Recipe for a Perfect Wife (ARC)
Page 34
And then she saw he’d managed to open the Word document
titled “Novel” and, breathing heavily, she let her arms fall to
her sides.
Nate looked at the first page, scrolled down for a few mo‑
ments, then locked eyes with his wife. The first page remained
on the screen and showed the title, written in bold caps in a
large font so it stood out against the brightness of the screen:
RECIPE FOR A PERFECT WIFE, and then: by Alice Hale.
Alice’s heart beat as fast as hummingbird wings.
“Is this all of it?” Nate asked, scrolling down the page. The
cursor soon stopped, reaching the bottom of the document,
which was only two pages long. He minimized the document,
started looking around the computer’s desktop. “Is there an‑
other file?”
“Give it to me, Nate.”
“Alice, where the hell is your book?” Nate turned to her.
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“That’s it.”
“This is it?” He looked back at the screen. “But there’s hardly
anything here.”
“I know,” she said.
“What have you been working on?”
“I’ve done a ton of research. I’ve got websites bookmarked. . . .”
She was breathless, high‑ strung with adrenaline. “I’ve been
trying, honestly. But . . . it’s been more complicated than I ex‑
pected.”
“You’ve been lying to me, again, this whole time?” Nate
lowered the computer. “What’s happened to you?” He scrubbed
his free hand through his hair, distraught. “Maybe we never
should have moved here. . . . It’s not good for you, or me. . . .
This goddamn house . . .”
Alice snapped. With an anguished grunt, she ripped the
laptop from Nate’s hands and sprinted to the back door. Nate
was on her heels, telling her to stop. She pushed open the door
and threw the laptop as hard as she could against the stone patio
steps, where it broke apart, the keyboard bouncing erratically
before settling onto the lush green lawn. Alice was glad Sally
was away, especially when Nate screamed, “Have you lost your
fucking mind?” at her once the pieces of the laptop settled. Ar‑
guments this volatile between a couple belonged inside the four
walls of a house. It was the neighborly thing to do.
The fight fizzled shortly after the scene on the patio. Alice was
drained to the point of being ill, and Nate didn’t look much
better. Their meal was cold by the time they returned to the
kitchen, and Alice reheated both plates in silence, though she
was unable to eat anything. Not long after, she scraped her un‑
eaten dinner into the garbage and went upstairs, exchanging
not a single word with Nate. Soon, she heard the back door
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squeak open, a thin stream of light illuminating a swath of patio
stones. Alice looked out the bedroom window to see Nate
sweeping up the bits of laptop casing, holding a small flashlight
in his mouth so he could see and sweep at the same time. Then
he turned off the flashlight and stared for a while at the
shadowed garden, statue still in the moonlight.
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q
Just as the vampire sucks the blood of its victims in their sleep
while they are alive, so does the woman vampire suck the life and
exhaust the vitality of her male partner— or victim.
— William J. Robinson, Married Life and Happiness (1922) Alice
septeMber 28, 2018
N ate knocked on the bathroom door. “You okay?”
It was early. Nate was up for work, and Alice was on hands
and knees, dry heaving into the toilet.
“Ali?” He knocked again. She tried to answer through her
gagging but couldn’t catch her breath.
“I’m coming in,” Nate said, the door handle starting to turn,
and Alice managed to gasp, “No, don’t. Give me a minute.” The
door handle stopped turning, and Alice heard Nate’s footsteps
retreat down the hall. She flushed the toilet and splashed water
on her face.
Nate was sitting on the guest room bed, where she had been
sleeping now for nearly a week, waiting for her. He was still in
boxers and a T‑ shirt, and he looked concerned and exhausted.
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Alice cleared her throat, happy at least the horrible nausea she’d
woken up with— that had sent her bolting for the washroom—
was mostly gone. “I’m fine,” she said, pulling on leggings and a
sweatshirt. No way she was going back to sleep now.
“Didn’t sound like it.” Nate fiddled with the drawstring of
his boxers. “Are you sick?”
“Probably something I ate. I feel better now.” Alice sus‑
pected her weak stomach had more to do with what had trans‑
pired the day before. She thought about the in‑ pieces laptop
and cringed with the memory; she’d lost her temper, and so had
Nate, and things were worse than ever.
“Okay, well, I need to hop in the shower. If you’re sure you
don’t need . . . ?”
“Go ahead.” Nate nodded, got up from the bed, and
brushed past Alice, who moved slightly to the side so there was
no chance they’d touch. She heard the shower go on; then a
minute later Nate called out for her.
“Could you grab some soap?” he asked, his dripping‑ wet
head sticking out from behind the shower curtain. “None left
in here.”
“Sure,” Alice said, going to the linen closet to find the large
package of soap she’d bought on her last trip to Costco. At least
they were being civil— she wasn’t sure that would even be an
option today. Alice reached for the package, then stopped,
glancing at the box beside the soap. Tampons— the package un‑
opened. She frowned, her hand hovering.
“Ali?” Nate was getting impatient.
“Just a second,” she shouted, needing more like a minute to
figure things out. To do the math, because that box of tampons
should not be unopened. A strange sense of prickly warmth
filled her as she began counting backward in her head, her eyes
widening as she did. Holy hell. It seemed impossible, and yet . . .
She took the soap and shut the linen closet door, her hand
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lingering there for a moment as she pulled herself together.
Then she took it in to Nate and said she was going out.
“It’s barely
six,” he said, wiping the water from his eyes as he
watched her brush her teeth. She spat into the sink, then said,
“I have something to do,” before leaving the bathroom and a
puzzled Nate to his shower.
Alice was locked in the washroom at the Scarsdale Starbucks,
the only place open that time of morning aside from the
pharmacy where she’d bought the pregnancy test. Someone
knocked on the door and she shouted, “I’m in here!” and stared
at the stick on the sink’s counter. With shaky fingers, she held it close to her face, but there was no need— staring back at her was
the undeniable plus sign in the test’s small round window.
Who am I? Alice thought, looking into the coffee shop’s
bathroom mirror, eyes a bit wild, though clear and bright. A
mother, and that changes everything. . . .
After dinner, after Alice handed him the test stick, after Nate’s
face transformed from frown to beaming smile, they sat to‑
gether on the living room couch, as close as they’d been in more
than a week.
“I can’t believe it,” Nate said. Rubbing her socked feet, which
were on his lap, distractedly. It tickled, but she didn’t pull away.
“I mean, I know it’s possible— nothing’s perfect— but still.
Wow.”
While one could get pregnant on the pill (especially if
one forgets to take it at the same time each day, which Alice
had), the chances were minuscule. Because Nate lived and
breathed statistics and risk, he was always prepared for the tiny
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percentage— no matter how unlikely— for in his line of work
that typically ended up being the thing with the greatest impact.
However, he remained stunned, if not deliriously happy, by the
news.
“Do you think it’s a boy or girl?” he asked.
“I haven’t even been to the doctor yet, so let’s not get ahead
of ourselves.”
Alice lay her head back against the sofa cushion, the ceiling
crack yawning above her. “We should get that fixed.”
“What?” Nate asked, and Alice pointed up.
“Probably a good idea, especially before the open houses.
I’ll call Beverly to find out if she knows a good plasterer.”
Alice nodded, then said, “I think we should get it fixed, but
not for the open houses.”
“Huh?” Nate had laid his head back as well, and now turned
toward her. “How come?”
She lifted her head, so they were facing each other. “Because
we’re not moving.”
“Ali, come on. Don’t start this again.” Nate’s jaw tensed and
his hands dropped from her feet. He looked back to the ceiling.
“Sorry, I should have said, I’m not moving.”
Nate sat up straight and shifted his body to face hers. “Yes,
you are. We’re having a baby, Ali.”
Alice sat up too. “I’m aware, and I’m not leaving the house.
This is where our baby should be raised, Nate. Not in Cali‑
fornia, where we have no friends and nothing is familiar and the
epicenter of the publishing world is a five‑ hour plane ride and
there’s only one season. You were raised on the East Coast so
you don’t know how depressing it is to put a Christmas tree up
in eighty‑ degree weather,” she said. “I’m staying here, and
you’re welcome to stay with me. Or not.”
He pushed her feet off his lap and stood quickly. “Why are
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you being so difficult about this? It’s not like you really see your old friends anymore. And publishing? I mean . . . come on,
Ali. Starting a new career with a baby in tow? It’s not exactly
realistic.” He gave her a pointed look. “Don’t do this, okay?
Not now.”
“Now is exactly when this has to happen.” She got off the
couch as well, went over to the desk and pulled a pen and notepad
from the drawer. A half‑ finished pack of cigarettes peeked out
from the back of the drawer, and Alice reminded herself to throw
them out later. She would never again smoke another cigarette—
the desire disappearing the moment that positive sign showed
itself. The sudden sense of responsibility, along with a burst of
protectionist love, that she’d felt staring at the test strip had both shaken and anchored Alice.
Alice wrote on the notepad, then handed it to Nate. “The
way I see it, you have two options.”
“Are you serious?” he asked, his face contorting with his ex‑
asperation as he read from the notepad. “One, stay in Greenville
with Alice and baby, or two, go to L.A., alone.” He looked up
at her, and his expression hardened. “You forgot number three:
move to L.A. with Alice and baby.”
She shook her head, taking the notepad back from him.
“No, Nate, that isn’t an option.”
His rage rolled off him in waves, and he clenched his fists
and took a step toward her. Too close for Alice’s comfort, based
on how angry he was. For a brief moment Alice wondered if she
might have pushed him too far. “We are moving, and that’s
final.”
She stepped back from him but kept her voice calm, her tone
serene and matter‑ of‑ fact. “If you decide to go to L.A., you are
going alone. I will stay here and finish my book, take care of
this house, raise our child. You’re welcome to be a part of that,
or not. Your choice.”
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“That is hardly a choice!” His voice boomed through the living
room, seeping into the ceiling crack, into the bones of the house.
Alice shrugged, unmoved by his distress or forceful tone,
though she did cross her arms over her stomach in a protective
fashion that was not lost on either of them. “You always have a
choice, Nate.”
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The average man marries a woman who is slightly less intelligent
than he is. That’s why many brilliant women never marry. They
do not come in contact with sufficiently brilliant men, or fail to
disguise their brilliance in order to win a man of somewhat less
intelligence.
— Dr. Clifford R. Adams, Modern Bride (1952)
Alice
october 30, 2018
A lice tied the apron slightly above her waist to accommodate the small bulge of her stomach. It was supposed to be moving
day, but the house remained as it had been for the past few
months. No boxes packed and ready to ship; half‑ finished home‑
improvement projects everywhere; no sign the Hales were
leaving anytime soon. Instead, Alice was up early baking for her
visit with
Sally later that day and Nate was at the kitchen table
eating breakfast before catching his train. The scent of lemon
filled the kitchen as Alice grated rind into a bowl, then cut and
juiced the fruit.
“Feeling better?” Nate asked, dragging a bit of egg through
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the hot sauce on his plate. He was surprised to see her up and
without her reliable green mask of illness.
“Much.” Alice’s morning sickness had been awful the past
few weeks. But she rarely complained, even though it was mis‑
erable. And Nate, seeing how ill she was, seemed somewhat
less angry than he had been. No matter what had transpired
between them, or how Alice had forced Nate’s hand, she was
carrying his baby. Still, they were far from good, the cracks
between them as evident as those in the ceiling they had yet
to fix.
Alice wiped her lemon‑ drenched fingers on her apron, reaching
for the coffeepot. “Want a warm‑ up?”
“Sure.” She poured the steaming coffee, and Nate put a
hand up when the mug was half‑ full. “Thanks.” He took a sip
of his coffee, eyes back to whatever news story he had been
reading on his phone.
“Think you’ll be home for dinner?” Alice read through the
recipe, then measured out a quarter cup of poppy seeds.
“Hope so. But if you don’t feel like making anything I can
just grab something on my way.”
“Should be fine. I’ll do something easy.”
Nate nodded, not looking up from his phone. She scraped
down the sides of the bowl, giving one final stir before pouring
the black‑ speckled yellow batter into the loaf pans.
“Still planning to paint the nursery this weekend?” she
asked, taking hold of the edges of one loaf pan and banging it
hard once, twice, on the countertop, to get any air bubbles out
before baking. Then she did it with the second one.
Nate glanced up sharply at the banging, his forehead creased
with annoyance. “Probably Sunday. I may need to go into the
office on Saturday for a few hours.” With a final sip of his coffee, he rinsed his cup and plate in the sink before stacking them in
the dishwasher.
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