Recipe for a Perfect Wife

by Karma Brown

  Nate kissed her again, more deeply this time. “You too. Hope you get lots of words written.”

  “Thanks. Going to start right after I clean up.”

  He pulled her close. “I don’t know if I said this, but you look beautiful. Lipstick and stockings for breakfast may be my new favorite thing.”

  “Even better than bacon and eggs and freshly squeezed orange juice?”

  “Yes.” Nate ran his hand along her side and tucked it up under her sundress’s skirt, letting his fingers slide the length of her stocking-covered inner thigh as he pressed her against their front door. “I wasn’t expecting to see you this morning. But I’m happy I did.”

  “I can tell . . .” Alice’s breath caught and she felt a warmth between her legs. It had been longer than usual since they’d had sex—Nate’s schedule meant they were rarely awake and available at the same time.

  “And your timing couldn’t be better,” he said, his lips grazing her jaw. “You know what day it is, right?”

  “Uh . . .” She was having trouble concentrating. “Tuesday?”

  He nuzzled her ear, whispered, “Day twelve, babe.”

  Alice pressed her eyes closed, her body tightening reflexively. She grew cold and uncomfortable in her center, like she’d swallowed an ice cube whole. But Nate didn’t seem to notice the shift, crouching as he rolled her stockings down her legs, grinning up at her. Commenting how he was planning to save this for tonight, but, well, here they were . . .

  She watched him as though observing the scene from a distance. Considered her part in all of this. If she’d been honest with him weeks ago, this day would be just another Tuesday. Yet Alice wondered . . . did other husbands track their wives’ cycles with such precision when they weren’t asked to? Was it fair to feel manipulated by Nate, even though she was guilty of much the same?

  Alice reached down and stayed Nate’s hands. “You’ll miss your train,” she murmured, gently pulling him back to standing. Her stockings were in a ball at their feet—later she’d have to throw them out, realizing Nate had ripped the seam.

  He gave a ragged sigh, pressed his forehead to hers. “Damn train.”

  “I know.” Alice smiled, then stepped out of his embrace to open the front door. “Besides, it’s not as much fun if we need to rush.” A breeze wafted under her skirt, reminding her she had no underwear on.

  “You’re right.” Nate took one last, longing glance at her outfit as he snapped on his bike helmet. “Maybe stay like that until I get home?”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” Alice replied, though she was quite certain she’d be asleep in pajamas by that time.

  * * *

  • • •

  Alice cleaned up from breakfast and poured another coffee. She’d just opened her laptop when her phone rang. Thinking it was likely her mom—she was the only person who called, typically—Alice ignored it. But then her phone buzzed with a text, and she glanced down.

  Can you chat?

  Three little dots wiggled below, then disappeared as Bronwyn typed something else but didn’t send. Finally, a second line.

  Call me. Need to chat!

  Concerned, Alice dialed Bronwyn’s number. The last in-depth conversation they’d had was a few weeks earlier, when Alice had filled her in on the lawsuit fiasco story, after which Bronwyn had texted her a dozen high-five emoticons and the words, Queen Bitch: 0, Alice Hale: 1. There had been a smattering of texts back and forth since, but Bronwyn was swamped with a new project and relatively absent.

  “Hey,” Alice said, when her friend answered. “Everything okay?”

  “Hey! Yes. All good.”

  “What’s up?”

  “Do you have a sec?” Bronwyn asked.

  “At least one.” Alice pushed back from the desk and sat on the more comfortable sofa, sipping her now lukewarm coffee. “Though I am a very busy writer, you know.”

  “Right. Right.” Bronwyn was distracted. There was a long pause; only the sound of traffic was audible.

  Alice frowned. “Are you sure everything is okay?”

  “Hang on.” Bronwyn’s voice was muffled, but Alice heard her greet someone. “Sorry, getting into my Uber.”

  “No problem. And good timing. I also need to talk to you about something—”

  “I got married.”

  “Ha, ha, very funny,” Alice said.

  “I’m serious, Ali. I’m married.” Stunned silence from Alice’s end; honks and traffic sounds, and then an excited squeal from Bronwyn’s, followed by, “Can you believe it?”

  “What? To who?” Alice shot up off the couch, knocking the coffee table. Her mug teetered on the edge and Alice caught it before it fell, but not before it spilled all over the rug.

  “To Darren, obviously! I had a conference in Vegas and Darren came with me because he’s never been and he has this weird thing for Céline Dion—did I tell you he’s half-Canadian? His mom is from Montreal, and she met his dad and they moved to Connecticut and he was born there.” Bronwyn paused to take a breath. “Anyway, his mom was a big Céline fan—he pronounces her name like, Cé-lin, which I guess is how they say it in French? Or in Canada? Anyway, he used to listen to her growing up, and I don’t know. You love what you love, right?”

  Bronwyn, married? Bronwyn, who believed marriage was okay, for other people. Who ended relationships at the two-month mark because that was when things shifted from casual to meaningful. Who swore to Alice she would “never, ever, never” get married, and who had joked that Alice’s own wedding had required her to double up on her Xanax.

  “It was totally spontaneous. Oh my God, it was so spontaneous. Like, one second we were gambling and the next the Elvis dude was pronouncing us husband and wife. Oh my God, Ali, I’m married.”

  Alice sat down on the rug, beside the coffee stain. “Are you pregnant?”

  Bronwyn laughed. “Fuck you! No, I am not pregnant. God. You’re worse than my mother. I mean, I wouldn’t even get married just because I was pregnant. We aren’t our grandmothers.”

  Alice put a hand to her forehead, took a deep breath. “I’m sorry. That was . . . I didn’t mean for it to come out like that. You caught me off guard.”

  “I know. It’s shocking, right? Me, married?” Bronwyn sounded jittery, like she’d had too many espressos that morning. “The only person I’ve promised forever to is my waxer, Zara, because, honestly, that’s the most intimate relationship—”

  “Wait. When did this happen?” Alice thought back to the last time she’d seen Bronwyn, three weeks earlier.

  “Oh, um, on the weekend.”

  “But . . . it’s Tuesday. Why didn’t you call me, like, right away?”

  “I did!” Bronwyn replied, somewhat defensively. Alice was sure she’d have noticed a call from Bronwyn. It wasn’t as though her days were busy. “But you didn’t pick up and I didn’t want to leave a message and I had to go to Boston for meetings yesterday and, well, I’m calling you now.

  “Look, I know it seems crazy. We’ve only been together for a few months, but I really think this is it. I mean, everyone is getting married. And coming out there that weekend, well, it got me thinking. Like, life is short, you know? And if I only focus on my career, what am I missing out on? I don’t want to wake up in five years successful but still single while everyone else has moved on.”

  “So, wait . . . you got married because of fear of missing out?” Alice snorted, couldn’t help herself. “Talk about being a millennial cliché, Bron.”

  Now there was silence from Bronwyn’s end.

  “You must hear how nuts that sounds.” Alice pressed on. “It’s not like deciding to get your eyebrows microbladed because you don’t want to be the only thin-eyebrowed woman left in Manhattan.” She tried to bring her voice down to a less screechy level. “It’s a commitment for life, Bronwyn. Like, ’til death
do us part.”

  “Look, not everyone gets your fairy-tale meet-cute, okay? We don’t all find a Nate running in Central Park, Ali. Some of us say yes to a great guy who, sure, we may not have known forever but we definitely love. And then we cross our fingers.” Bronwyn exhaled, then added, more softly, “You don’t know how lucky you are.”

  “Bronwyn, I’m sorry. I really like Darren, I do, it’s just that—”

  “It feels right when I’m with him. Like, I couldn’t imagine not being with him. I thought you of all people would understand that,” Bronwyn said. “I thought you’d be happy for me, Ali.”

  “I am. I am!” Alice wished she could back up ten minutes and have a completely different reaction to her best friend’s news.

  “Listen, I have to go. I’m almost at my meeting.”

  “Um, okay. Can we chat more later?” Alice said in a rush, feeling upended. “And, hey, congratulations. Sorry. I really should have started with that.”

  “Yeah, okay.” Bronwyn paused, then: “Bye, Ali.”

  Alice debated calling back but knew Bronwyn likely wouldn’t pick up. She wouldn’t if she were her. Instead, she riffled through the desk drawer with shaking fingers and pulled out the cigarette pack, unwrapping the plastic casing. In the kitchen, Alice took the matches Nate used to light the barbecue and perched on the countertop facing the window, which she opened wide. She was about to strike the match when she remembered the antique mother-of-pearl cigarette holder in the back of her desk.

  Alice broke the first cigarette trying to use the holder but managed the second one fine. She placed the tip in her mouth and set the flame to the cigarette’s end. She imagined Nellie smoking just like this, perched in her skirt and pearls on the countertop, the cigarette holder tight between her fingers, blowing lazy circles of smoke out the very same window.

  Taking in a deep, smoke-heavy breath, Alice coughed hard, tears pooling in her eyes. Pulling in another drag, light-headed now, Alice blew it out through the screen, though some wafted past her and into the kitchen with the breeze.

  She finished the cigarette quickly, nauseated yet clearheaded from the nicotine, and had two distinct thoughts: one, she was a terrible friend who had no right to judge anyone’s marriage, especially after her recent actions within her own; and two, maybe Bronwyn had the right idea. Perhaps marriage should be spontaneous, based more on feeling than on thinking. Maybe the harder someone worked to create a perfect union, the more power one gave the institution of marriage, rather than the relationship itself, which is where the focus should be.

  Shortly after they moved to California, preteen Alice had asked Jaclyn when she was going to marry Steve. Alice’s father and Jaclyn had never officially married, living as common-law spouses through their tumultuous decade-long relationship, and Alice desperately wanted her mother to wear a wedding band so she was more like the other moms. Commit officially this time, so Steve wouldn’t leave them and they wouldn’t have to move again.

  Jaclyn had cupped Alice’s little chin in her palm and gave her a quite serious look. “Alice, there are plenty of reasons to marry that have nothing to do with love. And you can be head over heels in love and not get married. But no matter what, you should never marry someone unless you believe you’ll die—one way or another—without that person. They should feel more important to you than oxygen. Otherwise you’ll suffocate, one damn anniversary at a time.”

  27

  Nellie

  AUGUST 28, 1956

  Boiled Chocolate Cookie

  2 cups granulated sugar

  ½ cup milk

  ½ cup cocoa

  1 tablespoon butter

  2 cups quick oats

  1 cup coconut

  1 teaspoon vanilla extract

  Boil sugar, milk, cocoa, and butter for five minutes. Remove from heat. Add oats, coconut, and vanilla and, working quickly, stir well and drop by spoonful onto waxed paper. Let cool.

  The cookies were cooling, and Nellie had finished placing the salmon and dill-pickle roll sandwiches on a serving tray when her first two guests—Kitty Goldman and Martha Graves—arrived, both never a moment late for anything. Helen answered the door, and Nellie heard Kitty first. “These are ready for the table, right in the center if you don’t mind. Oh, careful there. You should probably use two hands. That tray was my mother’s. Quite priceless.” She emphasized the last part in a theatrical whisper, and Nellie chuckled at Kitty’s dramatics as she hung her apron. “Nellie! We’re here!”

  It was their monthly neighborhood-watch meeting, and while it was usually held at Kitty’s home—she was the group’s president—she’d begrudgingly agreed to move it to Nellie’s place this time, due to her injury. The cast had been off for almost two weeks, but Nellie was still slow walking, her ankle stiff and her leg emaciated from being imprisoned by plaster.

  Nellie greeted the two women in the front hall as Helen carried (carefully, with two hands and a small scowl on her face) the plate of cookies and bars Kitty had brought. Martha, who rested a plate of deviled eggs on her expansive belly, huffed as she leaned in to kiss Nellie on the cheek. She was swollen and ruddy-skinned with child and looked like an overripe plum, ready to fall off the tree. When Helen came back to take the plate from Martha, she told her she could manage fine and offered her a genuine, warm smile. Kitty rolled her eyes.

  “Let me take it, Martha.” Nellie felt how taut Martha’s pregnant belly was as she reached over her to take the plate. It was like she was carrying a tenpins bowling ball in there. “Would you mind washing up the last of the dishes, Helen?”

  “Why would she mind?” Kitty asked, answering before Helen could. “That’s exactly why she’s here.” She cocked her head and gave Helen a pointed smile—part condescension and part amusement.

  Helen retreated to the kitchen, and Nellie said, “Kitty, was that necessary?”

  “What?” Kitty set her purse on the long table at the entrance of the living room. She held a notepad in her hands. “She’s your girl! She’s here to help you.”

  Martha nodded but said nothing, and Nellie resisted saying anything further as she ushered them into the living room, where Helen had set up jugs of iced tea and lemonade, along with the sandwiches and cooling chocolate cookies.

  “Oh, I love your boiled chocolate cookies,” Martha said, looking enviously at the tray on the sideboard. “But I can barely fit a sip of water in here these days.” She rubbed a hand over her bulging stomach.

  “How much longer now?” Nellie asked, pouring iced tea as they waited for the others to arrive. Out of all the women in her church and neighborhood-watch groups, Nellie was probably closest to Martha, who was simple and kind and easy to spend time with. But she was cautious about her friendships with the wives, understanding the hierarchy. A wife yielded to her husband, which meant whatever she shared with Martha or Kitty would surely find its way back to Richard.

  “Not long, God willing.” Martha shifted awkwardly on the sofa—Nellie no longer sat on the sofa, after what Richard had done to her there—and leaned against a pillow, her face contorting in a flash of pain. “I’m not sure how much longer I can last. The back pain is terrible this time. It’s really quite unpleasant.” Martha already had one child, a boy named Arthur who was sweet and soft-spoken, much like his mother.

  Kitty raised her eyebrows but said nothing, thankfully. She was mother to three, the youngest only thirteen months, but had bounced back from pregnancy like it had never happened—her body slim and her face unlined. She was only twenty-six, and the Goldmans had a live-in girl who helped with the children and the home. Kitty focused on her charitable responsibilities to the church and the neighborhood-watch group, as well as hosting Tupperware parties every chance she got.

  Nellie set a hand on Martha’s shoulder and handed her the tea. “You look lovely, Martha. Pregnancy really suits you.”

  Marth
a grinned, but it soon faded as she remembered Nellie’s recent miscarriage. “Oh, leave it to me to complain about such a miraculous thing.” She gave Nellie a sad smile. “I’m sorry. It’s quite thoughtless of me, Nellie, with what you’ve been through.”

  “Good grief, Martha,” Kitty said, her tone scolding, as though she was speaking with one of her children. “I’m sure Nellie doesn’t need any such reminders.”

  Martha looked pained, and Nellie offered a reassuring smile. “It’s fine. Don’t you give it another thought.”

  “You’re too kind, Nellie,” Martha replied, her relief palpable.

  “You are,” Kitty said, somewhat under her breath, but clear enough that they all heard it. Suddenly Kitty gasped.

  “Nellie Murdoch, what is this?” Kitty stood at the small writing table by the window. She spun around, holding a handbag, her mouth open and her eyes wide.

  “A gift from Richard,” Nellie replied keeping her voice even. The Chanel 2.55 handbag, with its black, hand-stitched, butter-soft quilted leather, and gold chain strap, was a much-coveted purse among Nellie’s circle of friends. It had been designed by Coco Chanel herself.

  “Oh my,” Martha said, slightly breathlessly. “It’s so lovely.”

  Kitty walked back to her armchair still holding the bag. She opened it without asking if she could, which Nellie found rude, and fingered the interior’s red fabric. “It looks like you haven’t even used it.” She looked up at Nellie. “Why on earth not? If Charles gave me this bag I would wear it to bed!” She laughed and Martha joined in.

  Nellie shrugged. “I haven’t had the occasion yet.”

  “Oh, sweetie. You don’t need an occasion. That’s the beauty of a bag like this.” Kitty slid the chain over one shoulder. “It goes everywhere, with everything.”