her stomach wrecked from the stress.
Nate was appropriately concerned, encouraging her to file a
complaint with human resources. Alice resisted, said she wanted
to move on, and declared she was finished with the dishonesty of
public relations. At that Nate reminded her, as good husbands
do, that she was too talented for such a lack of appreciation.
“My smart girl,” he murmured, dampening a washcloth in
cold water and pressing it to the back of her neck as she hung
over the toilet bowl. “This is for the best, babe. Now you can
write that book you’ve always talked about. And who knows . . .
maybe it’s a good time to start working on the baby thing?” He
sounded pleased; life was so straightforward from his perspective.
As though he believed Alice could simply turn off her drive, or
shift it without breaking stride. An unnerving heaviness filled
her at the realization that she might have overshot her plan, and
she threw up again— this time without any effort.
When the news hit, Alice’s messages blew up. Had she known
James Dorian was a con, having worked so closely with him for
years? How could he have gotten away with it? And from
Bronwyn, a pointed text after Alice hadn’t answered her six calls,
which read, Was it that woman in the changing room?? She ended
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up telling Bronwyn but made her swear not to say anything— to anyone— until she could figure things out, because she’d already lied to Nate and didn’t want to compound the problem.
James Dorian swiftly went from literary darling to pariah.
Not only were there demands for him to return awards, but his
most current book suddenly disappeared off the publisher’s
schedule, and Robbie Jantzen sued for damages. Alice stuck to
her “I quit” story, and because she wasn’t named in the Post’s exposé (a small miracle) she remained an anonymous source in
James Dorian’s decimation.
“Wow, your timing couldn’t have been better,” Nate de‑
clared when he read it, never suspecting Alice’s part in it. “Glad
you got out of there when you did.”
Looking back, the lie was slight and mostly harmless— more
an omission than a lie, really. It would have been easy to tell
Nate the truth because it had been an honest mistake, a moment of poor judgment on Alice’s part that snowballed into disaster.
And she might have confessed— despite her pride— had it not
roused something in her, a curious yet intoxicating feeling of
control that would pave the way for more significant lies with
more perilous consequences. Alice was a good secret keeper, as
long as it suited her.
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15
q
Nellie
JuNe 11, 1956
Bread and Cheese Pudding
2 cups soft bread crumbs
4 cups milk
1 tablespoon butter
1⁄ 4 teaspoon baking soda
A dash of paprika
2 cups grated cheese
5 eggs
1 teaspoon salt
1⁄ 2 teaspoon pepper
Scald bread crumbs with milk, and add butter, baking soda, salt,
pepper, and paprika, then combine with the cheese and slightly beaten eggs. Pour into greased baking dish and set in larger pan one- third filled with hot water. Bake slowly for 1 hour in 350°F oven.
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R ichard was late coming home, and dinner was growing cold.
But no matter— Nellie actually liked the cheese pudding best
chilled, straight from the fridge. Plus, she was happy to have a
with Miriam only a couple of hours earlier and so still had no
appetite for dinner. But she knew Richard would come home
expecting a warm meal on the table. She slid a piece of alu‑
minum foil over the casserole dish, pinching the edges to hold
in the heat.
Tonight’s dinner had been one of her mother’s regular
dishes, often served for Sunday luncheon after church. It was
dead easy and filled with simple ingredients a prepared housewife
typically had on hand. Nellie liked to add a few of her own
special touches, like a teaspoon of ground rosemary or sage, or
maybe some fresh herbs from the garden. She twisted the lid off
the cheese shaker jar that held her homemade herb mix, a Swann
family recipe. It was less than half full, and Nellie made a note,
as she set the jar on the table, to dry more herbs tomorrow for
another batch.
Hearing the car pull in, she sliced a piece of cake for Rich‑
ard’s dessert, carefully arranging the sugared violets even though
he wouldn’t notice or appreciate the effort when he finally ar‑
rived home.
“Nellie?” he called out. The front door slammed. Nellie
paused, hands held taut above the cake. She tried to determine
his mood from the tone of his voice. Sometimes it was hard
to tell.
“Baby?” There it was, the best clue. The use of his preferred
pet name. Richard was in a good mood tonight, and she guessed
why based on how late he was. Jane. Or more likely, Jane’s tight sweater and long, stocking‑ covered pins she liked to display with short skirts.
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“In the kitchen,” Nellie replied, removing the aluminum
foil and cutting a serving of the cheese pudding, adding a sprig
of parsley for color. She set it at his spot and placed the cake
beside it, turning the plate so the violets were at the top left
corner. As Richard came into the kitchen, Nellie was fixing him
a drink, an old‑fashioned, and she offered him her cheek. When
he leaned in to kiss her, she smelled unfamiliar perfume.
“Looks good, Nellie,” he said, moving his tie clip lower to
prevent the fabric from going into the cheese pudding. He
shook some of the herb mix onto his pudding, then took two
large bites followed by another sip of his drink before he noticed
she had an empty plate in front of her. Richard gestured with
his fork. “You aren’t eating?”
“I’m a tad queasy,” Nellie said.
His brow furrowed. “Perhaps Doc Johnson can give you
something? Dan Graves said Martha was awfully ill, but Doc gave
her a pill that fixed her right up.” Martha Graves had been at
Kitty’s party that afternoon and had shared as much when Nellie
used nausea as the excuse for not eating much. “Well, at least
you’ll stay thin,” Martha had said, looking with envy at Nellie’s
tiny frame while running her hands over her own puffed‑ out belly.
“The doctor gave me something called thalidomide and it worked
wonders!
” Martha had laughed, though self‑ consciously. “Too
well, some might say.” Nellie knew Martha’s “some” meant her husband, Dan, and she held back her desire to tell Martha exactly
what she thought of a man who would criticize his wife while she
was carrying his child. Instead, Nellie told Martha she looked
beautiful and healthy, and Martha blushed with delight.
“I don’t think that will be necessary,” Nellie replied. “I had
cake and coffee with Miriam not long ago. I’ll eat a little some‑
thing later.” She longed for a cigarette, but Richard didn’t care
for smoking at the table, so instead she poured a glass of lem‑
onade and sipped it slowly.
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“How was your day?” Nellie asked, like she did every day
over dinner.
“Fine. The usual. Got stuck in a late‑ day meeting.” Richard
worked long hours at the gum plant, had a hand in every part of
the business. But he seemed to believe she fell for his lies— my sweet and naive Nellie. A wife can always smell another woman on her husband. Would Richard think her clever— or foolish—
for imagining these “meetings” had nothing to do with gum
at all?
“I hope the cheese pudding is warm enough.” Nellie watched
him take another large bite. “I foiled it, but it has been out a
while.”
Richard stopped eating, his expression stone‑ faced, and Nellie
held her breath. But a moment later he relaxed, obviously de‑
ciding not to respond to her veiled jab about his lateness. “I like what you’ve put on top here. This red stuff. Quite flavorful.”
“Paprika,” Nellie said. “I’m glad you like it.”
“So how was your day, Nell‑ bear?” Richard asked, mouth
half‑ full of pudding. “What did you get up to?”
“Some gardening, and I baked the cake for Kitty Goldman’s
Tupperware party I mentioned last night. I saved you a piece.”
Nellie pointed to the cake slice, but he barely glanced at it.
“Oh, you were at the Goldmans’ today? How’s their new
kitchen?”
To someone who didn’t know him, Richard’s tone sounded
politely curious. But Nellie knew better— he had never liked
Charles Goldman, Kitty’s husband. “He’s a shuckster,” Richard
mumbled when his name came up, referred to Charles’s booming
hardware store as “Mickey Mouse,” even though it was anything
but, and drove the extra few minutes to Scarsdale to avoid
shopping there. Nellie had no idea why Richard didn’t care for
Charles Goldman, though she suspected it had everything to do
with jealousy.
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Richard was a very successful man, but Charles was the most: a handsome fellow who ran a booming business and was quite
affectionate with his wife, holding her hand in public and telling
her how beautiful she looked whenever she walked into the room.
Kitty wasn’t deserving of such a husband— she was a gossipy,
vapid woman who was mean‑ spirited on the best of days. Like
at today’s party, after poor Martha lamented her unfortunate
pregnancy‑ related weight gain, Kitty had offered to make her a
plate so she could rest her swollen ankles. When she brought it
over she had whispered, loudly enough for everyone in the room
to hear, “I left off the deviled eggs, because I know you’re
watching your figure.” The deviled eggs had been Martha’s con‑
tribution and were her favorite, but she’d stammered a thank‑ you
as she took the plate of vegetables and jelly salad, looking as
though she wished the ground would swallow her whole.
Nellie treaded lightly with her response to Richard’s question,
for fear he would demand they begin a kitchen renovation soon.
She loved her kitchen the way it was, had no desire to uproot her
life by making everything a mess in the one room in the house
that was truly hers and hers alone.
“To be honest,” Nellie began, standing to serve Richard a
second helping of the pudding, “it was dreadful. The design, the
colors. All of it, chintzy.” Actually, the Goldmans’ kitchen had
been quite lovely. It had been the company that was dreadful.
But Nellie went because what else would she do all day? The
garden took up some time, as did the chores and errands re‑
quired to keep the household running smoothly, but for much
of the time Nellie was bored. Restless. At least these get‑
togethers meant she had to bake or prepare something, which
always lightened her mood.
“I hope you rested today. Put your feet up.” Richard frowned.
“You know, you should have Helen come more often. I don’t
like you working so hard in your condition.”
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Nellie gave a patient smile. But she didn’t want Helen un‑
derfoot all day, nor did she like paying for something she could
easily do herself. Besides, cooking and gardening were plea‑
surable, which Richard wouldn’t understand.
“Speaking of, I didn’t realize we were announcing our news
quite yet.” Nellie sashayed over to the other side of the room
and cracked the window, sliding her Lucky Strikes and cigarette
holder from the kitchen drawer. “I had hoped to tell Martha
and Kitty myself.” What she really meant was she had hoped to
tell them nothing at all; her deception had only been intended
for Richard. She took an ashtray out of the cupboard and placed
it in the sink, taking a long pull on her cigarette.
“Richard, please remove that scowl from your face.” She
took another drag, blew it out. “Dr. Johnson told me it was fine
to smoke. He said it was relaxing for his patients who are in the
family way.”
Richard held up his hands as he leaned back in his chair. “If
Doc Johnson says it’s fine, that’s fine by me. And I know we
talked about keeping the news to ourselves for now, and I’m
sorry, Nell‑ bear, but Dan Graves was asking after you when we
rode the train together, and I couldn’t help myself.”
Richard pushed back from the table and stood close to
Nellie, lifting her so she was perched on the edge of the coun‑
tertop. “Don’t let it rattle your cage, baby. It’s good news, so
why shouldn’t we share it?”
“You’re right. We absolutely should,” she murmured, soft‑
ening her expression with some effort. “I’m not cross. I promise.”
He used his hands to open her knees so he could settle his
hips into her circle of space. She didn’t resist him (what was the
point?), but then felt him tense and pull back slightly as he hes‑
itated, unwilling to risk anything this time. His hands remained
on
the curves of her behind, gently caressing through the fabric
of her skirt. “This is okay, right?”
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“I won’t break, Richard.” It was easier to give in, so Nellie
set her cigarette holder in the ashtray in the sink and placed her
palms on the kitchen’s countertop, anchoring her body so she
didn’t fall backward. This moved them closer together, and his
desire, hot and demanding, pressed into her.
“You always know how to razz my berries, baby.” He ground
his pelvis against her and leaned in to kiss her neck, his mouth
hot and sloppy. The perfume scent was stronger now, nauseat‑
ingly so. Nellie was about to feign illness to extricate herself
when Richard moaned, but not with pleasure, and a moment
later he retreated, leaving Nellie splayed on the countertop, a
single tail of cigarette smoke rising from the sink beside her.
“Richard? What is it?” He hunched forward, a pinched look
on his face.
“I’m fine,” he said between clenched teeth. “My damn ulcer.
It’s nothing.”
Nellie shimmied off the counter and took a last pull on her
cigarette before stubbing it out. Richard’s stomach was an on‑
going problem, but he seemed to be getting ill more often these
days. She kept at him to see the doctor about it, but Richard
didn’t want to bother going in for something so trivial. “Nothing
an Alka‑ Seltzer won’t fix,” he always said. If he didn’t get relief from the fizzy water, he would try a dose of milk of magnesium,
or maybe some bismuth.
“Why don’t I make you an albumen drink?” Nellie opened
her cookbook even though she knew the recipe by heart. She
often made it when his stomach acted up. “You go rest and I’ll
bring it to you.”
Richard nodded and clutched his belly, sucking in a pained
breath.
“Off you go,” Nellie said, ushering him out of the kitchen.
He groaned as he settled onto the green velour sofa, and Nellie
set the washing bucket beside him in case. Then she separated
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the egg white, saving the yolk in a small glass dish— she would