Recipe for a Perfect Wife (ARC)
Page 8
“ Twenty‑ three.” She waited for the inevitable comment;
something about not waiting too long to start a family. But Dr.
Wood didn’t address it, nodded at her response before saying,
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“Almost twenty‑ four, I see here. I’ll leave a note for Dr. Johnson.
I’d expect that rash to be gone in a few days.”
The dinner was a success, as it always was in the Murdoch house.
Nellie loved hosting parties, especially themed ones, though her
husband did not share her zeal. When she’d prepared a Hawaiian
buffet earlier in the year, their guests had fawned over her efforts but Richard had thought it was tacky. “What’s wrong with a
simple roast?” he’d said, scowling at the ferns and pineapples and
bananas Nellie had decorated the table with to make it more
festive. Reluctantly he’d put the lei, which she’d painstakingly
made for each guest with crepe paper flowers, around his neck
only after everyone else had done so.
Tonight, Nellie had put on quite a spread: a vegetable platter
to start things off, with radish roses and olives pierced with em‑
bellished toothpicks and fresh tomatoes from her garden; canapés
and shrimp cocktail and Vienna sausages and deviled eggs; then
her Chicken à la King, and when they were all nearly too full to
eat another thing, Baked Alaska for dessert. The conversation
had been pleasant, the men discussing the upcoming election
and General Electric– Telechron’s new “revolutionary” snooze
alarm clock, the women swooning about Elvis Presley and gos‑
siping about Marilyn Monroe’s recent wedding to Arthur Miller,
which everyone agreed was an odd pairing.
The miscarriage wasn’t mentioned, even when the women
were alone, huddled in the kitchen to peer at the Baked Alaska
in the oven. Nellie was both grateful and blue about this. She
desperately missed being with child: the roundness of her belly,
the fullness from deep within, the thrill of what was yet to
come. During the evening, not one of her friends said anything
more specific than “You’re looking well, Nellie,” because no
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good‑ mannered guest would mire the merriment of a party with
such unpleasantness.
After the meal, Nellie had taken the women through the
steps in making the Baked Alaska as they sipped their gin‑and‑
lime cocktails— “But how can ice cream go in the oven?”— while
Richard plied the men with cognac‑ based sidecars and talked
politics and business in the living room. The guests had left
stuffed with good food and flushed thanks to the flowing al‑
cohol, Nellie’s reputation for being the dinner party hostess all
the wives wanted to emulate intact.
She was pleased by how nice a time everyone seemed to have,
and even Richard had been lifted out of his earlier mood, the
gaiety of company and the cocktails bringing out his renowned
charm. And for the first time in weeks his stomach appeared not
to turn on him after dinner— he even had a second helping of
dessert, and required no bismuth.
“Well done, Nell‑ baby,” Richard murmured, coming behind
her and wrapping his arms around her waist, kissing her softly
in the divot between neck and shoulder. “I’m proud of you.”
“Good heavens, for what?” Nellie asked, spinning slowly to
face him, feeling warm from the gin.
“For all of this, after what you’ve been through,” he said,
gesturing to the table, still cluttered with dessert dishes and
half‑ drunk glasses of wine and crumpled napkins. He moved his
body closer to hers, gently caressing her cheek with his fingers.
“You amaze me, Nellie.”
She smiled and, disarmed by his genuine compliment, leaned
in and kissed her husband. She didn’t typically initiate intimacy,
and Nellie felt Richard’s body change against hers. “Did the doc
say it was all right to, well . . . are you fine to, uh, get back to everything?” he asked.
One would think Richard Murdoch would have no problem
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asking for what he wanted. In fact, he usually didn’t ask. And
Nellie found his hesitation, his uncertainty in this moment,
oddly arousing, the way it had been early in their courtship.
Back then being with Richard was intoxicating. He treated her
like a prized rose, handling her gently, nurturing her delicate
petals, proudly putting her on display in the fancy clothes and
expensive jewelry he lavished upon her.
No man, including her father (perhaps especially her father),
had ever fawned over Nellie the way Richard did in those early
days. She had been young and naive, but she also wanted des‑
perately to believe she was worthy of such affection.
Nellie nodded demurely, and Richard gave a sly smile. “Good,
good. Coming up?” He leaned back to loosen his tie, but he
didn’t take his eyes off hers. Nellie glanced at the table, taking in the mess.
“Look, leave the dishes for the girl.” Their girl, Helen (though
Richard never referred to her by name), was scheduled for
cleaning tomorrow. Nellie usually took that time to weed her
garden, or visit with her neighbor Miriam, or do her marketing
in town, because she was uncomfortable being in her home while
Helen was there hard at work. Also, having someone underfoot
all day was extra work in a different way— Nellie had things to
hide.
“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.”
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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.
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11
q
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
A lice 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 Green‑
ville’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
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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 any‑
thing 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
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to emulate her, feeling lucky the great Georgia Wittington had
chosen to mentor her.
There was a sound of exasperation from Georgia, who was cer‑
tainly 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 re‑
sponse 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 at‑
torneys 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 70
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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 rect‑
angle 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. T
rying
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 un‑
locked 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.
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The backyard was good‑ size, the gardens carefully designed
so someone standing exactly where Alice was— on the square of
patio stones, back facing the house— would get eyefuls of boun‑
tiful 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 ciga‑
rettes. 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