by Karma Brown
separating the yards. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Claussen.” They
shook hands. “I’m Alice. Alice Hale.”
“Please, call me Sally. Mrs. Claussen was my mother’s name.”
The map of wrinkles on her face deepened in a gratifying way as
she smiled. “Welcome to the neighborhood, Alice. Where are you
coming from?”
“Manhattan. Murray Hill specifically.”
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“Ah, a city girl,” Sally said. “Things are a bit different out
here, aren’t they?”
“They certainly are. I have no idea what to do with any of
this.” Alice gestured around the yard. “The extent of my gar‑
dening skills is a fern named Esther I somehow kept alive during
college.”
“I’m happy to give you a few tips, if you want. Though be
warned these roses have resisted my hard work and dedication
until recently. I didn’t think they were ever going to bloom!”
The roses weaved in and out of the fence between them, a sea of
pink and yellow polka dots if she stood back far enough.
“My gardens won’t win any awards, but luckily the only
ones who care are me and the honeybees.” She winked, and
Alice decided she liked Sally Claussen.
“I may take you up on that. So how long have you lived
here?”
“A while, on and off.” Alice waited for her to elaborate, but
she didn’t. Sally placed a hand to her brow and shielded her
eyes, the bendy brim of her sun hat flipping up slightly with
the breeze. She pointed toward one corner of Alice’s garden.
“While I think of it, make sure you wear gloves if you touch
those ones there.”
Alice glanced in the direction Sally was pointing. “Which
ones?”
“The foxglove,” Sally said. “That pretty purple flowered one
there, beside the hosta. It’s toxic for us but is a great deer de‑
terrent. They won’t touch it.”
“There are deer here?”
“Yes, but they’re private creatures. Sometimes at dusk or
dawn you’ll see them. They especially love the hostas.”
Alice thought the supposedly toxic plant seemed perfectly
harmless. The flowers resembled bell‑ shaped slippers, grouped in
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satisfying lines that hung from the main stalk as though weighted
from their centers. “This one? It’s actually quite pretty.”
“Isn’t it?”
“The previous owner must have loved it. There’s quite a lot.”
Alice noted aside from the bunch in front of her, it grew in two
other spots in the garden.
“It seems she did,” Sally said. “The plant also has another
name; maybe you’ve heard of it? Digitalis purpurea. ”
“Doesn’t sound familiar.”
“They use foxglove to make digitalis, the heart medication.”
Sally put her glove back on. “But touching any part of the
plant— leaves, flower, stem— with bare hands can cause a whole
host of trouble. I once treated a child who made a salad out of
the leaves. Managed to eat one leaf before her mom stopped her,
but she was hospitalized for a week.”
“I think things were safer in Manhattan.”
Sally laughed. “You might be right there.”
“So you were a physician?” Alice asked.
“A cardiologist. It was a wonderful job.”
Alice thought Sally’s patients had probably loved her.
“Now I’m a full‑ time gardener and part‑ time baker. Though
I’m not as good at either of those as I was at medicine.” She
glanced at Alice’s garden chair, pointedly drew her gaze to the
pack of cigarettes. “You’ll have to excuse my forwardness— at my
age you simply say what you’re thinking— but are you trying to
quit, Alice?”
“Oh, I don’t smoke. I mean, I used to. A while ago.” Alice
shrugged, seeing the combination of kindness and pity on Sally’s
face. “These are just in case of emergency.”
Sally raised her brows. “I see. What’s today’s emergency?”
“A work thing.” James Dorian’s face came to mind. “It will
be fine.”
“I had a lot of smokers on my caseload, as you can imagine,”
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Sally said. “And the only ones able to kick the habit were the
ones who found something they enjoyed more. Something to
distract them until they got over the urge of the habit.”
“Good advice.” Alice accepted that she was now a smoker in
Sally’s eyes. It was easier than trying to explain what had
prompted her to have a pack of cigarettes in hand. “What do I
owe you?”
“How about you quit those things and we’ll call it even.”
Sally put a hand on her narrow hip, her beige khakis bunched at
her tiny waist. “I guess I should get back to it. These roses won’t prune themselves. But I’m happy to continue chatting.”
Alice smiled, watched as Sally snipped the flowers’ thorny
stems. “You didn’t say before, but how long have you lived here?”
“This was my childhood home, but when I left for medical
school Mother stayed on.” She pruned another few stems, gath‑
ering them in her hand before tossing the bunch into the paper
yard‑ waste bag nearby. “Moved back about thirty years ago,
after she died. I only meant to stay long enough to sell the place.
But, well.” She smiled. “Here I am.” Alice wanted to ask if Sally
had been married, or had any children. If she lived alone.
“Did you know the owners of our house?”
“Not well. They moved in after I went away to school. My
mother was quite friendly with the wife. Eleanor Murdoch,
though she went by Nellie.” Sally kept on pruning, bending to
get to the underside of the bush, her body agile for its age. “She
kept to herself. Taught piano and voice lessons to children out
of her living room for years. In the summer, I often heard her
singing with her students, through the open windows. Beau‑
tiful voice.” That explained the piano, which was no longer
covered in dust thanks to Alice’s cleaning, but still out of tune.
“She was quite a stunning woman, and Mother often spoke of
her green thumb. Those roses at the front of your house are cer‑
tainly a testament to that.”
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“My mom said our garden was in good shape considering
the state of the rest of the house. Someone who knew what they
were doing had clearly been taking care of it.”
“Nellie gardened early in the morning, nearly every day, but
after she became ill she hired a landscaper to do the wor
k. They
stayed on even after she died, which is why your gardens are still
so lovely.” Sally placed the cut roses in a neat pile on the grass.
“For years we lived side by side after I moved back, but we rarely
spoke except for the odd pleasantry. A comment on the rainfall,
or a coming cold snap. She once taught me how to bathe my
peonies to get rid of the ants. That was the longest conversation
we ever had.”
Alice remembered the notation in the cookbook. Eleanor’s
13th birthday— delicious! “I found some old magazines and a cookbook that I think belonged to her. Or someone she knew.
Do you know the name Elsie Swann?”
“It does sound familiar, though I can’t place why. My mind
isn’t as reliable as it used to be.” Sally straightened and arched
back slightly, rubbing her lower back absentmindedly.
“It’s fine. I had a thought I’d try to return the cookbook.”
“I suspect if someone left it behind it wasn’t something they
needed anymore.”
“Maybe so,” Alice murmured. “Well, it was nice to officially
meet you, Sally. And I should get back to work myself.”
“And solving that emergency.”
“Yes. That too.” Alice swiveled to look at her house and
then, remembering she couldn’t get inside, sighed. “But I seem
to have locked myself out, so I guess I’ll work on my tan until
my husband gets home.”
“Check under that pinkish rock by the back steps. I can’t
promise it’s still there, but I remember that’s where Nellie used
to leave a spare key.”
Alice lifted the granite rock, realizing it was fake— it was light, 76
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hollow when she tapped it. A small trapdoor in the rock’s bottom
opened to reveal a key. “I’m glad you were out here, Sally.”
“Happy to help,” Sally said. “And it was lovely to meet you,
Miss Alice.”
The two women exchanged goodbyes, and Alice scooped up
the pack of cigarettes, assuring Sally they were going straight in
the trash; she didn’t want to disappoint her new neighbor.
Back at the front of the house, Alice slid the key into the lock and before she could turn it the door creaked open, as though it hadn’t been fully closed in the first place. She let go of the key— still lodged in the lock— as the door yawned open. “What the hell?”
Carefully she stepped into the house, a quick left‑ and‑ right
glance to make sure it was empty. Satisfied she was alone, she
opened and closed the door a few times to see if it was sticking.
It wasn’t. Alice fiddled with the lock, wondering if perhaps she
had locked it from the inside when she left. After a few attempts,
the mystery of the locked door remaining unsolved, she slid the
cigarettes to the back of the desk’s top drawer (she’d throw them
out later, before trash day) and tugged on her sweater to combat
the room’s deep chill— how can it be so nice outside and so freezing inside? Her laptop was paces away, but she didn’t feel inspired and so settled on the couch with the old cookbook instead.
It fell open at a recipe that must have been a favorite, judging
by the number of spills on the page. Bread and Cheese Pudding.
Alice scanned the ingredients, snuggling deeper into her sweater.
Bread crumbs, cheese, milk, and eggs. Dash of paprika, which
she was fairly certain she didn’t own. There was a notation beside
the recipe: Perfect for after church. E.S. And underneath in blue pen, Sprinkle with 1 tbsp of Swann herb mix.
Alice set the cookbook on the kitchen countertop, then took
the butter, milk, eggs, and cheese from the fridge. After checking, and confirming, that she did not have paprika, she added extra
black pepper as a compromise and a sprinkle of dried basil to
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replace the herb mix she couldn’t find an ingredients list for. Be‑
cause cooking for oneself was not a necessary life skill in the city (and having been raised by a mother who could barely make eggs
edible), Alice was generally useless in the kitchen. But she wanted to be better, so it was time she figured a few things out. Not the
least of which was how to cook a decent meal. Besides, Alice had
been responsible for some of the Wittington Group’s most im‑
portant clients; she could certainly get dinner on the table by the time Nate came home. The pudding came together easily, and
Alice, feeling accomplished despite its simplicity, gave herself a
virtual pat on the back and popped the casserole dish into the
oven, curious as to how a sixty‑ plus‑ year recipe would turn out.
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12
q
Nellie
JuNe 11, 1956
Busy Day Cake
1⁄ 2 cup butter
1⁄ 3 teaspoon lemon or vanilla extract
13⁄ 4 cups granulated sugar
21⁄ 2 cups sifted Purity Flour
1⁄ 4 teaspoon salt
2 teaspoons baking powder
1 cup sweet milk
4 egg whites, unbeaten
Cream butter until it is soft and creamy, and add flavoring while
creaming. Add sugar. Sift together flour, salt, and baking powder and add to butter mixture, followed immediately by the milk and unbeaten egg whites. Stir mixture quickly and gently until it is well blended. Spread carefully into well- greased 7 x 12- inch cake pan and bake in moderate oven (350°F) for 60 to 65 minutes. Allow baked cake to set for 20 to 25 minutes before removing from pan. Cool and spread with any desired icing.
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N ellie held tight to the cake carrier’s handle with one hand, shutting her front door with the other. It was nearly noon, but
Katherine “Kitty” Goldman— the hostess for today’s Tupperware
party, starting at 12:00 p.M. “sharp”— lived only a block away, so
Nellie knew she had plenty of time to make the short walk.
It was a fine day, and the warm breeze felt wonderful. The
skirt of her mint‑ green dress swished as she walked, her feet
content thanks to her decision to wear flatties. Everyone else
would be in heels, but Nellie didn’t care much about fitting in.
Plus, her kitten heels would be back on tonight once Richard got
home from work, so she’d enjoy the comfort now.
She made her way up the front walk, slowly so her free hand
could stroke the peonies’ bountiful pink blooms framing the
Murdochs’ front garden. Nellie murmured sweet lullabies to
them as she did, nurturing the flowers the way she would a child
if she were ever lucky enough to have one. Turning onto the
sidewalk, she eyed her roses— yellow, stunning— which were her
pride and joy, and on full display for the neighborhood. Soon
she’d have to deadhead them to allow for a second bloom cycle.
Roses were a lot of work, but they gave mu
ch in return.
Nellie passed by the last of her roses, nestled behind the
white picket fence that squared off the Murdochs’ yard, and no‑
ticed her neighbor Miriam Claussen tending her own front
garden. Miriam was bent over a large bunch of peonies, her back
to Nellie, cutting the flowers low on the stem and neatly piling
them on the grass beside her like fallen soldiers.
“Hello, Miriam,” Nellie called out. “Your peonies are ex‑
quisite this year.”
“Oh, hello there, dear,” Miriam said, her voice strong, lightly
musical. Even though Miriam Claussen was in her late fifties, her
mind and attitude were those of a much younger woman. Age
had not been as kind to her body, however. She straightened with
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some difficulty, gardening shears in her hands, which were thick
with arthritis. Knuckles as big as the knobs on Nellie’s dresser of drawers. “That’s high praise coming from you. This splendid
weather we’ve been having has certainly agreed with them.”
Miriam tilted her sun hat to see better and then knitted her
brow, taking in Nellie’s cardigan sweater, buttoned up to the
top and excessive for the day’s predicted temperature. “Are you
quite well, dear?”
“A touch of a tickle.” Nellie cleared her throat, tugging on
one sleeve of the sweater, hoping it covered what it needed to.
“But I’ll be fine.”
“I’m glad to hear it, dear.” She was always pleased to see
Nellie, and the feeling was mutual. Miriam would often bring
over cakes or cookies or, on occasion, a casserole, clucking at
Nellie for being wisp thin. Mr. Claussen had died some years
before, and their only child, Sally, was in medical school, so
Miriam had no one left at home to enjoy her cooking. Nellie
had never known a woman so ambitious as to become a doctor
and wished she and Richard had moved in before Sally left
home. She would have loved to ask her what it was like to do
exactly as she wished. “I could never hold that child back from
anything,” Miriam had once said about her daughter. “Good
thing too. Because Lord knows that’s what we’re supposed to
do with our girls.”
Nellie sometimes daydreamed of a different life than the one
she had; a less stifled one, where she could be more than the