Recipe for a Perfect Wife (ARC)

by Karma Brown

  childless Mrs. Richard Murdoch. If she had married Georgie

  Britton instead, the sweet boy she was steady with until his father got a job in Missouri and moved the family, maybe by now she

  would have children and the reverence of motherhood. Or

  perhaps if she had never met Richard she would have lived in a

  quaint little apartment in the city, with only a small kitchen table and one chair. A hot plate, no oven to fill. Like her high school

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  chum Dorothy, who wanted to be an architect and never much

  cared for men. Maybe Nellie could have sung advertisements on

  the radio; she would have liked that. Or maybe she would have

  gone to school to become a music teacher. If she hadn’t been so

  keen to be married, frankly believing it the gateway to a pleasing

  and bountiful life, Nellie might have discovered the secret to

  happiness.

  Miriam made her way to where Nellie stood by the picket

  fence, removing her gardening gloves as she did, revealing angry‑

  looking hands— red and inflamed, her fingers crooked. Nellie’s

  own hands were smooth, fingers long and capped off by rounded

  nails that held a good dollop of shiny polish.

  “How are your hands today?” Nellie asked, though it was

  clear they were anything but good.

  “Fine, fine.” Miriam waved away the concern. “Nothing a

  little cider vinegar won’t fix.” Nellie knew Miriam bathed her

  hands most nights in a bowl of warm apple cider vinegar, claiming

  it eased the pain, though her daughter often chastised her for this home remedy. But Miriam didn’t like pills, didn’t like doctors,

  even if her own daughter would soon become one. Bert Claussen

  had done everything right, going to his doctor when he fell ill

  without Miriam having to nag him much. But they hadn’t found

  the cancer until it was too late for poor Bert.

  “I’m headed to a Tupperware party over at Kitty Goldman’s

  place, but why don’t I come by a little later this afternoon and

  help you finish up?”

  “You’re so kind to offer, Nellie, but I’m sure I’ll be fine,” she

  said, swatting her gloves against a nearby fence picket to get rid

  of the loose dirt. “You best be on your way. It looks like you

  have your hands full there.”

  “My mom’s Busy Day Cake,” Nellie said, lifting the carrier

  slightly. “With lemon frosting and some violets from the garden

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  Recipe for a Perfect Wife

  I sugared.” Her mother had often made the cake for social gath‑

  erings, telling Nellie everyone appreciated a simple cake.

  “It’s only when you try to get too fancy do you find trouble,”

  Elsie was fond of saying, letting Nellie lick the buttercream icing from the beaters as she did. Some might consider sugaring

  flowers “too fancy,” but not Elsie Swann— every cake she made

  carried some sort of beautiful flower or herb from her garden,

  whether it was candied rose petals or pansies, or fresh mint or

  lavender sugar. Elsie, a firm believer in the language of flowers,

  spent much time carefully matching her gifted blooms and

  plants to their recipients. Gardenia revealed a secret love; white

  hyacinth, a good choice for those who needed prayers; peony

  celebrated a happy marriage and home; chamomile provided pa‑

  tience; and a vibrant bunch of fresh basil brought with it good

  wishes. Violets showcased admiration— something Nellie did

  not have for the exhausting Kitty Goldman but certainly did for

  the simple deliciousness of her mother’s Busy Day Cake.

  “Oh, how very lovely, Nellie.” Miriam’s voice was wistful,

  and Nellie understood the loneliness behind her tone. She felt it

  too, for different reasons. “Just lovely.”

  “I’ll save you a piece. I’ll bring it over later along with my

  gardening gloves. All right?”

  Miriam seemed pleased. “I’ll send you home with a cas‑

  serole for supper. I made a little more than I needed today.”

  Nellie wondered how long it took to become accustomed to

  cooking for one. She suspected that after spending so many

  years with someone the way Miriam and Bert had, one always

  made enough for two because not doing it was harder.

  “Oh, and before I let you go, tell me. What’s your secret for

  getting rid of the ants?” Miriam asked. “I love a vase of peonies

  on my kitchen table, but those blasted ants end up everywhere.

  I even found some inside my butter dish last week!”

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  “Give them a bath,” Nellie said.

  Miriam cocked her head. “A bath? The ants?”

  Nellie laughed, but kindly. “Fill a sink with warm water and

  a few drops of dish soap, and give the flowers a bath. They’ll

  bounce right back and there will be no ants.”

  “You are so wise, Nellie Murdoch.” Miriam tugged her gloves

  back on. “Maybe you should run a class for those of us with black

  thumbs at the church. I bet you’d have a packed house.”

  “I like to keep some secrets for myself. And for my favorite

  neighbor,” Nellie replied with a wink. “I’ll see you later?”

  “I’m looking forward to it,” Miriam said. “Enjoy your party.

  I hear Kitty has a spiffy new kitchen.” She leaned closer, one

  hand coming up to shield her mouth as though she was sharing

  with Nellie a great secret. “Not that she needs it. That woman

  couldn’t boil water if her life depended on it.”

  Nellie chuckled. Kitty was a ditz, notorious for her lack of

  kitchen skills (they would likely be served cold sandwiches today,

  perhaps a jelly salad of some sort) and her wagging tongue, all

  of which made her someone Nellie had little time for.

  “I’ll bring back a full report.” Nellie was looking forward to

  her visit with Miriam later, much more so than to this darn

  Tupperware party. All those gossipy women fawning over pink‑

  and peach‑ and yellow‑ hued plastic bowls, talking about how a

  casserole dish would change their lives. Nellie waved to Miriam

  and set out on her way, her armpits slick with sweat, and wished

  she wasn’t wearing the cardigan. But no matter how sweltering

  the day got, or how many times she had to explain she was

  coming down with something, taking the sweater off was not an

  option.

  The first time Nellie outright lied to her husband about some‑

  thing that mattered coincided with the first time she discovered

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  a lipstick stain on his shirt collar— a gaudy, dark red color that would never graze Nellie’s delicate lips.

  It was a couple of weeks before the Tupperware party, and

 
Nellie’s garden had finally woken up, the days growing longer

  and warmer. The peonies were nearly ready to burst; Miriam’s

  lilac bush had exploded with lavender‑ hued flowers whose heady

  perfume stretched a half block away; and the lilies, tall as they

  reached to the sun, bloomed fiery orange. Nellie had been

  anxious to get to her garden that morning and so had put off

  Richard’s laundering— her least favorite of the household tasks.

  But the next morning, when Richard realized his “lucky” shirt

  (identical, as far as Nellie could tell, to all his others) hadn’t

  been pressed for that day’s important meeting, he had grabbed

  her forcefully. The bruise left behind— deep purple dots in a

  line along her arm, the shape of Richard’s fingertips— lingered

  longer than the others had, which was why Nellie had been

  forced into a sweater the day of Kitty Goldman’s Tupperware

  party.

  When Richard had finally released her arm that fateful

  morning, he tossed the shirt at her feet and demanded she do her

  “goddamn job.” Nellie dropped to her knees, clutching her arm,

  while Richard glared at her with disdain. She waited on the

  bedroom floor until the front door shut before picking up Rich‑

  ard’s discarded shirt, which was when she noticed the stain. Nellie stared at it a good long while, her heart rate increasing as the

  realization of what it meant settled in.

  Later that day she dialed Richard’s number at work, holding

  his soiled, deceitful shirt in her hands. “The rabbit died,” Nellie said the moment Richard’s girl, Jane, transferred her call. “The

  rabbit died, Richard.”

  “What? You mean . . . ?”

  “I suspected it,” she said, trying to infuse as much joy into

  her voice as she could. “But I didn’t want to say anything until

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  after my appointment this morning, and oh, Richard . . . I do

  hope you’re pleased?”

  “Pleased? How could I not be?” he boomed with delight,

  before quickly lowering his voice. “And, Nellie, I’m sorry about,

  uh, earlier. Sometimes you make me so . . . Well, never mind that.

  You have made me a happy man today. A very happy man.” And

  he sounded it. All puffed up, she could imagine it, standing on

  his tiptoes to make himself seem grander than he was. Probably

  opening a bottle to pour something in celebration, already

  waving at Jane with her red, painted‑ on lips to find a booze‑

  hound colleague to share the news with.

  “I’m glad,” she’d whispered, clutching his shirt tighter, wishing

  she could rip it to shreds. “You’ve been so patient, Richard.”

  There was nothing Richard wanted more than progeny, spe‑

  cifically a son to carry on the family business (as if Nellie had

  any control over gender), and the diamond tennis bracelet he

  presented her with later that night was his way of proving it. As

  was his kinder, gentler nature, which he seemed able to turn on

  and off with disturbing ease.

  That evening, after clasping the bracelet around her delicate

  wrist, Richard made her put her feet up on the sofa and cooked

  them eggs for dinner, though they were rubbery because he left

  them in the frying pan too long. After taking her plate, not no‑

  ticing she’d barely touched her eggs, Richard added another

  pillow under her feet and gave her a serious look.

  “I expect you’ll take better care of yourself this time?”

  “Oh, I will,” she assured him. “I most certainly will.”

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  q

  Don’t expect life to be all sunshine. Besides, if there are no

  clouds, you will lose the opportunity of showing your husband

  what a good chum you can be.

  — Blanche Ebbutt, Don’ts for Wives (1913)

  Alice

  JuNe 11, 2018

  A lice woke to her phone buzzing on the nightstand. A text

  from Nate, who was already on the train.

  Don’t forget the lawn company. Good luck with your lunch!

  She squinted bleary‑ eyed at her phone’s screen: 8:07 a.m.

  Exhausted— her anxiety about Georgia, her anger at James

  Dorian, and her guilt about lying to Nate squashing any chance

  at falling back to sleep— Alice stared at the ceiling crack, wishing she could stay in bed. Call in sick today on her life.

  Rather than admit her meeting with Georgia, and every‑

  thing that had led to it, she’d told Nate she was going into the

  city to meet an editor friend to get a few novel‑ writing tips.

  “That’s a great idea,” Nate had said. He’d asked then how the

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  writing was going, and she’d kept things vague, offering, “It’s

  coming along.” The truth was Alice had yet to write a thing.

  But it wasn’t only the writing that was stalled. Despite their

  efforts and dollars spent trying to spruce it up, the house re‑

  mained disgruntled with the Hales. Already a half‑dozen things

  had gone wrong: first, there were the flickering lights, which led

  to a large electrical repair bill estimate (they decided to live with the flickers); then the newel‑ post came loose, followed by two of the stair treads, requiring vigilance when going up and down so

  as not to take a tumble; next, a bird hit one of the bedroom

  windows and cracked the glass— double paned, antique, ex‑

  pensive to replace; the chills and drafts continued, and it was de‑

  cided new windows could be the answer but there was no budget

  for that. And finally, only yesterday, the bathroom tap came off in Alice’s hands, soaking the floor and requiring a supremely costly

  Sunday‑afternoon plumber. Even Nate, eternally positive, had fi‑

  nally agreed things could be going better with the house.

  While in Murray Hill the beginning of a new week would

  bring the sounds of harried, jam‑ packed city dwellers getting to

  and from, in Greenville things remained quiet. No honking. No

  sounds of pedestrian traffic marching on below. A few bird whistles mingled with the sound of a rumbling truck in the distance. . . .

  Alice sat straight up in bed. The garbage.

  She wasn’t used to the rhythm of suburban life. Rather than

  a garbage chute, they had two large bins in their garage, one for

  trash and one for recycling, which Alice was supposed to re‑

  member to put out Monday mornings. She’d forgotten entirely

  last week, had gone back to bed as soon as Nate left and slept

  right through the trucks worming their way through the neigh‑

  borhood. Combined with a week of heat, the trash stank up the

  entire garage, and Alice had promised she wouldn’t forget this

  Monday.

  Tugging on the jeans she’d abandoned on the floor the

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  evening before, she quickly zipped them up and pulled a sweater

  over her head before racing down the stairs, nearly wiping out

  on the wiggly tread, swearing as she did. Slamming her feet into

  her flip‑ flops, she threw open the front door and then noticed

  the bins lined up neatly at the end of the driveway. Her phone

  vibrated in her back pocket.

  I put the garbage out. Remember I’m home late— study

  session.

  Alice tapped back a quick response. On it with the lawn. I’ll

  wait up for you. Xo

  She ran a hand through her messy tangle of hair, pulling her

  fingers to the ends and gathering the stray strands as she did. A

  few got caught in the clasps of her wedding band, and she

  tugged those out as she perused the lawn. The grass was long,

  and patches of sunny dandelions and other weeds poked up

  through the green here and there.

  “Good morning, Alice.” Sally Claussen was on her front

  stoop. “Trash usually gets picked up by eight fifteen, but some‑

  times it’s closer to eight thirty,” she said, opening her own

  garage. “I like to wait until the last minute because of the

  squirrels and raccoons.” She disappeared inside the garage, was

  back a moment later lugging a large bin. “They can make a ter‑

  rible mess. Smart critters, those raccoons. I’ve seen them pry

  open locked lids.”

  “No kidding,” Alice said. “Here, let me get that for you.”

  She took the bin’s handles from Sally. “Just this one?”

  “Yes. Thank you.” Sally wore beige slacks with a navy belt,

  and a light blue blouse with three‑ quarter‑ length sleeves, her

  white hair pulled back neatly in a low bun. She had a narrow silk

  scarf tied around her neck— blue and green polka dots— and

  the entire combination was well put together and stylish. Alice,

  by comparison, was a disheveled mess of denim and wrinkled

  cotton.

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  Alice carried the bin to the end of Sally’s driveway, and it

  bumped against her thighs with each step. Sally walked beside

  her. “I wanted to ask, do you use a lawn company?”

  “There’s a young man a couple of blocks over who runs a