Recipe for a Perfect Wife (ARC)

by Karma Brown

  a sopping mess. Plus, she was supposedly “recovering”— her fic‑

  tional miscarriage keeping her housebound and Richard more

  mindful to her comings and goings.

  But the plants could only be so patient with her, and so after

  Richard left for his train she tidied the house, planned her mar‑

  keting list, and got to work on the garden. She whistled as she

  weeded, not minding the dirt on her knees and the scratches

  from the thorns, nor the insects that crawled up her bare legs

  and required regular swatting. It was a beautiful day, and Nellie

  Murdoch was hopeful in a way she hadn’t been in a while.

  Things with Richard were better, and Nellie was happy. He

  had been more considerate lately, home for dinner on time for

  the past two weeks and even cleaning up the breakfast dishes

  that morning. The cloying perfume scent Nellie had become

  accustomed to was absent from his shirts and jackets, and his

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  hands were gentle on her body in a way they hadn’t been in

  some time. And as Nellie’s last round of bruises faded, so did a

  touch of her contempt for her husband. She wasn’t certain his

  kindness would last, but she hoped it might. Perhaps there were

  rosier days ahead for Nellie and Richard Murdoch.

  These pleasant thoughts, along with a particularly over‑

  grown section of the garden, so distracted Nellie she didn’t hear

  Richard until he was standing directly behind her.

  “Eleanor,” he barked, and she jumped.

  She turned quickly, a gloved hand coming up to shade her eyes.

  “Richard, my goodness,” she said, her hand going to her

  chest. “You scared me.” Nellie stood, a handful of garden trim‑

  mings still in hand. She dropped the weeds and fiddled with her

  shorts, knowing he wouldn’t like how much leg was exposed.

  “What are you doing home?”

  Had she lost track of time? Maybe it was nearing dinnertime . . .

  but the sun was directly overhead; Richard shouldn’t be home for

  hours yet. “Are you ill?”

  Richard glowered at her, and she realized he was angry. A

  quivering started in her muscles, her body filling with adren‑

  aline, preparing to flee.

  “What is it? What’s wrong?” Maybe she was imagining things.

  Maybe—

  WHACK!

  His knuckles across her cheek, her jaw— hitting so hard her

  head ricocheted to the side and her teeth clamped tightly and a

  ringing filled her ears— left her stunned. He had never hit her

  like this before. Certainly not on her face, where it would leave

  a mark difficult to explain away. She gasped and put a shaky

  hand to her throbbing cheekbone, her glove rough against the

  rawness of her skin. The ringing in her head subsided, but the

  pain lingered.

  “Do you know who I ran into today?” Richard asked, stand‑

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  Karma Brown

  ing so close— too close— to her. She curled her body in slightly, trying to protect herself. Thought briefly about the trowel

  near her feet and how quickly she might be able to pick it up if

  nec essary.

  Nellie shook her head at his question, because she couldn’t

  find her voice. She shivered violently despite the sun’s warmth.

  “Dr. Johnson, that’s who. Did you know he had a daughter

  living in Brooklyn?” Again, Nellie shook her head. “She’s re‑

  cently engaged, and he was on his way into the city to visit, so

  we sat together on the train. Had a good, long chat.”

  Richard stopped for a moment, walked over to the garden

  shed where the shovel Nellie had used to dig out a particularly

  entrenched dandelion patch leaned against the door. He came

  back to where Nellie stood, hand still to her cheek, and set the

  shovel’s sharp edge against the soil, pushing hard until it sliced

  into the dirt. “He’s an interesting fellow. A bit boastful, maybe,

  but solid nonetheless. And he’s taken quite a shine to you, I’ll

  say. Was quite concerned about how your rash had healed.”

  Nellie was cold all over, a numbness spreading through her

  body. She knew what had happened without Richard saying an‑

  other word. Yes, Dr. Johnson was a professional man and would

  never disclose the nature of Nellie’s medical visits to anyone.

  Except to her husband, because the husband always had a right

  to know what was happening with his wife.

  I’m worried about Nellie, Richard would have said to Dr.

  Johnson as the train picked up speed after leaving the Scarsdale

  station. Sick about it, actually. He would look it, too. Slightly green around the gills, sheen of sweat on his forehead. What

  can we do so this doesn’t happen again?

  Dr. Johnson would surely have been confused about Rich‑

  ard’s excessive concern, the anxious tone to his voice. He would

  worry his colleague Dr. Wood had missed something with Nellie,

  be silently frustrated with the old doctor’s stubbornness and wish

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  he would retire already. Is the rash much worse? he would have asked Richard. Did the Mexsana not work? Tell Nellie to call my secretary. Happy to take another look.

  There would be a pause in the conversation. Rash? Richard

  would finally have said, as confused as the doctor had been mo‑

  ments earlier.

  Yes. On her hand? Dr. Johnson would have replied, casting a doubtful look toward Richard as his sweating intensified. Maybe

  Richard wasn’t well, he would think. Perhaps he should suggest

  scheduling a visit to see him at the office . . .

  The miscarriage, Richard would have said, so quietly that

  the doctor would have had to lean in to hear him. There was so

  much blood, so much . . .

  Dr. Johnson, less confused now but reluctant to come be‑

  tween a husband and his wife, would have shaken his head. I’m

  sorry, Dick, but I’m not sure what you’re referring to.

  Richard Murdoch hadn’t even gone into the gum plant that

  morning. Instead, when the train arrived at the station he said

  his goodbye to Dr. Johnson, paced and stewed on the train’s

  platform calculating his next move, and caught the next train

  back home. And now he was standing in front of Nellie looking

  like he might kill her.

  Nellie took off one glove so Richard could see her hand. No

  longer carrying any signs of a rash. “It’s fine now. See? But it

  was kind of Dr. Johnson to worry after me.” She held her hand

  out, the shaking of her arm making it look like a leaf in the

  wind. Richard ran gentle fingers over the unblemished skin

  Nellie presented him. He bent and kissed her hand softly, and

  his fingers— tender moments earlier— pressed hard into the soft

  and vulnerable spot between her thumb and pointer finger.

  S
queezing, as though he was trying to separate the bones.

  “You lied to me, Nellie.” He squeezed harder, twisting her

  thumb, and she yelped. “Was there ever a baby?”

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  “I didn’t lie.” Nellie tried to pull her hand away, but Richard

  held fast. “I did lose the baby, Richard. I swear to you. You

  must remember all the blood! The towels in the bathtub I used

  to clean myself up! But you’re right. I didn’t go and see Dr.

  Johnson about it. I was ashamed, Richard. Ashamed my body

  failed me. Failed us, again.” Nellie thought he might break her

  hand. “That really hurts. Please. Let. Me. Go.”

  “You expect me to believe anything you say now?” he hissed,

  though he did let go of her hand.

  Nellie stumbled, and Richard picked up the shovel, marching

  over to the garden. At first, she was confused but soon became

  panicked that he was going to dig up her beautiful rosebushes.

  But when she realized what he intended to do with the shovel,

  her heart nearly stopped.

  “What are you doing?” She took a few cautious steps to‑

  ward him.

  He ignored her, the shovel sliding through the earth, pier‑

  cing the swath of blue forget‑ me‑ nots like a hot knife through

  butter.

  “No!” Nellie ran at Richard, yanked on his arm. He swatted

  her away like a pesky fly, focused on the task. “Please, stop.

  Richard, please.” He remained undeterred. Tossing chunks of

  earth to the side, crushing the flowers.

  “I saw you out here, burying that damn towel,” Richard

  said, huffing with exertion. “I bet it wasn’t even your blood.

  Probably got it from the butcher. Huh? Have you been lying to

  me all along?”

  “I’m not lying.” Nellie was sobbing now, her breath catching

  in her throat. “ The . . . baby . . . our baby is in that towel, Richard. If you don’t believe me, go ahead and dig it up.

  You’ll see.”

  He stopped, the only movement in his body his heaving

  breaths forcing his shoulders up and down. Leaning heavily on

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  the shovel, he rested his head on its handle. “You embarrassed

  me today, Nellie. And I can’t allow that.”

  “Nellie? Is everything all right?” Miriam had suddenly ap‑

  peared in her backyard, was up against the fence between the

  two properties, garden shears in hand.

  Richard stood, looked around at the forget‑ me‑ not de‑

  struction. He stepped toward Miriam, blocking her view of Nellie

  as he did, and placed the shovel behind him. “Mrs. Claussen, how

  are you today? Lovely day for some pruning, isn’t it?”

  “Certainly is.” Miriam shifted to get a better look at Nellie

  and at what Richard had done to the garden. Her voice kept its

  pleasant lilt, suggesting she hadn’t heard or seen what had trans‑

  pired between Richard and his wife. “Nellie, love. I was won‑

  dering if I might bother you for a minute? If you’re not too

  busy? I’m still having a heck of a time with these ants. My pe‑

  onies are in a sorry, sorry state, and I need to make a bouquet

  for a dear friend.”

  Richard wouldn’t know the peonies had already reached full

  bloom and were browning; Miriam was giving Nellie a much‑

  needed escape. “I’d be happy to,” Nellie said. “Richard and I

  were just finishing up here.”

  He glanced at her sharply but rearranged his expression as

  he turned back to Miriam. “She’s all yours.” The smile stayed

  put. Charm back on like a spotlight. But Miriam Claussen was

  no fool. “I’ll leave you to it,” he said. “Nellie, I don’t expect to be home for dinner tonight.”

  Nellie nodded, smiled back at him, though it took every‑

  thing in her to make the muscles in her face do what was re‑

  quired. “We’ll see you later tonight.”

  He paused at the garden shed, leaning the shovel back against

  the door. “Yes, you will.” Turning to Miriam he gave a short,

  friendly wave. “Hope to see you again soon, Mrs. Claussen. Good

  luck with the ants.”

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  Karma Brown

  A moment later he was inside, the door closed behind him,

  and Nellie took in her first full breath since Richard had

  surprised her.

  Miriam kept the smile on her face, but her voice carried deep

  concern. “Nellie, honey. Are you hurt?”

  Nellie rubbed her hand against her cheek. “How much did

  you hear?” She didn’t even want to think what Miriam might

  have seen. Though part of her hoped for a witness so the in‑

  cident couldn’t be rewritten for a more palatable history of the

  marriage between Mr. and Mrs. Richard Murdoch.

  “Don’t worry about that,” Miriam said. She opened the gate

  in the fence between their yards, softened her voice. “Why don’t

  you come over for a bit? I’ll make you a compress and we’ll have

  some coffee.”

  Nellie hesitated. Coffee sounded good, and Miriam’s company

  and comfortable living room a much‑ needed reprieve. But Richard

  could be petty and malicious, and she wasn’t certain his anger

  would stay confined to Nellie. If he believed his wife was con‑

  fiding in Miriam . . . “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.” She glanced back at the house, could almost feel Richard’s steely gaze on them.

  Miriam clucked at her trepidation. “Of course it’s a good

  idea.” She scowled then and Nellie knew she’d seen it all, heard

  everything. “That man is no good. No good at all,” she whis‑

  pered, ushering Nellie through the gate and into her yard.

  “I know.” Nellie was exhausted and wrung out by the alter‑

  cation, and leaned into Miriam. “But he’s my husband.”

  “Well, he doesn’t deserve you. He’s got something coming,

  you mark my words.”

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  q

  Housekeeping accomplishments and cooking ability are, of course,

  positive essentials. In any true home, every wife should take a

  reasonable pride in her skill. Happiness does not flourish in an

  atmosphere of dyspepsia.

  — Reverend Alfred Henry Tyrer, Sex Satisfaction

  and Happy Marriage (1951)

  Alice

  JuNe 13, 2018

  T he first letter, dated the middle of October 1955, was written by Nellie Murdoch to her mother, who Alice now knew was Elsie

  Swann. It was two pages of humdrum stuff, at least from Alice’s

  perspective: a dinner party where she served something called

  Baked Alaska; garden slugs; her husband Richard’s stomach ulcer,

  which was acting up. The second and third letters, dated a fe
w

  weeks apart, contained similarly mundane details.

  Disappointed, Alice set the letters aside and called Bronwyn,

  but the call went to voice mail. A few seconds later she got a text back from her friend saying she was in meetings all day, chat

  later? Alice missed meetings, or at least her old schedule, which

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  Karma Brown

  had been frustratingly harried at times but also the foundation

  of her identity. The confidence from her encounter with Georgia

  had since faded, and she was back to feeling unmoored. Who

  was she if not a crackerjack publicist at a top‑ tier firm? A so‑ far‑

  failing novelist, a hopeless gardener, an amateurish cook.

  With a sigh Alice set her phone— which rarely lit up with

  messages other than those from Nate, Bronwyn, and her mother

  these days— on top of the letters and decided to look for this

  Baked Alaska dessert. Checking the cookbook’s index and flipping

  to a page near the middle, she found the dessert’s photo— a

  dome‑ shaped layered cake— and scanned the recipe, whose main

  ingredients were ice cream, egg whites, and sponge cake. Impress your guests! the description promised, with Elsie Swann’s familiar handwriting beside it: Fancy and delicious, and directly under‑

  neath, Nellie’s own notation (which Alice now recognized thanks

  to the letters): Success! Dinner with the Graves, the Reinhardts, the Sterlings— October 14, 1955

  Baked Alaska

  9- inch- round layer of Egg Yolk Sponge Cake

  2 quarts strawberry ice cream

  6 large egg whites

  1⁄ 2 teaspoon cream of tartar

  1 cup sugar

  Make sponge cake and set aside to cool. Pack strawberry ice cream in a round bowl (about 1 inch smaller than cake layer) and place in

  freezing compartment of refrigerator. Shortly before serving time,

  make meringue by beating egg whites with cream of tartar until

  frothy. Add sugar gradually while continuing to beat until meringue is 142

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  stiff and glossy. Place cooled cake on baking sheet and loosen ice

  cream from bowl, then invert over cake and remove the bowl.

  Cover the ice cream and cake with the meringue, ensuring it reaches the baking sheet to create a meringue seal so the ice cream won’t