Recipe for a Perfect Wife (ARC)
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okay. Everything else can be fixed.”
“Yes, it can,” Alice said, taking a final pull on the cigarette.
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. . .
When Nate came racing through the house an hour and a half
later, Alice was in the garden, patting earth around three newly
planted flowers. “Alice! Where are you?” he shouted.
“Out here!” she replied loudly, having left the back door
open so he would hear her from the yard. She finished the
planting, then stood, wiping deep brown earth from her knees.
A moment later Nate came flying out the door and down the
back steps.
“The kitchen looks fine,” he said, sounding both perplexed
and relieved. She noted he’d gone into the kitchen first, before
coming to check on her. His messenger bag was still across his
chest, and it bounced against his hip as he ran the few steps
across the lawn to reach her. “Let me see your hand.”
She took off her gardening gloves and let him take one hand,
flipping it over to see her palm. Then he grabbed the other
hand, did the same. “Where’s the burn?” he asked, continuing
to flip her hands over, searching for the injury. He looked up at
her, his forehead creasing with confusion.
Alice took her hands back and slid them into the gloves.
“Like I said, I’m fine.”
Nate stood there for a moment, mouth open. “What the hell
is going on, Alice?” He rarely used her full name, and it sounded
formal and odd.
“I was doing some late‑summer planting,” she said, gesturing
to the new flowers, which stood tall like soldiers guarding the
hostas. “The deer have been treating our garden like a buffet.”
Nate took in the plants, the tube‑ shaped flowers hanging from
the green stalks, trying to place why they looked familiar . . .
“It’s foxglove.” Alice picked up the spade and rake, then stood
back and admired her handiwork. “I went to the garden center
this morning and picked them out. I would have preferred
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something brighter, but the guy said this Camelot Cream— that’s
its name— could flower until November, which is amazing.”
“ But . . . you said foxglove is toxic. We pulled it all out.”
Nate was bewildered. “Why would you plant more?”
“I told you,” Alice said, voice calm. “The deer are eating all
our hostas.”
Nate grunted with anger and struggled to get his messenger
bag from around his neck, before throwing it to the ground
forcefully. “What the hell is wrong with you!”
“Beverly called.”
At that Nate became still, his face going from angry red to
ashen pale, though the small apples of his cheeks remained rosy.
“What?”
“Beverly Dixon? Our Realtor?” Alice put the rake and spade
into the shed, closing the door and sliding the bolt into the lock
to keep it shut. “She was working on the listing and wasn’t sure
if we had replaced the fridge or the stove, but not to worry. I
straightened things out for her.”
Nate hung his head, hands on his hips, and took a deep
breath. “Let me explain.”
“I figured, the deer are ruining the garden and I’m not
pregnant and we’re apparently moving to California soon, so even
if there was a baby it won’t be eating any of these flowers or leaves, so might as well plant the foxglove again. We can leave a note for
whoever buys the house that it’s poisonous but a great deer re‑
pellent.”
“Jesus Christ,” Nate muttered, his tone thick with guilt.
“This is not how you were supposed to find out.”
A sharp laugh exploded from Alice. “You think?” she said.
“Fuck you, Nate. I’m not going anywhere.” And with that she
took off her gloves and threw them at him, then strode into the
house.
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42
q
Nagging is a devastating emotional disease. If you are in doubt
about having it, ask your husband. If he should tell you that
you are a nag, don’t react by violent denial— that only proves he
is right.
— Mrs. Dale Carnegie, How to Help Your Husband Get Ahead in
His Social and Business Life (1953)
Alice
septeMber 27, 2018
N ate and Alice didn’t speak for three full days, even though he tried more than once. They slept in separate rooms, shared
no meals together, stayed out of each other’s way. It was
awkward and unnerving, but from Alice’s perspective, quite
necessary.
Then on Thursday morning Alice was at her laptop writing
when an email popped up. It was from Beverly, and it was the
listing for their house. Wanted to send this along, Beverly wrote.
Already getting some interest, so we’ll chat soon about an agents’
open house.
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Alice stared at the email, at the listing, for a long while.
There were pictures of the house that had obviously been taken
recently— the walls paper‑ free, the freshly painted front door and improved walkway, the beige office (previously the nursery)—
and Alice wondered how Nate had managed that without her
knowing. Her fury grew, until she was consumed. She called
Nate, and to his credit, he answered right away.
“Why is Beverly sending me a listing for our house, Nate? I
told you, I’m not moving. I told her too, but obviously you’ve
made other plans?”
Nate spoke to someone nearby but muffled the phone with
his hand so Alice couldn’t tell what he said. “Ali, we’re selling
the house.” She heard a door shut, the ambient noise of the
office disappearing as it did. “Look, I didn’t want to do this
over the phone, but you’ve made it pretty clear you don’t
want to be in the same room as me these past few days, so here
it is.”
Alice lit a cigarette, didn’t even bother to open a window.
She trembled as she held it, brought a shaky hand to her mouth
to inhale. “Is this about Drew, Nate?”
“What?”
She exhaled impatiently. “Is. This. About. Drew. Baxter?”
“Ali, I have no idea what— ”
“Does she even care that you’re married? Do you? ”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“I think you know exactly what I mean.” Alice snorted, but
then something bubbled up to smother her anger. It was fear.
She didn’t want to be anywhere near Nate right now, but she
also needed him. “Are you sleeping with her?”
A sharp inhalation from Nate. “Have you gone insane, A
li?
You actually think I’m having an affair? With Drew?”
“I know she called you that day, when you told me it was
Rob. So don’t be so fucking righteous. You lied to me about her.”
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Nate sighed, his frustration seeping through the phone. “I
told you it was Rob because I didn’t want to get into it right
then. We were talking about James Dorian and what happened,
and, well, it didn’t seem like the right time.”
“So what was that call about, then, if not a check‑ in from
your lover?”
“Stop it, Ali.” Nate was angry now too. Good. At least he
was taking her seriously. “I would never . . . God, is that how
little you think of me?”
She shrugged, forgetting Nate couldn’t see her.
“Drew and I were both offered positions in the L.A. office.
But I didn’t want to say anything to you until I knew it was a
for‑ sure thing. And that afternoon Drew called because her
mom is recovering from cancer treatment and she was worried
about leaving New York. I was trying to help her with the
decision, which we had to give by the end of the day. She’s a
friend, Ali. That’s it.” Alice couldn’t be sure Nate was telling
the truth about Drew, but there was a different sort of be‑
trayal to focus on— that he had unilaterally decided to take a
job across the country and expected Alice would fall in line
behind him.
“And when did you make your decision, Nate?”
A pause. “I accepted the week before.”
“Without talking to me first?” Alice’s body quaked, and she
stubbed out the cigarette, feeling nauseated. “Why are you
doing this to me? To us?”
“Ali, listen to me.” He softened his voice, pleading with her
to understand. “It’s a big promotion. A lot— like, a lot— more money, and even more when I pass the exam. A chance to run
my own team! And the timing seemed good, because I know
we just moved, but you can write anywhere and we can get
settled and then do the whole baby thing down there.” The
“whole baby thing”? Alice closed her eyes tightly, set her forehead 297
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into her hands. “Your mom and Steve will be close enough to
help out. I honestly thought you’d be relieved.”
“Relieved?!”
“I know you were stressed about money, and how much the
house was costing us. And the move has been extra‑ hard on
you. I get it. It’s a big change.” Nate paused, took a breath.
“Things haven’t been the same between us lately, and I hoped
this might get us back on track.”
Alice sighed. “When are you supposed to be in L.A.?”
“End of October.” Nate’s voice was subdued, his tone con‑
veying his regret. That was a month and a half away. “Right
after my exam. But everything will be paid for. And they hire a
company to come and do all the packing up, so you’ll have
help.” Go to hell, Nate.
“What if I don’t want to go?”
He huffed with exasperation. “What’s the alternative? You’re
going to stay here in Greenville, alone? I can’t afford to carry
our place and something else in L.A., so how would that work?
I know I should have said something earlier, but this is good for
us. Now we can really get ahead.”
Get ahead to where? Then Alice thought about Sally’s
question. Who am I? The answer— a flailing, unemployed writer; a mediocre housewife; a woman forced to bend to her husband’s
ambition— made her sick to her stomach.
Nate had stopped talking, was waiting for her to say this was
fine, she forgave him for not telling her until now, understood
the money mattered, as did his future success with the company
(he was the breadwinner of the family, after all), and didn’t
blame him for wanting more. We’re a team, she knew he ex‑
pected her to say. We stick together.
“I’ll have dinner ready at seven thirty. Don’t be late.” Then
she ended the call.
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. . .
Alice spent the rest of the day working on a plan, and by the time
Nate came home— walking through the door at 7:20 p.M.— she
was ready.
She had made a simple supper of pork chops, mashed po‑
tatoes, and salad and had a bottle of wine breathing when he
came to stand at the kitchen door. He glanced at her and sensed
a shift, and hope bloomed on his face.
“Come and sit down,” she said, pouring them both wine.
He sat across from her at the Formica table and took the wine‑
glass she offered him. “First, I need you to know I’m really
upset,” Alice said. “This is a big deal, and I still can’t believe
you took the job without telling me.”
“I know, and again, I’m sorry,” Nate said, then added evenly,
“We haven’t been good at telling each other the truth recently,
have we?” The scent of cigarette smoke— faint but undeniable—
lingered in the living room, and Nate had undoubtedly noticed.
Alice had tried to quit, but the cigarettes were like a salve she
desperately needed at the moment. She’d stop, eventually.
Alice didn’t react to Nate’s comment. He was right (and her
lies certainly outnumbered his), but she didn’t want to have a
discussion, which would certainly lead to an argument about it;
she needed to focus on resolving the problem at hand.
“I was thinking about things today, about what I want, and
I have a proposition for you,” Alice said.
Nate raised an eyebrow, curious though wary. “I’m listening.”
“I made a few calls, one to Megan Tooley, my friend who’s
a literary agent? Remember her?” Nate nodded. “I pitched her
my book idea, and she was interested. Like, really interested.
Said the premise was fantastic and that she could think of a half‑
dozen editors who would jump for a book like that.”
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“Okay,” Nate said, his voice even. “That’s great news.”
“It is.” Alice went to the oven to pull out the pork chops,
unable to sit still. “So, I was thinking . . . let me have six months.
I can finish the book and then Megan can sell it. If it all works
out, we can stay because my book advance— and then the roy‑
alties, once it publishes— can help with expenses. If it doesn’t
sell, I’ll go with you to L.A.” Alice was plating the meat, so she
didn’t see Nate’s expression, which had shifted from curiosity to
disbelief.
“What do you think?” she asked, setting the pla
tes in front
of them. She finally looked at Nate, and her stomach dropped.
“I already took the job, Ali. Papers are signed. It’s a done
deal.”
“But if it’s about the money, I’m telling you in a few
months— a year, tops— I can contribute! Or I’ll get another job.
It won’t be all on you.” She sat back and away from her dinner,
her appetite gone. “Ask for an extension for the promotion.
They love you and know you’re brilliant. They’ll hold the job if
you say you can’t leave for another few months.”
“No, they won’t.” Nate’s tone was incredulous. “Maybe if
you had suggested this earlier, like in June or July, I could have
made it work. But now? It’s too late, Ali. We have to go.”
“Too late? How could I have suggested anything when I had
no idea! California is thousands of miles away.”
Nate crossed his arms over his chest, his voice rising. “Thou‑
sands of miles away from what, Ali? It’s not like there’s a job
you’re leaving behind. What exactly is holding you here?”
Alice narrowed her eyes, then took her wine and got up
from the table. She left the kitchen and went into the living
room, sitting at her desk, her muscles tense and vibrating with
adrenaline. Nate was right behind her.
“Okay, you want to play it this way?” he said, his tone chal‑
lenging. “Show me your book.”
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“What?”
He gestured to her laptop. “Open it. Let me see what you’ve
been working on.”
She shook her head.
He gave a mock look of surprise. “Why not? I mean, if you
want me to turn down this promotion and stay here so you can
sell it, you must be feeling pretty confident about your work.”
“No. ”
“Come on, Ali. Just a chapter. One little chapter!”
“Stop it, Nate. I’m not ready to— ”
But he was quick, reaching around her to grab the laptop
from the desk, and before she could react he had the screen
open and tapped a few keys. Alice regretted ever giving him her
password. She was shocked by his behavior; it was so unlike
him— or at least so unlike the old Nate.
Alice made one last attempt to take the laptop back from
him, but he was taller than she was and held it over his head.