Recipe for a Perfect Wife (ARC)
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tears. “Let me offer you the same gift, Alice, and tell you that
your only job— more important than any book writing or
rosebush tending or meal preparing— is to uncover your answer to that question.”
“I think I would have liked your mom,” Alice said.
Sally laid a hand on Alice’s knee. “And she would have liked
you. She had a soft spot for the restless ones.”
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But in case of an occasional lapse on the part of the husband—
there a bit of advice may prove acceptable. And my advice would
be: forgive and forget. Or still better— make believe that you
know nothing. An occasional lapse from the straight path does
not mean that he has ceased to love you. He may love you as
much; he may love you a good deal more.
— William J. Robinson, Married Life and Happiness (1922) Alice
septeMber 23, 2018
W hat will it be? My treat.” Bronwyn set her notebook on the small corner table at H& H Bagels and pushed back from the
table, ready to go order. She had convinced Alice to come to
Manhattan for the day, joking that her friend’s blood was
probably running too suburban, the only fix being an H& H
injection and manicure. Bronwyn had planned a full schedule,
including a venue visit for her post‑ wedding party, then dinner
and drinks with a few friends from Alice’s former life. But
nothing would happen until bagels had been consumed, because
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Bronwyn was unpleasant when her blood sugar got too low.
“The usual?”
Alice had been mildly nauseated all morning but knew she
needed to put something in her stomach, which was empty aside
from a coffee and banana she’d had early on. “The usual is perfect.
Thanks.”
While Bronwyn ordered— the number seven for Alice (egg,
avocado, and pepper jack cheese on a sesame bagel), and lox and
scallion cream cheese on pumpernickel for Bronwyn— Alice
glanced out the window, touching the pearls about her neck.
She’d chosen black cigarette pants in addition to a polka‑ dotted
sleeveless blouse and the pearls, her hair held back in pin curls.
Bronwyn had gushed that she looked amazing— and thin!— and
Alice beamed at the compliment, glad she’d chosen this outfit
over her usual, more casual picks. She had lost weight since the
move— the stress, lack of eating out, and probably her recent
smoking habit all contributing to shrinking her to a size she
hadn’t been for a while.
They tucked into their bagels, Alice taking small bites and
assuring Bronwyn she was fine when asked. After a mostly quiet
lunch, Bronwyn leaned elbows on the table and looked search‑
ingly at her friend. “Ali, what’s up?”
“With what?”
They knew each other well, and Bronwyn could see right
through Alice’s attempts to feign ignorance. “With you, obvi‑
ously.”
“Nothing new, really. Writing, gardening, trying not to burn
the house down when I cook.” Alice smiled at her friend, wiping
her fingers on a napkin. “All the things a good housewife does.”
“See, I know you’re making it sound like you’re joking, but
you’re not actually joking.” Bronwyn reached out, put a hand
on Alice’s arm. “Talk to me, Ali.”
Alice wasn’t in the mood— she wanted to enjoy this blue‑
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skied Sunday and her lunch and skip the probing conversations.
Coming in on the train that morning, Alice had believed every‑
thing was back on track with her and Bronwyn: she had apolo‑
gized; Bronwyn had forgiven her. Yet, as soon as she saw her
it felt to Alice as though remnants of the fight lingered, the
way someone can clean up a sticky spill and still have it grab
their socks days later. Despite the hugs and Bronwyn’s excla‑
mation of “Now all is right with the world!” when she met Alice
at the station, something fundamental had shifted between the
women— like the excitement and proclamations were more for
show.
“Honestly, there’s nothing to tell. I feel good.” She sipped
her water, wiped the condensation ring from the table with her
napkin, thought of Nate and Drew. Held back her scowl. “All is
well, Bron. Don’t look so worried.”
“Well, I am worried. You just seem different.”
“How so?”
“For starters, you aren’t wearing jeans . . .”
“So it’s my outfit?” Alice glanced down at her clothes,
shrugged. “I’m immersing myself in the fifties, for my book. It’s
research. Isn’t that what all great authors do?” She hadn’t ex‑
pected to like the vintage clothing as much as she did, but Sarah
the saleswoman had a great eye, and Alice felt well put together
in her outfit. Besides, because she’d lost some weight none of
her old clothes fit quite right anymore.
“I don’t know . . .” Bronwyn gesticulated to her pearls, the
hair pins. “Don’t get me wrong. I like it, but it’s not you.”
Alice threw up her hands. “You just told me I looked good!”
Bronwyn nodded, murmured that was true, she did.
“It’s not really about the clothes, Ali,” Bronwyn said, more
quietly now. She bit her bottom lip, something she did only
when deciding whether to speak freely or not. “And Nate’s
worried about you too.”
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Alice narrowed her eyes. “What do you mean, he’s ‘worried’
about me?”
“Okay, look. Full disclosure. Yes, I desperately wanted to see
you— I’ve missed you, and Darren’s gluten‑ free and so he never
comes to H& H with me— but Nate called me. Said he wanted
to give you a day in the city, that things had been a bit stressful recently.” She put air quotes around the word “stressful,” which
Alice knew referred to the undisclosed IUD and subsequent
emergency room visit.
“He asked me to lure you here with bagels and manis and
my unfailing charm.” Bronwyn smiled wide, but it faded at the
look on Alice’s face.
“You two are unbelievable,” Alice muttered, pushing her
chair back quickly. It screeched as she did, and the people at the
neighboring tables looked over in surprise.
“What? Wait, Ali. It’s not— ” But Alice was already at the
door. Bronwyn cursed under her breath, following her onto
the sidewalk. She watched helplessly as Alice riffled through her
handbag looking for something, ignoring Bronwyn’s pleas to
tell her why she was so pissed o
ff.
“You know what, Bronwyn?” Alice said, head still down as
she dug around in her purse, finally pulling out her phone. “In‑
stead of worrying so much about me, you two should be wor‑
rying about yourselves.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Alice let out a harsh laugh, finally looking at Bronwyn. “You
married a guy you barely know— in Vegas, no less— because he
promised to build you a walk‑ in closet and you were tired of
being single. Marriage is fucking hard, Bronwyn. I give you
guys a year, tops.” It was a cruel, awful thing to say, but Alice
couldn’t help herself. She hated the idea of Nate and Bronwyn
discussing her, sharing their worries with each other rather than
Alice. Like she was a child in need of coddling.
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Bronwyn took a step back, her expression one of shock and
hurt. “You don’t know anything about him.”
“You’re right. I don’t. Because you didn’t even tell me you
got married— your best friend— until days later. When was I
supposed to get to know him?” Alice trembled, and Bronwyn
watched her, looking like she might cry. “And Nate should
worry more about his study partner and the fact she’s clearly
trying to break up our marriage, and that he’s going along
with it.”
Bronwyn frowned. “Come on, Ali. Nate wouldn’t do any‑
thing like that.”
Alice snorted. “Because you know him so well? I guess
maybe you do, as the two of you have been colluding behind my
back.” Bronwyn started to protest, and Alice interrupted. “He’s
been lying to me about her. So don’t tell me he would never do
anything like that. People can surprise you, and not in a
good way.”
“Nate is one of the good ones. You two are like a flipping
storybook romance, okay? He would not cheat on you. Never,
ever, never.” Bronwyn grabbed for Alice’s hands, tried pulling
her closer. “She’s just his study partner. That’s it, Ali. Don’t
turn this into something it isn’t.”
“Have you two talked about this? About Drew?” Alice tugged
her hands free, took a couple of steps back.
“No! Alice. Stop it. This is ridiculous.” But despite her
words, Bronwyn looked . . . nervous. What did she know that
Alice didn’t?
She wanted to go home, to get away from Bronwyn and this
conversation that was degrading by the second. Then she re‑
membered Nate was in the house studying— or so he claimed.
Alice wondered if when she walked through the front door,
early and without warning, she would find him alone. Or if this
plan he’d concocted with Bronwyn to get Alice out of the house
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was about more than simply giving her a stress break. Either way,
she needed to know.
“Um, I’m not feeling great. Don’t think that bagel agreed
with me,” Alice said. “Sorry about the spa and everything, but
we’ll do it another day.” She turned and walked away quickly,
Bronwyn calling after her to wait up. But she didn’t stop.
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Food prepared with a light heart and in a happy frame of mind is
often the best food. Preparing the special foods that are favourites of those you love . . . making just a little effort to garnish the salad with a sprig of parsley, a bit of grated cheese, or a wild
strawberry from the nearby meadow. This says “you cared enough
to do the little extra things.” This makes cooking pleasant and
satisfying. Make the food look as pretty as it is good to eat.
— Betty Crocker’s Picture Cook Book, revised and enlarged (1956) Alice
septeMber 23, 2018
W hat happened?” Nate asked, putting his computer to the
side and standing quickly from the living room sofa, where he
had been studying. It had been only a few hours since she had
left, and Alice could tell Bronwyn had already called him— he
didn’t seem surprised to see her. She saw no signs of Drew,
though she would have had time to clear out after he got Bron‑
wyn’s call.
“Think I’m coming down with something.” Alice hung her
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coat and took off her shoes, then picked up the stack of Nellie’s
letters from her desk, along with her laptop, which she tucked
under her arm.
“Oh. Can I get you anything?” Nate asked. “Tea maybe?”
But Alice was already at the staircase. “Think I’ll just lie
down for a while.” If Nate said anything else, Alice didn’t hear
it as she climbed the stairs quickly.
She had fumed all the way back on the train, incensed about
Nate and Bronwyn conspiring and trying to make it seem like
she was the one to worry about. Her thoughts ping‑ ponged be‑
tween Bronwyn’s comments and Nate’s lie about Drew and the
phone call he took from her the other night. It was hard to know who to trust.
With Sally away, Alice realized she had no ally, no kind ear
to hear her frustrations and anxieties. She would never call her
mother to vent, and her other city friends had quickly turned
into mere acquaintances once she moved to Greenville.
Desperate for a distraction— she really didn’t want to think
about Nate, or Bronwyn, or Drew— Alice reached into the stack
of Ladies’ Home Journal magazines beside the bed. She leaned against her pillows and thumbed through one she hadn’t yet
read. After a dozen pages of advertisements and articles aimed
to help the modern housewife be her best self, she came across
an envelope. Yellowing, not unlike the pages of the magazine,
nestled deep into the crease. Nothing written on its outside.
She sat up and set the magazine beside her, sliding a finger
along the envelope’s seal. Inside was another “Dearest Mother”
letter, from Nellie to Elsie. This one quite short compared to
the others, only half a page. Alice’s eyes widened as she
scanned the words, written in Nellie’s flowing hand, and once
she got to the end, she read them again. Her breath quickened
along with her pulse.
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From the desk of Eleanor Murdoch
September 15, 1956
Dearest Mother,
Richard is dead.
I am fine, so please don’t worry. There is plenty of
money and I have a dear friend, Miriam, to look out
for me. I believe I am better alone, Mother, as we both
know Richard was not the good man I had ho
ped
for. The one you wished for me. But that matters
little now.
I should also thank you for the tansy tea recipe. I was
careful, like you taught me to be, and though it made
me quite ill both in stomach and at heart, it worked as
promised. I am free, which is a great blessing. These
truths will follow me to my grave, when I’ll see you
again.
Your loving daughter, Nellie xx
Alice flipped the paper over, but the back side was blank, of‑
fering no further clues. She read it again. These truths will follow me to my grave . . .
For whatever reason, Nellie hadn’t included this letter in the
stack she’d left with Miriam. She had obviously placed it inside
this magazine to keep it hidden. Though if she had really wanted
it to never be read, Alice thought she would have destroyed it.
No, Nellie must have wanted this letter to be found by the right
person. Someone like Alice Hale; this letter had been waiting
for her all this time.
Alice opened her laptop, the glow of the screen illuminating
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her face, and typed “tansy tea” into the Google search box.
Scanning the results, she read “medicinal” and “digestive tract
benefits” and the words “toxic” and “abortifacient herb.” Alice
typed “abortifacient” into the search box and stopped breathing
at what popped up, though she’d had an inkling. Now Alice
understood why Nellie had been expecting but never delivered
a baby.
An abortifacient is a substance that induces abortion. . . .
Springing to her feet, Alice shut her laptop and grabbed the
laundry hamper, setting the most recent letter underneath a pile
of towels to be washed. She headed to the basement, taking
only a moment as she passed by Nate to tell him that she was
going to do a load of laundry. He asked if she was feeling better
and she said, “A little,” before shutting the basement door.
Undeterred by the shadowy corners and certain arachnids,
Alice walked quickly down the stairs and to the laundry ma‑
chines. She started the load, then crouched in front of the box of
magazines and pulled out as many as her hands could hold. It
took three dips in to get them all, and she sat on the bottom