by Karma Brown
stair and, one by one, the energy‑ efficient bulb finally having
reached its full potential, flipped through the magazines. Unsure
about what she was hunting for, she initially found nothing in
the first few magazines and wondered if her instincts had been
wrong. Perhaps Nellie had left nothing further for her to find.
But on the eighth magazine— a September 1956 issue with
a photo of a chubby‑ toothed blond toddler, dressed in a blue‑
and‑ white seersucker dress on the cover— something fell out of
the pages when Alice shook it. It was another envelope, though
thicker than the others, its center sturdier. Tucked into the pa‑
per’s folds was a small card with the words “From the kitchen of
Elsie Swann” printed across its top. Her heart racing, Alice
quickly read the recipe card.
It listed ingredients and instructions for an herb recipe—
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Swann Family Herb Mix— the same mix Alice had seen men‑
tioned so many times throughout the pages of Nellie’s cookbook.
Lemon balm, parsley, basil, thyme, marjoram, sage, every herb measured in equal parts (a tablespoon of each). She recognized Elsie’s handwriting, until she came to the final ingredient, which was
penned in Nellie’s hand and which made Alice lose her breath.
With shaking fingers, she opened the folded paper and read
the letter, Nellie’s greatest secret, and the one she had intended
to take to her grave, finally revealed.
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Nellie
septeMber 18, 1956
H elen can finish up here, Nellie. You should rest, put your feet up.” Miriam steered Nellie toward the green sofa in the
living room, but Nellie resisted. She would never again sit on
that sofa, even with Richard now gone. Miriam’s weathered
hands fluttered over Nellie’s arms as she tried to gently tug her
again. “Honey, it’s been a long day. Let me take care of you.”
“Thank you, Miriam. But I’m all right. I don’t need to lie
down.” The dining room was cluttered with plates of food—
sweet squares and tuna casseroles and triangles of egg salad
sandwiches dotted with pimentos. Nellie would send it all home
with Helen, who had a family to feed and would certainly ap‑
preciate the leftovers. Except for the lavender lemon muffins
Martha had baked, using Nellie’s own recipe, the thought‑
fulness of the gesture bringing tears to her eyes. Those she
would keep.
While Richard’s mourners mingled in the Murdochs’ living
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room, nibbling squares and offering platitudes and whispering
about the poor young milkman who had discovered Richard’s
body during his morning delivery, slumped on the sofa, his face
planted in his plate of shepherd’s pie.
“Heart attack, Doc said. He was likely gone before he knew
what was happening,” Charles Goldman murmured to a small
circle of Richard and Nellie’s neighbors and friends, running a
hand through his dark hair, streaked lightly with silver. How
awful! Poor Nellie! Their sympathy mattered little to Nellie. She could only imagine what they would say if they knew the truth
about Richard’s untimely death. About the shepherd’s pie Nellie
had left for her husband, which he doused liberally with his
wife’s homemade herb mix.
Nellie sat in the wing‑ back chair that had been Richard’s
favorite and listened to the gossiping women, watched their
frown‑ faced husbands shake ice cubes in highball glasses of li‑
quor.
Her situation was especially tragic. With a baby on the way who would grow up fatherless, and therefore, these wives as‑
sumed, at a great disadvantage. They perked up when one sug‑
gested Nellie could find someone else to marry, still young and
beautiful as she was. Perhaps the widower Norman Woodrow
could step in?
Everyone believed Nellie was still pregnant, even Miriam.
She would wait one week longer before blaming the miscarriage
on Richard’s sudden death and her body’s inability to deal with
the grief. The casseroles would then continue for another few
weeks, the hushed and pitying whispers of her women friends
when they believed her out of earshot: Who is she now, if not a mother? If no longer Richard Murdoch’s wife?
“Who am I?” She whispered it back, though not loud
enough for any of them to hear her. “I am a survivor.”
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. . .
With shaking hands Nellie took one of her Lucky Strikes and lit
it, waving away the first puff of smoke. Miriam sat across from
her on another chair, worried eyes scanning Nellie’s face.
“Nellie, honey. What do you need?”
“You’re sweet to worry, but I’m fine, Miriam.” Nellie took a
long drag of her cigarette.
“I know you are, honey. I know.” Miriam pressed her lips
together, her hands clasped on her knees.
“Sit with me until Helen goes,” Nellie said. She looked
tired, dark circles under her eyes and a gauntness that was dis‑
tressing. She confessed to Miriam she’d been unwell when she
went to see her mother; the baby was probably making her ill,
as they had a tendency to do in these early months. Nellie as‑
sured her she was feeling much better; however, she hadn’t in‑
gested a thing except for iced tea and cigarettes.
“Of course I will,” Miriam replied, patting Nellie’s knee
through her black skirt. “I’ll get Helen to make us some soup
for supper. We’ll eat together.”
Nellie nodded, finished her cigarette, and immediately lit
one more. “I’d like to write my mother a letter. Would you
mind getting me my correspondence paper, over there in the
top drawer of the desk? And my cookbook from the kitchen? I
have a recipe I’d like to share with her.”
“I’ll leave you to it,” Miriam said after she handed Nellie
everything she had asked for. “But give a holler if you need any‑
thing. I’ll be in the kitchen.”
Soon a low hum of voices, along with the sounds of
running water and dishes being stacked, seeped out from the
kitchen. Miriam wouldn’t leave her alone for too long, so she
hastily started the letter, the last one she would ever write to Elsie.
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From the desk of Eleanor Murdoch
September 18, 1956
Dearest Mother,
I know you told me to never write it down, that
our s
ecret was to only be passed from lips to ears,
but I will not be having a daughter to whisper it to.
Therefore, I have noted the final ingredient on
the recipe card.
I have no regrets, Mother. It was the only way to
ensure he would never hurt me again, and in some
ways, it was too easy. I may be a widow now, but I am
fine. There are worse things than being alone, I have
learned.
Thank you for your lessons, and for the beautiful
foxglove plant you insisted I take with me for my own
garden one day. I had hoped the plant would be useful
only as a deer deterrent in my garden— another pretty
flower to bolster my spirits! I did believe Richard
would be a good and decent husband, but it appears I
was fooled. Alas, men seem a most predictable beast.
Some must be worthy, but I am not certain how to be
sure of it.
I will visit soon. My dahlias continue to bloom,
which has been a lovely end- of- summer surprise.
Your loving daughter, Nellie xx
Nellie finished writing, then pulled the recipe card— the one
Elsie had given her years earlier, shortly before she died— from
the front of the cookbook, and after making a notation at the
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bottom, placed the card into the folds of the letter. She sealed it, then pressed the envelope deep into the crease of the most
recent Ladies’ Home Journal magazine. Later she would box all the magazines up, including the September 1956 issue, which
hid this final letter, along with her cookbook. She wouldn’t
need it again, not now that there was no one to make dinners
for. Besides, Nellie knew most of her favorite recipes by heart.
When Miriam came back into the living room, with a fresh
coffee and a bowl of soup, she asked Nellie if she wanted her to
take the letter and put it with the rest. She didn’t comment on
the stack of letters she still held for Nellie in her own dresser of drawers, or question why Nellie never seemed to post them.
“I decided I’ll write it later, but thank you,” Nellie said,
closing the cookbook and settling it onto her lap. With a nod
Miriam started in on her soup, and Nellie drank her coffee in
the quiet living room, both thoughtful in the silence.
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Don’t quarrel with your husband. Remember it takes two to
make a quarrel; don’t you be one of them. Lovers’ quarrels may
be all very well, but matrimonial doses are apt to leave a bitter
flavour behind.
— Blanche Ebbutt, Don’ts for Wives (1913)
Alice
septeMber 24, 2018
A lice awoke in the guest bedroom Monday morning, late
enough that the house was quiet and sun‑filled. She hadn’t slept
in bed with Nate because she was still angry, unsure how to
proceed normally when she believed he might be having an
affair with his study partner ( how had everything become so
screwed up? ). But rather than get into the real reason for her distance from her husband, she blamed it on not being well,
worried he would get sick just before his big exam. Nate seemed
hesitant to accept the excuse but, like Alice, appeared too weary
to unpack whatever the real issue might be. After having a
bowl of cereal and telling Nate there was a box of macaroni
and cheese in the pantry if he got hungry, Alice went up to
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bed— the newest letter and recipe card hidden inside the mag‑
azine under her arm.
Alice wasn’t sure how Nate’s night went because he was
gone by the time she woke up, but she had a restless, fitful sleep.
Her mind reeled from the previous afternoon’s discovery, which
kept her awake but thankfully gave her something to focus on
aside from her crumbling relationships. Along with the drone of
exhaustion was the pleasurable buzz that Alice had been right:
there was more to Nellie Murdoch than those earlier letters showed. And it had given her what she needed for her book—
she knew precisely the story she wanted to tell now.
She showered and dressed quickly, making a pot of coffee
and a piece of toast with butter and jam before sitting in front
of her laptop. Alice vibrated with energy, her mind overrun with
ideas, her fingers at the ready on her keyboard. Finally, finally, she was inspired and ready to knock off some pages. But as she
typed her first words, her phone rang.
“Hello?” Alice put the call on speaker so she could continue
typing, her eyes not leaving her laptop’s screen.
“Alice?”
“Yes, who is this?” She was impatient to get back to it. But
the voice was familiar, and she glanced at her phone’s screen.
“It’s Beverly Dixon, your Realtor.”
“Oh, hi, Beverly. What can I do for you?” Alice rolled her
eyes at the interruption— Beverly was probably looking for a
testimonial or referrals.
“Well, I haven’t been able to get ahold of Nate this morning
and I need to confirm the copy for the listing. So I thought I’d
give you a quick ring to see if you could help.”
Alice’s fingers stopped. She frowned, then took her phone
off speaker and put it to her ear. “What listing?”
“For the house,” Beverly said. “It needs to go in by Thursday
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and I couldn’t remember which appliance Nate said you re‑
placed. Was it the oven or the refrigerator?”
“Neither, actually.” Alice stood, feeling out of breath.
“Huh. Must have mixed yours up with another listing. Well,
that’s fine. I’ll just strike that note . . . there. Done.”
Alice was light‑ headed— her breaths too rapid— and she
crouched, worried she was going to pass out.
“Okay, that’s great, Alice. I’m so glad I caught you! Tell
Nate not to worry about getting back to me. I’m going to be
out at showings for the afternoon and evening, but if he has any
other questions, he can leave me a message and I’ll respond
lickety‑ split.”
“Okay. Thanks.” Alice was now lying down, one hand to
her forehead, trying to process what was happening.
“I’ll let you go, but we’ll chat soon about timing for the
open houses. I’m sure you have a million things to do before
you leave for California. How exciting for Nate, with his new
job! For both of you! I’ve always wanted to learn to surf, though
now they say with global warming and ocean temperatures
rising the sharks are all coming closer to shore, and— ”
“I have to go.” Alice ended the call without saying goodbye.
&nbs
p; Still on the floor, Alice watched as the ceiling spun overhead,
the crack moving in circles like a lazy fan. Closing her eyes, she
put a hand to her stomach and took several deep breaths, then
sat up quickly and waited for the light‑ headedness to pass.
“Yes, it’s an emergency. Can you please pull him out of the
meeting?” Alice nibbled at a ragged cuticle. Tucking her phone
between her ear and shoulder, she tapped a cigarette out
of the package and set it into the holder, lighting it just as Nate came on the line.
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“Ali, what’s wrong?” He sounded panicked, worried.
She started to cry, though there were no actual tears.
“What’s wrong? Are you okay?”
“The kitchen . . . Nate, oh my God. It was terrifying.” She
blubbered some more, then paused to take a drag of the ciga‑
rette.
“Calm down. Take a breath. What about the kitchen?”
“The oven caught fire! I told you we needed to replace it,
like, weeks ago!” Hysterical now.
“Holy shit . . . oh my God. Are you okay? Are you hurt?”
“I’m okay. I burned one of my hands, but I don’t think it’s
too bad.”
Nate exhaled shakily. “Do you need to go to the hospital? Is
Sally home?”
“Sally’s in Hartford, visiting a friend.” Alice examined her
hand, which was just fine. “But I think it’s okay. I have ice on it.”
“Good, okay. What about the kitchen? How much damage?”
“Pretty bad.” Alice whispered now, pausing again to take
another drag. “Can you come home? I know you were in a
meeting, and I’m sorry to— ”
“I’m on my way. Just need to gather my stuff. Uh . . . I
think I can catch the next train, but if not I’ll grab an Uber.”
“You don’t have to rush. Just wait for the train. I’m okay,”
Alice said, sniffling. “I got the fire out with the extinguisher.
But the whole wall behind the oven is black.”
“Oh my God . . .” Nate was hoarse, perhaps just at that
moment thinking about how the house— her house— was sup‑
posed to list on Thursday. The tiniest part of Alice felt guilty for feigning the scenario, but then she remembered her conver‑
sation with Beverly and the fact that Nate had taken a job— in
California!— that he had not mentioned. “I’m just glad you’re