“Iced tea,” Helen said, and Miriam nodded. “Sounds perfect,
thank you, Helen.”
Soon they each had a fresh glass of ice‑ cold tea and a slice of
Miriam’s coffee cake, which she’d brought with her, and they dis‑
cussed the weather (the sun was supposed to make an appearance
at some point) and what to do about a recent explosion of voles—
furry little rodents that feasted on succulent roots, bulbs, and
especially grass— that had left unsightly bare patches crisscrossing Miriam’s lawn. Eventually the front door shut when Helen left for
town, the two women finally alone.
Miriam took a sip from her glass before placing it on a coaster.
“So how are things today, dear?”
“I can’t complain,” Nellie replied. “Richard has been keeping
himself . . . busy.” She didn’t specify with what, or with whom.
“Well, I suppose that’s a blessing, isn’t it?” Miriam said.
Nellie murmured that it was, strangely thankful to Richard’s
secretary, Jane, who was keeping him occupied— the how and
the what irrelevant now.
“Are you still able to help me with my herbs today?” Nellie
asked.
“I’d be delighted. Lord knows you’ve helped me plenty.”
“I promise it won’t be too taxing on those hands of yours.”
“My hands are perfectly fine,” Miriam replied. Nellie knew
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that wasn’t true, but she wouldn’t have asked for her friend’s as‑
sistance if she was able to do it herself.
“On that note, I think it’s time to get to work,” Miriam
said, slapping her palms against her skirted thighs. “Tell me
what to do.”
“Oh, there’s one other small thing.” Nellie retrieved the en‑
velope from the front of the magazine. “Would you take this
for me?”
“Same as the others?”
“Yes, please,” Nellie said, and Miriam tucked the envelope
into her purse. Nellie was grateful for Miriam’s endlessly sup‑
portive presence. The older woman never asked questions Nellie
couldn’t bear to answer, understanding that some things were
better left unsaid. Despite their age difference, Miriam was Nel‑
lie’s most trusted friend.
“Now, is everything in the kitchen?” Miriam asked.
“Yes. The herbs are wrapped in a newsprint bundle on top
of the refrigerator. Are you all right on a step stool?” Miriam
assured her she was. “You need to pull off the dried leaves and
seed pods and put them in the mixing bowl. There’s a pestle in
the top drawer beside the sink, and two glass shakers on the
countertop to store the herbs in once they’ve been crushed. But
I can help with that part. My arms aren’t broken.”
But Miriam wouldn’t hear of it. “Nellie, you stay put. Rest
while you’re able, dear. I may be old and a touch rickety, but I
most certainly can crush a few herbs.”
“Thank you, Miriam. And don’t forget to use the rubber
gloves,” Nellie added. “Some of those stems are rough, and I’d
hate for you to nick yourself. There’s a set hanging over the
faucet.”
“You just lie back and relax.” Miriam tutted, patting Nellie’s
good leg. “I’ll have this done in a jiffy, and afterward we’ll finish our chat and cake. Sound good?”
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“Sounds good.” Nellie smiled. “I’ve left the recipe inside my
mother’s cookbook, behind the cover. And would you tuck it
back inside when you’re done? It’s an old family recipe and I’d
like to keep it between us, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course,” Miriam replied, giving a wink. “Every woman
needs a good secret or two.”
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23
q
Serving something new? It’s a good idea to try the recipe first.
Unless you know your guests well, it’s best not to serve anything
that’s too unusual. As a rule, men like simple food and women
take to “something different.”
— Better Homes & Gardens Holiday Cook Book (1959)
Alice
July 14, 2018
S till in a time warp, I see.” Bronwyn fingered a fraying edge of the kitchen’s floral wallpaper and crinkled her nose, taking in
the peach‑ hued cabinets, ancient fridge, and chrome‑ legged Formica table. “I thought you’d have it done by now. Actually,
I thought you’d be back in the city already. Aren’t you losing
your mind out here?” She clutched Alice’s elbow. “Come back.
Please, Ali.”
Alice smiled at Bronwyn’s plea, continued stirring the sauce,
and double‑ checked the recipe. “I miss you too.” She added the
peas, cubed cooked chicken, egg, and onion juice. She had never
“juiced” an onion before and had no intentions of doing it
again. Her eyes had only just stopped watering half an hour
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before Bronwyn and her boyfriend, Darren, arrived. “And I
know it’s hard to believe, but it’s okay out here. Different, but
not in a bad way.”
Bronwyn groaned, leaning against the tattered wallpaper
with flair. “God, we’ve lost you. I told Darren I was worried
you’d change. That the suburbs would take you prisoner and
that would be that. The end. ” Alice bristled at Bronwyn’s as‑
sessment, yet couldn’t bring herself to admit that was precisely
how she felt, at times.
“I’m hardly a prisoner, Bron.” Alice rolled her eyes, gave a
short laugh. “I just think I’ve finally figured out this ‘adulting’
thing.” To be fair, Bronwyn’s decision to live in Manhattan and
work more hours a week than she slept was no less adult than
Alice transforming into a suburban housewife and part‑ time
novelist.
Bronwyn huffed, mumbling something about “adulting”
being overrated, then got distracted by a purse hanging over
one of the chairs. She whistled, ran her fingers along the quilted
black leather. “Where did you get this?” she asked, slipping the
gold chain strap over her shoulder and striking a pose.
“It was in one of those boxes I found in the basement. The
previous owner’s old stuff.” Along with the purse Alice had also
uncovered a dainty gold watch that still worked when she wound
it, and a mother‑ of‑ pearl hollow tube that, thanks to Google,
she’d learned was an antique cigarette holder.
“Ali, this is an original Chanel 2.55. Like, the real deal.
Coco Chanel designed it herself.”
Whereas Alice was somewhat indifferent when it came to
fashion, Bronwyn was a connoisseur; she slept on a Murphy bed
&n
bsp; in the living room of her small apartment so she could turn her
bedroom into a giant closet. “I figured you’d know,” Alice said,
glad they had shifted to a less onerous topic of conversation.
“That’s why I left it out for you.”
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“Damn. This is gorgeous.” Bronwyn hummed lightly as she
sashayed from side to side, the bag swinging against her hip.
“So why is it called ‘2.55’?”
“It’s the bag’s birthday. First made in February 1955. Hand
stitched too. And this one looks like it’s never been used.”
Bronwyn opened the flaps, peered inside. Sighed with longing.
“Whoever owned this— what was her name again?”
“Nellie. Nellie Murdoch.”
“Right. Well, Nellie Murdoch may not have had great taste
in kitchen decor, but her choice of handbags was flawless.”
“It’s yours if you want it.” Alice licked a drip of sauce from
her finger.
“What? No. No way, lady. I mean, yes, I want it. But you do
not give away a vintage Chanel 2.55, Alice Hale. No.” Bronwyn took the purse from her shoulder and set it on the table,
touching the stitching with envious fingers one last time. “But
It’s a crime to keep a bag like this in a dark basement. Or on
such an ugly table.”
Alice laughed and promised to give the purse a “good time.”
“Did you also find that outfit in your magical basement box
of treasures?” Bronwyn gestured to the full circle skirt of Alice’s vintage pale pink cocktail dress. “I have to say, I’m loving this
look on you. Especially those.” She pointed to Alice’s stockings.
Alice’s retro stockings were nude, with a black seam snaking
down the back that ended in a bow at the top of her heel. She’d
bought the stockings, dress, and simple glass‑ bead necklace at a
vintage shop in Scarsdale and had added a pair of glossy red
heels from her publicist days to complete the look. Alice turned
and raised one leg, looking at the stocking seam and bow. “I do
sort of love these,” she said. “But can I still be a feminist if I
wear pantyhose?”
“Hey, if you like wearing them, then you bet.” Bronwyn
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smirked. “Nate’s gonna like taking those babies off later. With his teeth. ” She wiggled her eyebrows, and Alice laughed easily.
She really had missed Bronwyn— the closest thing Alice had to
a friend in Greenville was Sally— and the deep bite of home‑
sickness gripped her.
“So, speaking of significant others . . . how’s it going with
Darren?” Alice asked. Nate had Darren on a tour of the house,
where he was surely peppering Bronwyn’s newish, architect boy‑
friend with questions about the renovations. “Nate’s probably
holding him hostage upstairs, forcing him to determine which
walls are load‑bearing and which ones we could take the sledge‑
hammer to.”
“Darren lives for that shit.” Bronwyn pulled out a chair and
sat cross‑ legged in her slim black pants, which she’d paired with an off‑ white lace top. “He’d move us out here in a second. Into
a house that would slowly suck out my life force, one wallpa‑
pered room at a time.” She pointedly looked around the kitchen,
frown in place, which Alice chose to ignore.
“Moving in, huh? Sounds like things are going well?”
“Ali, you know how I feel about sharing closet space— I don’t.”
Bronwyn twirled her wineglass between her fingers, a small smile
taking shape. “But he’s okay.”
“You know, there’s a house for sale down the block. Loads
of wallpaper. I’ll make sure to mention it to Darren at dinner.”
Bronwyn swatted at her. “Don’t you dare. I told you, I’m
never leaving the island.” She picked up a potato chip from
the bowl and held it over a glass dip dish on the table. “What’s
this?”
“It’s called ‘Hollywood Dunk.’ An appetizer from the fifties.”
Bronwyn dipped the chip into the white creamy spread
speck led with green dots and popped it in her mouth. She chewed
slowly, her face moving through a variety of expressions— none of
them good.
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“Yeah, I know.” Alice laughed as she watched her best friend
try to get the chip and dip down.
A giant swig of wine later, Bronwyn sputtered, “What’s in
that?”
“Deviled ham. Chives. Onion. Horseradish.”
Bronwyn stared at her, mouthed, Deviled ham?
“It’s chopped up deli ham mixed with mayonnaise, mustard,
hot pepper sauce, and salt and pepper, and then you blend it a bit.
Then you add the chives, onion, and horseradish. Oh, and the
last thing is whipped cream. Can’t forget that,” Alice added.
“Why would you make this? To eat? ” Bronwyn pressed a
napkin to her lips and squeezed her eyes shut. “Whipped cream
and ham should never mingle. Never ever, never.”
Alice placed the still‑ full dip dish in the sink. “Agreed. That’s why it wasn’t out. I was curious, but it’s disgusting.”
“Thanks for the warning,” Bronwyn murmured, now drink ing
wine directly from the bottle.
“You didn’t give me a chance!” Alice replied.
“I was hungry. I’ve been on a stupid juice cleanse,” Bronwyn
“You’re lucky I didn’t serve the bananas wrapped in ham,
baked with hollandaise sauce on top.”
Bronwyn made a retching sound and took another swig of
wine. Then she rested her chin on the bottle’s top. “Did I
mention I’ve missed you?”
“Me too, Bron.” She used to share everything with Bronwyn.
But lately there was more her best friend didn’t know— about the
lawsuit, her frustrations with Nate and his schedule, her inability to write, how she missed her old job so much some days she had
a hard time dragging herself out of bed. Bronwyn tried, re‑
sponding to texts when she could, promising catch‑ up calls that
didn’t materialize, but the chasm seemed to widen with each
passing week.
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“I know you said it isn’t so bad, but are you happy out
here, Ali?”
Alice considered the question. “I’m, like, seventy percent
happy.”
“And the other thirty percent?”
“Lonely, bored, certain I’ve made a big fucking mistake.
Ten percent each.”
Bronwyn snorted. “Hey, that’s not so bad.” She refilled Al‑
ice’s wineglass. “
Here’s to your seventy percent suburban hap‑
piness, even if it has you making revolting dips to feed to your
city friends.”
After they’d finished their meal, which was well received by all,
the group settled into the living room to have dessert. Alice was
full and too warm from the wine, but she felt relaxed and
pleased with the success of her first dinner party.
“This has been great, you guys. Except for that Hollywood
Dunk crap.” Bronwyn shuddered, and Alice laughed, handing
her a slice of chocolate cake.
“Thanks for coming all the way out here,” Alice replied,
cutting a last sliver of cake for herself. “It has been way too long since we’ve hung out.”
“I know! I can’t believe I haven’t seen you in, like, almost two
months.” Bronwyn and Alice used to have a standing Tuesday‑
night drinks‑and‑dinner date, and rarely went two days without
talking. “Wait. Has it actually been two whole months?”
“Not that long,” Nate said, pressing his fork’s tines into the
cake. “You guys went to Trattoria Dell’Arte, what, like three or
four weeks ago?” He popped the morsel of cake in his mouth
and looked at Alice for confirmation. Fluttery panic filled her
belly.
“Right. That was only a few weeks ago.” Alice locked eyes
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with Bronwyn, who paused to take a sip from her wine. “I’d
forgotten about that.”
“Yeah, me too,” Bronwyn said slowly. “It feels like longer.
Doesn’t it, Ali?”
“It really does,” Alice replied, a flush filling her cheeks.
Bronwyn gave her a quizzical look, and Alice stood quickly. “Who
wants coffee?”
Nate gently pressed her shoulders, forcing her back to the
couch. “You stay put. Enjoy your cake. I’ll get it,” he said.
“Can I help?” Darren asked.
“Sure,” Nate replied. “I can pick your brain about the
kitchen.”
Once the two men left the room Bronwyn turned on Alice.
“Okay. So why did we go to Trattoria for lunch when we didn’t
go to Trattoria for lunch?”
Alice sighed. “I’ll fill you in later.”
“Why not now?” Bronwyn asked, topping up her wineglass.
“Darren is long‑ winded when it comes to renovations. Those
two won’t be back for ages.”