by Karma Brown
Alice nodded, then said, “I think we should get it fixed, but not for the open houses.”
“Huh?” Nate had laid his head back as well, and now turned toward her. “How come?”
She lifted her head, so they were facing each other. “Because we’re not moving.”
“Ali, come on. Don’t start this again.” Nate’s jaw tensed and his hands dropped from her feet. He looked back to the ceiling.
“Sorry, I should have said, I’m not moving.”
Nate sat up straight and shifted his body to face hers. “Yes, you are. We’re having a baby, Ali.”
Alice sat up too. “I’m aware, and I’m not leaving the house. This is where our baby should be raised, Nate. Not in California, where we have no friends and nothing is familiar and the epicenter of the publishing world is a five-hour plane ride and there’s only one season. You were raised on the East Coast so you don’t know how depressing it is to put a Christmas tree up in eighty-degree weather,” she said. “I’m staying here, and you’re welcome to stay with me. Or not.”
He pushed her feet off his lap and stood quickly. “Why are you being so difficult about this? It’s not like you really see your old friends anymore. And publishing? I mean . . . come on, Ali. Starting a new career with a baby in tow? It’s not exactly realistic.” He gave her a pointed look. “Don’t do this, okay? Not now.”
“Now is exactly when this has to happen.” She got off the couch as well, went over to the desk and pulled a pen and notepad from the drawer. A half-finished pack of cigarettes peeked out from the back of the drawer, and Alice reminded herself to throw them out later. She would never again smoke another cigarette—the desire disappearing the moment that positive sign showed itself. The sudden sense of responsibility, along with a burst of protectionist love, that she’d felt staring at the test strip had both shaken and anchored Alice.
Alice wrote on the notepad, then handed it to Nate. “The way I see it, you have two options.”
“Are you serious?” he asked, his face contorting with his exasperation as he read from the notepad. “One, stay in Greenville with Alice and baby, or two, go to L.A., alone.” He looked up at her, and his expression hardened. “You forgot number three: move to L.A. with Alice and baby.”
She shook her head, taking the notepad back from him. “No, Nate, that isn’t an option.”
His rage rolled off him in waves, and he clenched his fists and took a step toward her. Too close for Alice’s comfort, based on how angry he was. For a brief moment Alice wondered if she might have pushed him too far. “We are moving, and that’s final.”
She stepped back from him but kept her voice calm, her tone serene and matter-of-fact. “If you decide to go to L.A., you are going alone. I will stay here and finish my book, take care of this house, raise our child. You’re welcome to be a part of that, or not. Your choice.”
“That is hardly a choice!” His voice boomed through the living room, seeping into the ceiling crack, into the bones of the house.
Alice shrugged, unmoved by his distress or forceful tone, though she did cross her arms over her stomach in a protective fashion that was not lost on either of them. “You always have a choice, Nate.”
44
The average man marries a woman who is slightly less intelligent than he is. That’s why many brilliant women never marry. They do not come in contact with sufficiently brilliant men, or fail to disguise their brilliance in order to win a man of somewhat less intelligence.
—Dr. Clifford R. Adams, Modern Bride (1952)
Alice
OCTOBER 30, 2018
Alice tied the apron slightly above her waist to accommodate the small bulge of her stomach. It was supposed to be moving day, but the house remained as it had been for the past few months. No boxes packed and ready to ship; half-finished home-improvement projects everywhere; no sign the Hales were leaving anytime soon. Instead, Alice was up early baking for her visit with Sally later that day and Nate was at the kitchen table eating breakfast before catching his train. The scent of lemon filled the kitchen as Alice grated rind into a bowl, then cut and juiced the fruit.
“Feeling better?” Nate asked, dragging a bit of egg through the hot sauce on his plate. He was surprised to see her up and without her reliable green mask of illness.
“Much.” Alice’s morning sickness had been awful the past few weeks. But she rarely complained, even though it was miserable. And Nate, seeing how ill she was, seemed somewhat less angry than he had been. No matter what had transpired between them, or how Alice had forced Nate’s hand, she was carrying his baby. Still, they were far from good, the cracks between them as evident as those in the ceiling they had yet to fix.
Alice wiped her lemon-drenched fingers on her apron, reaching for the coffeepot. “Want a warm-up?”
“Sure.” She poured the steaming coffee, and Nate put a hand up when the mug was half-full. “Thanks.” He took a sip of his coffee, eyes back to whatever news story he had been reading on his phone.
“Think you’ll be home for dinner?” Alice read through the recipe, then measured out a quarter cup of poppy seeds.
“Hope so. But if you don’t feel like making anything I can just grab something on my way.”
“Should be fine. I’ll do something easy.”
Nate nodded, not looking up from his phone. She scraped down the sides of the bowl, giving one final stir before pouring the black-speckled yellow batter into the loaf pans.
“Still planning to paint the nursery this weekend?” she asked, taking hold of the edges of one loaf pan and banging it hard once, twice, on the countertop, to get any air bubbles out before baking. Then she did it with the second one.
Nate glanced up sharply at the banging, his forehead creased with annoyance. “Probably Sunday. I may need to go into the office on Saturday for a few hours.” With a final sip of his coffee, he rinsed his cup and plate in the sink before stacking them in the dishwasher.
“I’ll get the paint today,” Alice said, squeezing around Nate to slide the loaf pans into the oven. “Oops, sorry about that.” She had jostled him, and he set his hands on her hips to keep either of them from stumbling. Nate’s fingers lingered for a moment, then retreated to shut the dishwasher. It had been a long time since his hands had been on her body—four weeks, by her latest count. “Unless you want to wait? Maybe pick a gender-specific color?”
“Up to you,” Nate replied nonchalantly, untucking his tie from between the buttons of his shirt. He smoothed the tie flat to his chest, then shrugged on his suit jacket, which was hanging over the back of the chair.
“I think I’d rather get it done now. So maybe a soft yellow? Or mint green could work.”
“Either is fine with me.” Nate reached for his messenger bag from the chair beside him, slipping the strap overhead and across his chest.
“It’s supposed to be cold today,” Alice said over her shoulder as she rinsed the bowl and set it on the drying rack. “You might want your coat, too.”
Nate frowned, perhaps thinking about how if they were living in L.A. he wouldn’t need a coat in October. Alice wondered how many times a day Nate’s turned-down promotion came to mind, or the fact that Drew was already in warm and sunny California, mobilizing her new team. He was doing fine in New York—he’d passed his exam and had received the requisite bump in salary. But with no positions open in upper management in the Manhattan office (though they expected there might be, within a year or so), he essentially held the same job with a slightly higher paycheck. His aspirations stifled and his work ethic questioned when he reneged on the offer, Alice knew none of this made her ambitious husband very happy.
“I’ll be okay without it.” Nate took the travel mug of coffee Alice handed him and in return gave her a perfunctory peck on the cheek. “Ali, I . . .”
For a moment, they locked eyes and Alice waited for Nate
to finish. But whatever it was seemed lodged in his throat, which he cleared with a quick cough before taking a step away from her. “I’m glad you’re feeling better. Don’t forget your folic acid.”
“Already took it,” she said. “And my multivitamin, too.” Nate said he’d call if he was going to be later than seven, and Alice wished him a good day. Then she shut the door behind him and for the first time that morning her shoulders relaxed. If they were to be honest with each other, she sensed that Nate would admit to feeling the same relief when he left the house as she did to have him gone. Alice much preferred being home alone, without the constant hum of disappointment that flowed off her husband.
It was a lot of work, this tiresome, superficial back-and-forth they engaged in daily. How long could they keep it up? Maybe the baby would bring with it a truce of sorts, Alice thought, or at least a distraction from their marital ennui.
As Alice was making another pot of coffee, a text from Bronwyn arrived.
What’s the vomit count this morning?
She chuckled, typed back,
Morning sickness: 0. Hale: 1
The friends had reconciled after the disastrous H&H lunch, with Bronwyn forgiving Alice for being a “psycho bitch” that afternoon, as she put it. And Alice promised to re-create the day, complete with bagels and manicures, when she could stomach more than chicken broth. She was grateful for Bronwyn—aside from Sally, the one constant in her life at the moment—and couldn’t believe she’d almost allowed Nate and the drama around Drew to come between them. Though when she thought about it now, she didn’t feel like that same person who had lied about the IUD and started smoking again and accused her husband of cheating on her. That had been a different version of Alice Hale—one who had been weakened by a lack of purpose, who hadn’t been able to see her own potential. She was relieved that Alice Hale was gone for good, now that she had more important things to focus on, like her book. And the baby.
She rubbed her tiny belly bump and smiled, adding cream to her fresh mug of coffee. Alice, finally hungry, couldn’t wait to eat the lemon poppy seed loaf—it would be a relief to put something in her stomach and have it stay there.
* * *
• • •
Late afternoon, after sharing her baking and a long chat with Sally, Alice came home fatigued and longing for a nap. It was mind-boggling, how much energy a baby—currently only the size of a fig, according to Nate—required. But while crawling back into bed was tempting, her manuscript was calling to her more insistently. So, resigned the nap would have to wait, Alice decided a cup of tea might perk her up. She was filling the kettle when her phone vibrated on the kitchen countertop, and Nate’s name illuminated the screen. Alice sighed, let it ring four times before she picked up.
“Hello?”
“Hey,” Nate said. “How’s your day?”
Alice finished with the kettle, then reached for the box of tea in the cupboard. “Good, thanks. You?”
“Good. Yeah. But apparently there’s something going on at Williams Bridge. The trains aren’t getting through.”
“Huh. Wonder what happened.” She checked the kettle, noticed she’d forgotten to turn it on.
“They’re saying someone got pushed,” Nate said.
“Oh God. That’s horrible.” Alice laid a hand to her stomach. “Who would do something like that?”
“I can’t even imagine. Brutal.” He paused. “So I figured I’d stay in the city for dinner. Avoid the delays. As long as that’s okay with you?”
“Totally fine.” Alice was glad to have the evening to herself. “Thanks for calling,” she added.
“Um, yeah. You’re welcome,” Nate replied, before hanging up.
Turning off her ringer, she glanced out the window at the back garden, waiting for the water to boil. Though the bright, gregarious flowers were long gone, there remained plenty of green foliage, and the foxglove—which as promised continued to showcase its vanilla-colored blooms well into the fall—had kept the deer away. She thought of Nellie, as she often did, and imagined the housewife would have been pleased to see how well her beloved gardens were faring.
Alice’s mind drifted—another side effect of early pregnancy, as if the baby was siphoning all her focus—and it slipped back to her conversation with Nate. For a moment, her thoughts going there without intention, Alice indulged a macabre musing . . . what if it had been Nate who was pushed from the train’s platform? He always stood too close to the safety line, which was an oddity to his otherwise predictable personality. Then she would be alone in this house not only this evening, but forever. All decisions would be hers alone.
She suddenly envisioned Nellie, standing where Alice was now, staring at her cherished garden, the kitchen filled with mourning casseroles and funeral cakes and her hypothetical grief. The fantasy was provocative purely because if a marriage ends in such tragedy—one person departing through no fault of either party—it is blameless. No failure, no compromises, no expectations. And while Alice would never wish to be a single mother, at least her own mother showed her it was possible. If Alice had to do it alone, she would be fine.
A sharp crack rattled the kitchen window—a bird that had gone off course—and Alice yelped and jumped, only then noticing the rolling boil of the kettle. Taking a breath, her heart pounding in her throat, she turned off the kettle, then went on her toes at the window to look for the bird on the grass below, but it must have managed to fly away, uninjured.
Shaking off the last vestiges of her daydreaming, Alice poured boiling water into her mug and padded over to her desk. The constant nausea had wreaked havoc on her creativity, but now that she wasn’t distracted by the incessant need to vomit, she felt ready to work. Sliding her chair closer, she opened the desk’s drawer and pulled out a picture frame, placing it on the desktop in front of her.
In it, a young, vibrant-looking Nellie stood in the front garden, slender arms, legs bare in quite-short shorts, with her gloved hands wrapped around a fresh-cut bouquet of pink peonies. If one looked closely, one could see dirt smears on her knees. The snapshot caught Nellie mid-laugh, her head tilted back slightly, though her eyes were bright and focused on the camera’s lens. Alice had found the picture upside down in the cardboard box, tucked deep into a flap and therefore previously hidden. On its back was penned Nellie, 173 Oakwood Drive, June 1957. It had been taken only months after Richard died, and Nellie looked—at least to Alice—happy and carefree. Whoever had taken the photo had captured the real Nellie Murdoch.
Alice gingerly sipped her too-hot tea, rereading the last couple of pages she’d managed the previous day. Then, as Nellie looked on, Alice ducked her head and let her mind go, invoking the housewife’s ghost, the tapping of keys filling the otherwise quiet, contented house.
Acknowledgments
Like the ingredients in a recipe, there are many elements to writing a book. Furthermore, if you leave one ingredient out, or get the measurements wrong, you can end up with something unpalatable and only fit for the trash bin. Novels can be finicky like soufflé and piecrust, satisfying like stew and potpie, and mesmerizing like pavlova and Baked Alaska. But unlike nailing a recipe, nailing a book takes more than a list of ingredients mixed together. And so here, friends, is my recipe for this novel (please note, measurements are random and for fun, so 2 cups of one thing is no more significant than 1 teaspoon of another).
Recipe for a Perfect Wife, the Novel
INGREDIENTS
3 cups editors extraordinaire: Maya Ziv, Lara Hinchberger, Helen Smith
2 cups agent-I-couldn’t-do-this-without: Carolyn Forde (and the Transatlantic Literary Agency)
1½ cup highly skilled publishing teams: Dutton US, Penguin Random House Canada (Viking)
1 cup PR and marketing wizards: Kathleen Carter (Kathleen Carter Communications), Ruta Liormonas, Elina Vaysbeyn, Maria Whelan, Claire Zaya
&nb
sp; 1 cup women of writing coven: Marissa Stapley, Jennifer Robson, Kate Hilton, Chantel Guertin, Kerry Clare, Liz Renzetti
½ cup author-friends-who-keep-me-sane: Mary Kubica, Taylor Jenkins Reid, Amy E. Reichert, Colleen Oakley, Rachel Goodman, Hannah Mary McKinnon, Rosey Lim
½ cup friends-with-talents-I-do-not-have: Dr. Kendra Newell, Claire Tansey
¼ cup original creators of the Karma Brown Fan Club: my family and friends, including my late grandmother Miriam Christie, who inspired Miriam Claussen; my mom, who is a spectacular cook and mother; and my dad, for being the wonderful feminist he is
1 tablespoon of the inner circle: Adam and Addison, the loves of my life
½ tablespoon book bloggers, bookstagrammers, authors, and readers: including Andrea Katz, Jenny O’Regan, Pamela Klinger-Horn, Melissa Amster, Susan Peterson, Kristy Barrett, Lisa Steinke, Liz Fenton
1 teaspoon vintage cookbooks: particularly the Purity Cookbook, for the spark of inspiration
1 teaspoon loyal Labradoodle: Fred Licorice Brown, furry writing companion
Dash of Google: so I could visit the 1950s without a time machine
METHOD: Combine all ingredients into a Scrivener file, making sure to hit Save after each addition. Stir and stir and stir for what feels like an eternity but is likely about six months to three years, give or take. Move to a fresh Word document and beat until smooth. Pour into well-greased pans provided by publisher, and bake for approximately one year. Take out of oven and let cool briefly, then serve, perhaps with a side of ice cream. Enjoy!
Credits
Meat Loaf with Oatmeal, Purity Cookbook (1945 edition)
Chocolate Chip Cookies, adapted from Purity Cookbook (1945)
Chicken à la King, adapted from Betty Crocker’s Picture Cook Book revised and enlarged (1956) and author’s grandmother’s recipe