melt. Place in very hot oven (500°F) for 3 to 5 minutes, or just until meringue is lightly browned. Slip dessert onto serving tray and serve at once.
Checking her phone (no messages) Alice saw it was close to
three. She had promised herself she would write for at least an
hour before starting dinner, so she left the cookbook open at
the dessert recipe and sat at the desk, determined to make
progress.
Alice set her hands on the laptop keys and waited for some‑
thing to happen. She thought about her interaction with
Georgia— what could be more Devil Wears Prada– ish than that?— but all that came to mind was Nellie, and what she might
have been doing on a Wednesday afternoon. Based on the letters
so far, Alice envisioned a predictable trifecta of cleaning, cooking, and gardening. She wondered what that would have been like—
when a clean house and a meat loaf in the oven fulfilled expecta‑
tions. Would it have been a relief, the simplicity of it? Or
dispiriting to know that’s all there would ever be?
Pushing thoughts of Nellie aside, Alice forced her fingers to
type, words turning into sentences, and soon enough she had
her first two pages written. But when she paused to reread, she
scowled and promptly deleted all of it. Discouraged, she closed
her laptop and headed back to the kitchen.
Having already settled on a dinner of chicken thighs in a
pineapple‑ barbecue sauce, she thought the Baked Alaska dessert
would be a nice surprise for Nate— he loved ice cream. The
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marinating. After washing her hands, Alice donned an apron
and started on the Baked Alaska.
She was worried about the dinner. Not the meal itself, but
the conversation she planned to have with Nate after it. While
she gathered the dessert ingredients, she rehearsed what she’d
say: she wanted to wait a few more months before they got
pregnant. She would barely be thirty by that time. Nate would
likely be upset, but she hoped he’d come around to see things
from her point of view. Like Sally had said, they were still young.
Alice opened the freezer to see if there was enough ice
cream. No strawberry, but there was a quart of chocolate. As for
the cake, she opted for a premade Entenmann’s loaf, which she
trimmed and stacked onto a baking sheet until she had some‑
thing resembling a round base. The ice cream was solid, so she
set it out for a few minutes, using a spoon to scrape off the top
layer, letting it melt on her tongue while she waited for the
rest to soften. Alice flipped through the cookbook, noting
that jellied salads seemed particularly popular in those days, and
shuddered at a recipe that called for lemon gelatin and canned
tuna.
Fifteen minutes later she had eaten the top third of the ice
cream and the remainder was soft enough to pack into a small
mixing bowl. She placed the bowl in the freezer and padded
back to her desk, where she sat staring out the window for an
hour, making no progress on her book.
Nate was supposed to be home at six thirty, seven at the
latest. An hour later he still hadn’t arrived, and Alice texted him.
On your way? Dinner about to come out of oven.
No response, and still no Nate by eight thirty. Alice fumed
as she poured her second glass of wine and pushed the over‑
cooked, cold chicken and shriveled pineapple chunks around her
plate. She called him, but his phone went straight to voice mail,
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which was when worry overtook irritation. Alice checked for
news of train delays or accidents. Nothing. Maybe he had been
hit by a car riding his bike home from the station? Rattled and
anxious, she paced the living room while she finished the wine.
Just as she thought maybe she should go look for him— but she
couldn’t drive, two glasses of wine in— a text came through.
Sorry, babe. Study session went late, grabbing bite here.
Rain check on dinner?
She stared at the text for a full minute. Rain check? She
imagined Nate at the office with Drew, who probably had plenty
of important things to do each day, eating takeout and laughing
between bouts of focus. Nate having completely forgotten about
his wife and dinner waiting for him at home.
She seethed about Nate’s lack of consideration as she whipped
the egg whites until glossy peaks formed. With some difficulty,
as it was frozen solid, Alice transferred the dome of chocolate ice cream onto the loaf base. As she covered the whole thing with
the egg‑ white meringue, trying to make the cloud‑ like layer
even, despite her heavy‑ handedness, she fervently whispered the
things she would say to her husband when he finally came home.
I would have appreciated a call. I was worried.
Did you have a nice time with Drew?
Rain check? You don’t “rain check” dinner with your wife!
I hope you don’t mind your pineapple chicken cold . . . also, I don’t want to have a baby right now.
Still mumbling in frustration, Alice bent to keep an eye on
the meringue dome in the oven. At four minutes the peaks were
golden, but there was also a pool of brown liquid seeping out
from under the cake base. Alice promptly took the dessert out
and frowned as she poked the droopy meringue. Surely this was
not what Nellie had labeled “Success!” It looked inedible. Using
a large kitchen knife, she cut a slice in the dome’s surface and
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quickly transferred it to a plate. The piece itself was relatively
intact, but the moment she removed it, the rest of the dessert
collapsed. She tried to hold one side up with the knife, but the
other side buckled, and so she let it go.
Alice took her plate and stood at the kitchen sink, staring
into the darkened backyard while she finished the piece of Baked
Alaska. Then she left her plate and fork, unrinsed, on the counter
beside the remainder of the dessert— by the time Nate arrived
home, hours later, all that would be left was a pool of melted choc‑
olate ice cream with a sodden cake island in its center— and went
to bed, her mind made up.
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20
q
Nellie
July 7, 1956
Mint Sauce
11⁄ 2 tablespoons confectioners’ sugar
3 tablespoons hot water
1⁄ 3 cup finely minced mint leaves
1⁄ 2 cup very mild wine vinegar
A couple drops of green vegetable coloring
Dissolve sugar in hot wa
ter. Cool sugar water then blend in minced
mint leaves and wine vinegar. Add green vegetable coloring. Let stand for half an hour and serve cool. Makes 1 cup of sauce.
T he best time to harvest herbs was after the early‑morning dew dried, and Nellie had a long list of things to do, starting
with her herb garden. While the sun rose higher and Richard
kept sleeping, Nellie used her kitchen shears to trim leaves and
stalks from her herb plants to later dry for her seasoning mix.
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Rosemary. Sage. Parsley. Dill. Lemon balm. Mint. Marjoram.
Snip, snip, snip went her nimble hands, swathed in gardening
gloves to prevent scratches.
It had been nearly a week since Richard had hit her, and Nellie
had since accepted her marriage was at best unsustainable, at
worst perilous. The Richard she met at the supper club— the
charming man who showered her with attention and gifts and
made her believe happiness was ripe for the taking— no longer
existed. In truth, he had vanished on their wedding night, when
Richard roughly pushed himself inside her, his small hands selfish
as they ripped her beautiful pale blue nightgown in his haste, the
delicate pearl buttons flying off like popped corn. That was the
moment Nellie began her education on what it meant to be
Richard Murdoch’s wife. This would be a life where the most
important thing she could do was stand by his side, take care of
him, give herself over to him bit by bit. He needed her to look
pretty, cook him hot meals, open her legs to him without feigning
a headache or lady troubles. She was to keep her opinions to
herself while also keeping his dozen or so white dress shirts spar‑
kling and clean of other women’s lipsticks. But Nellie had wanted
a baby badly enough that despite all this she remained patient if
not vigilant, hoping her efforts wouldn’t be for naught.
Nellie knew leaving Richard would not be simple; it came
with repercussions, both financial and social, and therefore, she
needed a plan.
Satisfied with her work, she stood and arched back slightly to
stretch her cramped muscles. It was turning out to be a beautiful
day, and Nellie, not quite ready to go inside, slid a cigarette from the carton and set it between her lips. She sat on the grass and
smoked languidly, the herbs piled on a dish towel by her feet.
Tomorrow, Sunday, was Richard’s thirty‑ fifth birthday. She
was planning his favorite meal— lamb chops with mint sauce,
which she would make today, along with mashed potatoes,
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green peas, and peach cobbler. Nellie would wear her prettiest
dress, adding to it a spritz of perfume and her most convincing
smile, and they would have a nice meal.
As she smoked the cigarette, the sun adding another layer of
tan on her outstretched legs, she decided Monday would be the
day. She would tell him she had to go visit her mother, whom
Richard had never met— her dementia made her incredibly agi‑
tated with strangers, Nellie explained when Richard had asked
once about joining her. She would pack only a small valise for
the trip, into which she would bury the envelope of dollar bills
she’d been squirrelling away.
Nellie had been clever, and careful, the way her mother
taught her to be. Whenever she went to the market, she would
buy only what was on sale, pocketing the extra from her weekly
budget and sliding it into magazine spines, where Richard would
never think to look. Sometimes when he had too much to drink,
or was ill and delirious with stomach pains, Nellie would help
herself to a little more as she emptied his pockets to launder his
clothes. And when she went to the bank to get money for her
dresses or beauty items or necessities for their home— areas
Richard allowed Nellie to have near complete control over— she
would take slightly more than she needed. It was amazing how
much one could save with careful scrimping.
Yes, she would leave Richard on Monday. She would go see
her mother and, after that, figure out what to do next. Nellie
was resilient and capable, and she would land on her feet.
Leaving her beloved house and cherished gardens and dear
friend Miriam would pain her greatly. But it had been Miriam
who had given her the idea, and Nellie knew she would under‑
stand.
“You’re a beautiful woman, Nellie. Smart too,” Miriam had
said, pouring them both a coffee after she rescued Nellie from
her backyard standoff with Richard. “And my Lord, can you
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cook! There isn’t a thing you can’t do, dear, if you put your
mind to it.”
“Thank you for saying that, Miriam,” Nellie had replied, the
shaking finally subsiding, though her jaw continued to throb.
Miriam had made a chamomile poultice, heating the dried buds
in warm apple cider vinegar before squeezing out the liquid and
held the soothing, fragrant compress to her cheek. “But I’m not
sure that’s entirely true.”
Miriam had frowned, regarded Nellie with a look that was
sympathetic but not at all pitying. “You can always stay with me
if you need to. I’d love the company.”
Nellie nodded, wrapping one hand around the warmth of
her coffee cup. Knew that could never happen because of how
much it would anger Richard, putting Miriam at risk as well.
“You could say I needed the help, for a few days anyway.
Maybe I’ve caught my death of a cold, or my arthritis has flared
so badly I can’t boil water?”
“You’re a good friend.” Nellie grasped Miriam’s hand,
squeezed lightly.
“I have some savings,” Miriam said, reaching into the drawer
of her buffet table. She handed her a thick envelope, Nellie’s
name written in black ink on its surface. Nellie felt ashamed at
her own weakness, wondered how long Miriam had been
keeping this envelope of cash for her.
“I’d like you to have it, honey. I want to help.” Nellie was
filled with gratitude at the offer but would never take Miriam’s
money, despite the older woman’s insistence. Nellie assured her
she had some savings of her own tucked aside— not a lot, but
enough to get her away from Richard.
It was nearly ten in the morning when she took the last drag
on the cigarette. Nellie wanted to get the herbs drying and the
mint jelly started so there was still time to market before she
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Wife
had to get ready for their evening. They had a dinner party to
attend, at the Graveses’. Richard had been sulking about it all
week, knowing he’d have to talk to the “shuckster” Charles,
who was surely invited, as the Goldmans and Graveses were
close friends. Nellie wasn’t any more interested in socializing
with Kitty, but she did enjoy Martha’s company and at least it
meant she and Richard wouldn’t be alone.
That only left Sunday— his birthday— to get through. They
would attend church, and after the luncheon Richard had plans
to go bowling with a few of the men in the neighborhood.
While he bowled, Nellie would prepare dinner and then treat
Richard like a king all evening, ensuring he suspected nothing.
The next morning, she would leave under the guise of a quick
trip to visit her ailing mother, and that would be the last time
she ever saw Richard Murdoch.
Nellie stubbed her cigarette out on the patio stone and took
the herbs inside, bundling them loosely with string so they had
space to breathe while they dried. She laid the newspaper‑ lined
tea towel flat along the top of the refrigerator, setting the
bundles of herbs gently on the towel. Turning her attention to
the mint sauce for Richard’s birthday dinner, Nellie chopped
the fresh mint, adding a few other green herbs for flavor. After
dissolving the sugar into the hot water, she smoked another
cigarette while she waited for the mixture to cool. Then she
added the finely chopped mint and herbs along with the vinegar
and vibrant green coloring. She managed to get slightly more
than a cup of sauce, and after pouring it into a jam jar, tucked it into the back of the refrigerator.
Later, they got ready for the dinner party in silence, both of
them seemingly lost in thought. At the last minute, Nellie
switched her shoes, preferring a higher heel with the dress she’d
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chosen. Richard wasn’t pleased, his mouth taut, his hands
shoved into his pockets as he watched her slip on the heels. He
didn’t like her added height, as they would be nearly eye to eye
now. But he didn’t say anything, simply gestured for her to walk