alice replied, a flush filling her cheeks. Bronwyn gave her a quizzical look, and Alice stood quickly. “Who wants coffee?”

  Nate gently pressed her shoulders, forcing her back to the couch. “You stay put. Enjoy your cake. I’ll get it,” he said.

  “Can I help?” Darren asked.

  “Sure,” Nate replied. “I can pick your brain about the kitchen.”

  Once the two men left the room Bronwyn turned on Alice. “Okay. So why did we go to Trattoria for lunch when we didn’t go to Trattoria for lunch?”

  Alice sighed. “I’ll fill you in later.”

  “Why not now?” Bronwyn asked, topping up her wineglass. “Darren is long-winded when it comes to renovations. Those two won’t be back for ages.”

  “It’s a long, complicated story.”

  “Those are my favorite kind,” Bronwyn said, swinging her feet up to rest on Alice’s lap.

  Alice glanced toward the kitchen, then lowered her voice. “It’s no big deal, but I had to go in and meet with Georgia, and I didn’t want to tell Nate because, well, he’s got so much going on with work and he doesn’t need anything else to worry about.”

  “Why did Georgia want to meet with you?”

  “Shhhh. Bronwyn, you can hear everything in this old house.”

  Bronwyn cringed. “Sorry,” she whispered, leaned closer to Alice. “But what did the Queen Bitch want?”

  Alice paused. She could tell Bronwyn—should tell her. And she’d be happy to, actually, because Alice felt quite victorious about how things had sorted themselves out. “It was James Dorian.” She spoke softly, and Bronwyn’s eyes widened. “There was this lawsuit—”

  Darren popped his head back into the living room. “Hey, Ali, where’s the sugar?”

  “Um, in the right-hand cupboard. Bottom shelf,” Alice replied, her voice suddenly too loud.

  “Thanks,” Darren said, retreating back to the kitchen.

  Bronwyn grabbed Alice’s free hand. “What lawsuit?” she hissed. “What the hell, Ali? Are you okay? Why didn’t you tell me any of this?”

  Alice only had time to tell Bronwyn the lawsuit had thankfully been dropped—without going into detail—as a moment later Nate and Darren were back with a tray of mugs, along with the sugar and creamer. “Coffee will be ready momentarily,” Nate said, putting the tray down. “So, what did we miss?”

  Bronwyn looked at Alice, opened her mouth, then shut it. Then put on a big smile and turned to Nate. “We were just discussing opening another bottle of wine. It’s only eleven, which is too soon for coffee, don’t you think?”

  Darren shrugged and N
ate said, “That works for me.”

  “All righty, then.” Bronwyn pushed up from the couch, taking a full bottle of wine from the stand by the dining room table. “Shall I open this?”

  “You shall,” said Alice, nodding affirmatively, grateful for the reprieve.

  Coffee forgotten and wineglasses full, conversation soon turned back to the renovations, and Alice groaned and lay her head back against the couch. “Nate, come on. Darren, what’s your hourly rate? I think we’ve about maxed out on the free advice at this point.”

  Darren and Bronwyn smirked, and Nate looked appropriately sheepish. “I know, I know. Sorry,” he said. “But, Ali, Darren had some great ideas for upstairs.” He perched on the edge of his chair. “Like putting in a Jack and Jill bathroom between our room and the nursery. What do you think?”

  “Nursery, huh?” Bronwyn asked, eyes locked on Alice.

  “Our next little project,” Nate said, his grin wide, emphasis on the word “little.” “I think barefoot and pregnant will look good on Ali, don’t you guys agree?” He laughed, too hard, a bit drunk, and Darren joined in. Until Bronwyn, who had quietly uttered, “Oh boy . . . ,” at Nate’s terrible joke, gave her boyfriend a look, and it petered out.

  Nate, sensing the joke hadn’t landed the way he’d hoped, leaned forward and kissed Alice on her cheek. “Ali, come on. I’m kidding. You can be a great mom and a New York Times bestselling author.”

  Bronwyn whispered, “No pressure,” and Alice gave a quick shake of her head. Her heart hammered with irritation, and a hint of resentment toward Nate. Why did he have to bring it up now, and like that? As though these considerable milestones could be summarized in a lame punch line?

  But expressing that would surely have led to an awkward scene. So instead Alice cleared her throat and raised her glass, though she hated herself for playing along. “To a bestselling novel and getting knocked up!”

  There was a group “Cheers!” and then Nate started in again on the house and Alice sipped her wine, thinking—with only a smidgen of remorse—how grateful she was that Nate couldn’t read her mind.

  24

  Nellie

  JULY 30, 1956

  Tuna Casserole

  2 cans cream of mushroom soup

  1 cup milk

  2 7-ounce cans tuna, drained

  3 hard-cooked eggs, sliced

  2 cups cooked peas

  2 teaspoons salt

  1 teaspoon pepper

  1 cup crushed potato chips

  In a casserole dish, blend mushroom soup and milk, stir in tuna, sliced eggs, cooked peas, and salt and pepper. Bake at 350°F for 25 minutes. Top with potato chips and bake 5 minutes longer.

  Richard would be home soon, and Nellie—though she was getting better at moving about with the plaster cast—was behind schedule. She placed her index finger on the recipe, double-checking the ingredients, and grimaced as an overwhelming itch crawled up the shin of her casted leg.

  Swiveling in her kitchen chair away from the worktable, Nellie grabbed the knitting needles from the counter. She slid one needle into the front of her cast and scratched, groaning with the relief. There was no longer pain in her ankle, now that it had been casted for a few weeks, but the itching was awful.

  Scratch finally managed, Nellie went back to her recipe. The tabletop had been wiped clean and the casserole was ready for the oven, but the cookbook remained open in front of her. She glanced at the notation her mother had written in the margin (a generous sprinkle of spices after cooking as needed) and hopped over to the cabinets near the sink. Nellie set the jar of herb mix Miriam had helped her prepare on the counter, near the water glasses, so she’d remember to put it out with dinner.

  The clock above the door sang its on-the-hour tune, and a fresh wave of anxiety moved through her. She was a disheveled mess; her pinned hair was loosening, her makeup had sweated off due to the heat of the stove and the effort of preparing dinner while on crutches. Supporting her weight on the sink’s edge, Nellie turned on the tap and wet a dish towel to wipe her face.

  She probably should have shortened her earlier visit with Miriam to prevent the scrambling she was doing now. But Miriam had been a lifesaver recently. In many ways, she was the mother Nellie had never had. Nellie loved Elsie, who was brilliant and side-stitch funny and could bake the most delicious cake with her eyes closed and grow beautiful things as if by magic. But she could be difficult to be around. Nellie understood, even from a young age, that her mother had an illness—a darkness of mind that never allowed her to reach her full potential. Elsie Swann constantly struggled to keep her head above those charcoal-black waters threatening to drown her. Miriam, by comparison, was easy to be with because she was filled with sunbeams; Elsie had little more than thunderclouds inside her.

  Oftentimes throughout her childhood it seemed as though Nellie was the one mothering Elsie. While her schoolmates arrived with bagged lunches made by their mothers, Nellie not only prepared her own lunch but also left something in the fridge for her mother each day. As well as a note on a still-asleep Elsie’s bedside table with instructions for how long to heat it, even though many days Nellie came home to Elsie still in bed, lunch untouched in the fridge. She did the household chores—the washing, cleaning, marketing when she was old enough to go on her own—and managed the bills, which were a puzzle to sort out some months when money was tight. Nellie was independent and capable of taking care of the home by the time she was twelve years old and probably could have done anything she set her mind to. But instead she married Richard, in part because that’s what young women did—becoming a “Mrs.” was what proper girls aspired to. But it also meant there would be someone to take care of Nellie for a change.

  Nellie set the timer as the front door opened, ten minutes earlier than expected. She chided herself again for not watching the time more carefully. One hand still on the countertop for balance, Nellie scrambled to prepare Richard’s old-fashioned. In her haste, the cocktail glass slipped while she muddled the sugar cube with the bitters and it smashed on the floor. At the sound of the breaking glass, Richard came to the kitchen and saw the shards of glass and scowled.

  “Where’s Helen?” he asked, his tone sharp. He was in a terrible mood; it must not have been a good day at the plant.

  “I sent her home this morning,” Nellie replied, wondering how to clean up the glass without being able to crouch. The now familiar feeling of helplessness she loathed swept through her. “She’s been here nearly every day, Richard, and she has a family to look after, too.”

  Richard took off his hat and coat and set them on the kitchen chair, sighing with annoyance. He didn’t much care for Helen (he found her timid nature unbecoming and her height intimidating, though he would never have used that word), but he also wanted his house pristine, his meals hot, his drink handed to him rather than in a puddle on the kitchen floor. “I’ll do it. Move.”

  She did as he asked, backing up with her crutches and sitting in a chair on the other side of the kitchen. Richard grumbled as he bent to pick up the glass, using the kitchen cloth to clean up the small puddle of bitters and sugar. Nellie didn’t comment that there was a cloth for the floor under the sink, that he was using the one for washing dishes and wiping counters. She would have to throw it away now or risk cut hands, the tiny shards of glass nestling firmly into the cloth’s woven surface with every pass on the floor.

  “I’m sorry. I’m clumsy with these crutches.”

  Richard said nothing, continued wiping with her good cloth.

  “Dinner is in the oven and I can make you another drink,” she added.

  The silence in the Murdochs’ kitchen stretched, punctuated only by Richard’s grunts and sighs, the sound of running water from the tap. He left the balled-up cloth in the sink and took another glass from the shelf, made himself a drink without asking Nellie if she wanted anything.


  Frustration simmered in Nellie’s chest as she watched him, oblivious to his invalid wife sitting two feet away. It was a burn she recognized—anger at being dismissed, at being ignored. Oh, if she could only go back to that night they met, when Richard made her swoon with his attention, his money such a nice change from her frugal upbringing, and not give in to his charm. But it was far too late for such wishful thinking.

  Richard drank his cocktail quickly and made another. Again, not asking Nellie if she wanted or needed anything. Finally, he settled somewhat and loosened his tie, taking a seat at the table.

  “What’s for dinner?” he asked, shaking his glass to distribute the ice cubes.

  “Tuna casserole. With buttered carrots and fruit salad.”

  He finished the last inch of his drink, nodded. “Fine. How much time do we have?”

  “About fifteen minutes?” Nellie glanced at the timer. “It’s difficult with this leg, to get things done as quickly as I’m used to.”

  “Should be long enough.” Richard stood and headed into the living room. “Come with me.”

  “Where?” Nellie asked. “For what? I’d like to rest here for a few minutes before I need to get dinner out of the oven.”

  “Follow me, Eleanor.” There was no mistaking his tone, or the use of her full name—this was not a request.

  Nellie settled her crutches into her armpits and hobbled after him. “What is this about, Richard?” she asked, once she made it into the living room.

  His back was to her at first, but when he turned she saw him undoing his belt buckle. “Lie down on the sofa.” He jerked his head toward the green Kroehler sofa Nellie had chosen when they first moved into the house, the color reminding her of vibrant springtime leaves.

  She stared at him. “Why?”