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Alice doubted that— neither of them was particularly musically
inclined, and she was fairly certain, after listening to him sing in the shower for the past couple of years, that Nate was tone‑ deaf.
From the living room they entered the kitchen through a
rounded doorway. The kitchen, much like the rest of the house,
clearly hadn’t been updated for decades: peach cupboards; an an‑
cient fridge that was somehow still running, its hum like the roar
of a freight train; an oval Formica and chrome‑ legged table with
four robin’s‑ egg‑ blue chairs nestled into it set against the far wall.
There were still dishes stacked in the open corner cupboards—
the kind you’d find at thrift shops and antiques markets, opaque
white with flowers and swirls. The house was listed “as is,” mean ing it came with everything inside. They might be able to get some
money for the dishes. They were vintage, after all.
“What’s this for?” Alice asked, pointing to a small rectangular
metal insert beside the sink. She lifted the lid and peered inside.
“Oh, that’s a garbage hatch,” Beverly said. “They were used
to hold vegetable peelings or to scrape off dishes after meals.” She opened the cupboard directly below, where a shallow pan—
rusting slightly in its corners— rested. “Then you would clean out this pan. It was really very handy, and every good kitchen used to
have one.”
“Smart,” Nate said, opening a few more drawers and cup‑
boards, finding such things as a metal cookbook holder behind
one door, hooks for pots and pans lining the back of another
cupboard, and a pullout board that Beverly explained used to be
a work surface for homemakers who wanted to sit while they
prepared food.
Nate was so engaged, so obviously excited, that Alice tried
to look past the state of things and see what this house could
become. Maybe it was exactly what they needed. Things had
been tense these past few months, which Alice accepted was
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entirely her doing. So she was the one who had to make the sac‑
rifice, even if it meant subscribing to a life that felt alien.
Perhaps she could throw her restless energy into making the
house a home, as Beverly kept saying. Strip away the “vintage”
wallpaper, though the thought made her want to weep because
there was so damn much of it. Knock down the walls separating
the rooms. Create one big open space so the light from the win‑
dows could stretch from front to back. As she tried to imagine
the positives, Nate whispered how great the front window would
be for writing. “Picture a bookshelf beside the desk to hold all
your novels, once they’re written.” Maybe. She could pivot. It had
always been one of her greatest skills and why Alice was typically
tasked with the most difficult clients at her firm. “All in, all the time” had been her mantra.
“I bet it’s a great neighborhood for jogging,” Nate said, no
doubt imagining the miles they could run together on the
weekends. Tick, tick, tick, she could almost see the boxes in Nate’s mind. Maybe she could get serious about jogging again, covering
miles on the quiet tree‑ lined streets, never worrying about getting hit by a car if she stepped off the sidewalk.
Beverly nodded with fervor. “Oh, there goes someone now,”
she said. They all looked out the living room’s front window at
a woman jogging past the house. The timing was so precise it
seemed the jogger might have been a Beverly plant.
“You were just saying how much you want to get back to
running,” Nate said. “At least until there’s a baby.” He placed a
hand on Alice’s stomach and gave a rub.
“Oh, are you expecting?” Beverly asked, a little gasp es‑
caping. Nothing like a kid on the way to add urgency, to make
the house seem better than it might have otherwise. “This is a
lovely neighborhood for young families. And we haven’t been
down there yet, but there’s a full‑ size washer and dryer in the
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basement, so when those mountains of baby laundry come you
won’t have to leave the house.”
“We are not expecting,” Alice replied. Quickly, firmly. She
was not pleased Nate brought it up, to a perfect stranger no less.
The state of her uterus was a private matter, and besides, they
had only recently agreed to start trying.
“Not yet,” Nate added by way of correction, giving one final
rub and a tap before taking his hand off Alice’s stomach, where
her T‑ shirt now clung to her middle in a most unflattering way.
Alice used to be easily thin, the ability to drop a size as simple as drinking green juice and coffee and eating nothing but bone
broth and watermelon for a week. Plus, work had been deli‑
ciously all‑consuming, offering no time to ingest enough calories
to soften her frame. But unemployment had done the trick. Nate
loved her new curves, told her women who are too thin have
trouble getting pregnant. When she’d asked where he’d heard
that, Nate said he couldn’t recall exactly. Alice suspected he had
a few pregnancy sites bookmarked— Nate Hale was noth ing if
not prepared.
“Do you work, Alice? Outside the home, I mean?” Alice was
offended by Beverly’s question, as though she appeared like
someone who lacked industriousness. I’m twenty- nine years old, she wanted to say, haughtily. Yes, I work. But that wasn’t true, not anymore. Her stomach clenched again, this time with a longing
like an itch she couldn’t scratch. She missed work; the pace, the
challenges, the paycheck . . . even the too‑ high heels, which she sometimes slipped on to walk around the apartment after Nate
left for work because they made her feel more like herself.
“I was in public relations, but I quit my job recently. To focus
on other things,” Alice replied.
“Ali’s writing a novel,” Nate said, and Alice resisted the urge
to shush him. If only he knew she hadn’t actually started the
novel. Or about what really happened with work.
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Beverly’s eyebrows rose at the mention of a novel, her mouth
forming a firm and round O. Alice imagined that Mr. Dixon, if
there was one, probably enjoyed that mouth quite a bit. “Well,
isn’t that fantastic,” Beverly said. “I wish I could write. But
grocery lists and real estate listings are about as far as my skills go.” She smiled wide— pink tooth on full display— and Nate
said he was exactly the same, would stick with his numbers and
charts.
“What’s it about? Your novel?
” Beverly asked.
“It’s, uh, about a young woman in public relations. Sort of
Devil Wears Prada– ish.”
“Oh, I loved that movie!” Beverly exclaimed.
“Anyway, I’m just in the beginning stages. We’ll see.” Alice
tucked a stray piece of hair behind her ear, wanting desperately
to change the subject.
“Ali doesn’t like to give too much away.” Nate rested his
hands on her shoulders and gave a gentle squeeze. “Writers need
to keep some secrets, right, babe?”
“Oh, of course,” Beverly said, head nodding emphatically.
“Now, should we head upstairs?”
“After you, ladies,” Nate replied, gesturing with his hand up
the staircase.
“So, a writer . . . how exciting, Alice. I for one love to read.”
The stairs creaked as Beverly stepped onto the first tread. She
looked back over her shoulder, holding tight to the railing.
The staircase was narrow and steep, requiring them to climb
single file.
“What do you like to read?” Alice asked.
“All sorts of books. Anything, really. Though police proce‑
durals are my favorite.”
Police procedurals. Huh. That was unexpected. Alice
looked out the window in the first bedroom they walked into
and at the house next door, which from this angle was partially
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obscured by the branches of a large tree. It seemed in decent
shape by comparison to the one they were considering making
their own.
“What can you tell us about the previous owner?” Alice asked.
They moved into the larger bedroom, where two single beds
were made, though only for show, it seemed. Slices of bare mat‑
tress poked out from where the simple coverlets hadn’t been
pulled down far enough. And the closets were empty when Alice
opened them, the night tables free of clutter, and the washroom
without toilet paper.
“The house has been empty for just over a year,” Beverly
replied.
“A year?” That further explained the lawn, the peeling front
door, the layers of dust, and the tomb‑ like feeling of the rooms, with their dark corners and long shadows and musty smells that
tickled Alice’s nose. The house felt abandoned, like someone
had gone out for milk decades ago and then simply decided not
to come back. “So why is it just now on the market?”
Beverly jangled her bracelets, cleared her throat. “The owner
passed away and left the house and her estate to her lawyer to
handle. She had no family, apparently.” She frowned, then
brightened. “That’s why it’s priced so well. It had been listed a bit higher earlier in the year, but no nibbles. So, back on the market
and in your price point. Which is fantastic!”
Even Alice, with zero knowledge of home improvements,
understood this house was in their price point because it would
be a major project. Probably new wiring, and likely plumbing,
too, along with asbestos removal if they did any significant ren‑
ovations, like taking down walls. Maybe they’d replace windows
when they could budget for it, to reduce the electricity bill. And
every square inch needed a facelift.
“Is there anything else we should know?” Alice asked.
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Nate bounced on one leg and the floor creaked under him.
“Floors are good,” he said. Alice glanced at the hardwood
under her feet as Nate continued to bounce. “Are they original?”
“I believe they were redone some years ago,” Beverly said,
opening her folder and running a finger down a sheet of paper
on the top of the pile. “Yes, here we go. New floors in 1985.”
“Still retro!” Nate said.
“So, anything else about the house, Beverly?” Alice asked,
ignoring Nate’s eagerness for the moment. “I would really hate
a surprise, especially with how much work we’re looking at.”
Nate, all smiles, looked at Beverly, certain there was nothing
more. He loved the house, wanted the house.
“I don’t need to disclose this, but you’re a lovely couple and I
can tell you’re keen, and, well . . . the previous owner, she . . . ” Bev‑
erly’s voice trailed as she tapped a glossy fingernail against the
folder, her brows knitting together. “Apparently she passed . . . in the house.” Beverly’s mouth turned down further; she wished to
get back to discussing vintage wallpaper and newish floors and
good bones and down payment options.
“Oh. In the house . . . What happened?” Alice asked.
“Cancer, I believe.” Beverly looked stricken, now worried
the Hales might be the type who would never buy a house with
that sort of history.
And that was exactly who they would be. Greenville, and
this house, didn’t suit Alice or Nate. She needed to get them
back to Manhattan— even if these days the city made her feel
like a failure. “I see.” Alice rubbed her hands up and down her
arms as though to dispel a chill. “That’s interesting. ” Her tone implying that by “interesting” she meant “concerning.”
“Again, it was some time ago now,” Beverly said, seeing her
commission flying out the leaded glass window in front of her.
“I’m not sure I’d call a year ‘some time ago,’ Beverly.” Alice
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frowned at their Realtor, her own lips turned down in mirrored
response.
“Well, to be honest, these days it would be hard to find one
of these old houses that didn’t have a similar history.”
Alice turned to Nate and gave another little shiver, lowering
her voice. “I don’t know, babe. It’s sort of creepy.”
“Is it?” Nate asked, looking from Alice to Beverly. “Creepy,
I mean? We’re not exactly superstitious. And like Beverly said, it
was over a year ago, so any ghost living here has likely upgraded
its accommodations.”
Beverly tittered and Nate chuckled and Alice knew her moment
was over.
Nate gave his wife a hopeful, questioning look, his expec‑
tation obvious. After Alice nodded (it was slight, but it counted), he turned to Beverly. “I think we’re interested. Very interested.”
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4
q
Nellie
July 19, 1955
Meat Loaf with Oatmeal
1 pound ground steak (round, flank, or hamburg)
1 cup Purity Rolled Oats
1 medium onion
11⁄ 2 teaspoons salt
1⁄ 8 teaspoon pepper
1 cup milk or water
1 egg, slightly beaten
Mix all ingredients, place in greased loaf tin, and bake in slow oven (300°F
) for 45 minutes. Serve hot or cold. One tin of concentrated
tomato soup is a pleasant addition to any meat loaf.
N ellie Murdoch buttoned her dungarees—which she wore only to garden because her husband, Richard, preferred her in skirts—
and tapped the Lucky’s white‑ and‑ red‑ foil cigarette package on 17
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the table against her hand. Sliding the slender cigarette into her
mother‑ of‑ pearl holder and lighting it, she sat in one of her new chairs— robin’s‑ egg blue, like cloudless summer skies— at the kitchen table and smoked, flipping through the latest Ladies’
Home Journal. Richard kept trying to get her to switch to gum (he’d inherited a chewing gum business from his father, the
original Richard Murdoch), or at least to a filtered cigarette, sug‑
gesting they were healthier. But Nellie hated all the lip smacking
that came with chewing gum and loved her Lucky cigarettes.
She liked how smoking changed her voice, made it a little huskier
and certainly more interesting when she sang. Nellie had a beau‑
tiful voice, though sadly the only time she used her gift was
at church, or in the bath, or to coax out flower petals. Filters
promised to remove throat irritation, as her doctor and the mag‑
azine advertisements told her, and Nellie wanted no part of that.
Picking a piece of errant tobacco off her tongue, Nellie stopped
at the “Can This Marriage Be Saved?” column in the magazine
and scanned the three points of view: the husband’s, the wife’s,
and the therapist’s. The husband, Gordon, was overwhelmed
with his financial responsibilities and irritated that his wife con‑
tinued spending money on things like expensive steak for dinner,
clearly not aware of his stress. The wife, Doris, felt ignored by her husband and his silent treatment and would cook him this ex‑
pensive steak to try to make him happy. Nellie shifted in her chair, crossed her legs, and drew deeply on her cigarette, imagining
what advice she would offer this couple who had been marinating
in marriage for more than a decade. One, she’d tell the wife to
quit cooking for a week and see how that helped her husband’s
stress. Two, she’d suggest to the husband he might try talking to
his wife rather than expect her to read his mind.