waiting. Career ambitions aside (though his would be unencum‑
bered by a pregnancy), they could focus on making the house
safer for a baby, without eliminating its vintage charm. Like, re‑
placing the wiring and removing the asbestos. Getting rid of the
lead paint on the non‑ wallpapered surfaces. Nate would surely
respond positively, if Alice framed the conversation properly.
“Baby blue and ancient appliances it is.” Nate rinsed his plate
and silverware in the sink, following suit with hers before putting them in the dishwasher. This small gesture, which she wouldn’t
have noticed in Murray Hill, felt meaningful to Alice, and an‑
other bubble of guilt bloomed. She would tell him over dinner—
she had to.
“Hate to eat and run, babe, but I have to go.” He bent to
kiss Alice. “Thanks for breakfast.”
“Hang on.” Alice opened the fridge and took out a reusable
bag. “Lunch.”
“You made me lunch, too?”
“Turkey and cheese croissant, chocolate chip cookies, and
an apple,” Alice said.
“Are you feeling okay?” He laughed, pretending to check
her temperature with the back of his hand against her forehead.
“Ha. Have to keep you on your toes, throw in a surprise
every now and then.” Alice playfully pushed him toward the
front door. “Now, go, before you miss your train. Hope you
have a good day.”
Nate kissed her again, more deeply this time. “You too.
Hope you get lots of words written.”
“Thanks. Going to start right after I clean up.”
He pulled her close. “I don’t know if I said this, but you
look beautiful. Lipstick and stockings for breakfast may be my
new favorite thing.”
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“Even better than bacon and eggs and freshly squeezed
orange juice?”
“Yes.” Nate ran his hand along her side and tucked it up
under her sundress’s skirt, letting his fingers slide the length of her stocking‑ covered inner thigh as he pressed her against their
front door. “I wasn’t expecting to see you this morning. But I’m
happy I did.”
“I can tell . . .” Alice’s breath caught and she felt a warmth
between her legs. It had been longer than usual since they’d had
sex— Nate’s schedule meant they were rarely awake and available
at the same time.
“And your timing couldn’t be better,” he said, his lips grazing
her jaw. “You know what day it is, right?”
“ Uh . . .” She was having trouble concentrating. “Tuesday?”
He nuzzled her ear, whispered, “Day twelve, babe.”
Alice pressed her eyes closed, her body tightening reflex‑
ively. She grew cold and uncomfortable in her center, like she’d
swallowed an ice cube whole. But Nate didn’t seem to notice
the shift, crouching as he rolled her stockings down her legs,
grinning up at her. Commenting how he was planning to save
this for tonight, but, well, here they were . . .
She watched him as though observing the scene from a dis‑
tance. Considered her part in all of this. If she’d been honest with him weeks ago, this day would be just another Tuesday. Yet Alice
wondered . . . did other husbands track their wives’ cycles with
such precision when they weren’t asked to? Was it fair to feel ma‑
nipulated by Nate, even though she was guilty of much the same?
Alice reached down and stayed Nate’s hands. “You’ll miss
your train,” she murmured, gently pulling him back to standing.
Her stockings were in a ball at their feet— later she’d have to
throw them out, realizing Nate had ripped the seam.
He gave a ragged sigh, pressed his forehead to hers. “Damn
train.”
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“I know.” Alice smiled, then stepped out of his embrace to
open the front door. “Besides, it’s not as much fun if we need to
rush.” A breeze wafted under her skirt, reminding her she had
no underwear on.
“You’re right.” Nate took one last, longing glance at her
outfit as he snapped on his bike helmet. “Maybe stay like that
until I get home?”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Alice replied, though she was quite
certain she’d be asleep in pajamas by that time.
Alice cleaned up from breakfast and poured another coffee.
She’d just opened her laptop when her phone rang. Thinking
it was likely her mom— she was the only person who called,
typically— Alice ignored it. But then her phone buzzed with a
text, and she glanced down.
Can you chat?
Three little dots wiggled below, then disappeared as Bronwyn
typed something else but didn’t send. Finally, a second line.
Call me. Need to chat!
Concerned, Alice dialed Bronwyn’s number. The last in‑
depth conversation they’d had was a few weeks earlier, when
Alice had filled her in on the lawsuit fiasco story, after which
Bronwyn had texted her a dozen high‑ five emoticons and the
words, Queen Bitch: 0, Alice Hale: 1. There had been a smattering
of texts back and forth since, but Bronwyn was swamped with a
new project and relatively absent.
“Hey,” Alice said, when her friend answered. “Everything
okay?”
“Hey! Yes. All good.”
“What’s up?”
“Do you have a sec?” Bronwyn asked.
“At least one.” Alice pushed back from the desk and sat on
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the more comfortable sofa, sipping her now lukewarm coffee.
“Though I am a very busy writer, you know.”
“Right. Right.” Bronwyn was distracted. There was a long
pause; only the sound of traffic was audible.
Alice frowned. “Are you sure everything is okay?”
“Hang on.” Bronwyn’s voice was muffled, but Alice heard
her greet someone. “Sorry, getting into my Uber.”
“No problem. And good timing. I also need to talk to you
about something— ”
“I got married.”
“Ha, ha, very funny,” Alice said.
“I’m serious, Ali. I’m married.” Stunned silence from Alice’s
end; honks and traffic sounds, and then an excited squeal from
Bronwyn’s, followed by, “Can you believe it?”
“What? To who?” Alice shot up off the couch, knocking the
coffee table. Her mug teetered on the edge and Alice caught it
before it fell, but not before it spilled all over the rug.
“To Darren, obviously! I had a conference in Vegas and
Darren came with me because he’s never been and he has this
weird thing for Céline Dion— did I tell you he’s half‑ Canadian?
His mom is from Montreal, and she met his dad and they moved
to Connecticut and he was born t
here.” Bronwyn paused to
take a breath. “Anyway, his mom was a big Céline fan— he
pronounces her name like, Cé- lin, which I guess is how they say it in French? Or in Canada? Anyway, he used to listen to
her growing up, and I don’t know. You love what you love,
right?”
Bronwyn, married? Bronwyn, who believed marriage was
okay, for other people. Who ended relationships at the two‑ month mark because that was when things shifted from casual to mean‑
ingful. Who swore to Alice she would “never, ever, never” get
married, and who had joked that Alice’s own wedding had re‑
quired her to double up on her Xanax.
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“It was totally spontaneous. Oh my God, it was so sponta‑
neous. Like, one second we were gambling and the next the
Elvis dude was pronouncing us husband and wife. Oh my God,
Ali, I’m married. ”
Alice sat down on the rug, beside the coffee stain. “Are you
pregnant?”
Bronwyn laughed. “Fuck you! No, I am not pregnant. God.
You’re worse than my mother. I mean, I wouldn’t even get married
just because I was pregnant. We aren’t our grandmothers.”
Alice put a hand to her forehead, took a deep breath. “I’m
sorry. That was . . . I didn’t mean for it to come out like that.
You caught me off guard.”
“I know. It’s shocking, right? Me, married?” Bronwyn sounded
jittery, like she’d had too many espressos that morning. “The only
person I’ve promised forever to is my waxer, Zara, because, hon‑
estly, that’s the most intimate relationship— ”
“Wait. When did this happen?” Alice thought back to the
last time she’d seen Bronwyn, three weeks earlier.
“Oh, um, on the weekend.”
“ But . . . it’s Tuesday. Why didn’t you call me, like, right
away?”
“I did!” Bronwyn replied, somewhat defensively. Alice was
sure she’d have noticed a call from Bronwyn. It wasn’t as though
her days were busy. “But you didn’t pick up and I didn’t want to
leave a message and I had to go to Boston for meetings yes‑
terday and, well, I’m calling you now.
“Look, I know it seems crazy. We’ve only been together for
a few months, but I really think this is it. I mean, everyone is
getting married. And coming out there that weekend, well, it
got me thinking. Like, life is short, you know? And if I only
focus on my career, what am I missing out on? I don’t want to
wake up in five years successful but still single while everyone
else has moved on.”
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“So, wait . . . you got married because of fear of missing
out?” Alice snorted, couldn’t help herself. “Talk about being a millennial cliché, Bron.”
Now there was silence from Bronwyn’s end.
“You must hear how nuts that sounds.” Alice pressed on.
“It’s not like deciding to get your eyebrows microbladed be‑
cause you don’t want to be the only thin‑ eyebrowed woman left
in Manhattan.” She tried to bring her voice down to a less
screechy level. “It’s a commitment for life, Bronwyn. Like, ’til death do us part.”
“Look, not everyone gets your fairy‑ tale meet‑ cute, okay?
We don’t all find a Nate running in Central Park, Ali. Some of
us say yes to a great guy who, sure, we may not have known
forever but we definitely love. And then we cross our fingers.”
Bronwyn exhaled, then added, more softly, “You don’t know
how lucky you are.”
“Bronwyn, I’m sorry. I really like Darren, I do, it’s just
that— ”
“It feels right when I’m with him. Like, I couldn’t imagine
not being with him. I thought you of all people would under‑
stand that,” Bronwyn said. “I thought you’d be happy for
me, Ali.”
“I am. I am!” Alice wished she could back up ten minutes
and have a completely different reaction to her best friend’s
news.
“Listen, I have to go. I’m almost at my meeting.”
“Um, okay. Can we chat more later?” Alice said in a rush,
feeling upended. “And, hey, congratulations. Sorry. I really should have started with that.”
“Yeah, okay.” Bronwyn paused, then: “Bye, Ali.”
Alice debated calling back but knew Bronwyn likely wouldn’t
pick up. She wouldn’t if she were her. Instead, she riffled through the desk drawer with shaking fingers and pulled out the cigarette
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pack, unwrapping the plastic casing. In the kitchen, Alice took
the matches Nate used to light the barbecue and perched on the
countertop facing the window, which she opened wide. She was
about to strike the match when she remembered the antique
mother‑ of‑ pearl cigarette holder in the back of her desk.
Alice broke the first cigarette trying to use the holder but
managed the second one fine. She placed the tip in her mouth and
set the flame to the cigarette’s end. She imagined Nellie smoking
the cigarette holder tight between her fingers, blowing lazy circles of smoke out the very same window.
Taking in a deep, smoke‑ heavy breath, Alice coughed
hard, tears pooling in her eyes. Pulling in another drag, light‑
headed now, Alice blew it out through the screen, though
some wafted past her and into the kitchen with the breeze.
She finished the cigarette quickly, nauseated yet clearheaded
from the nicotine, and had two distinct thoughts: one, she was
a terrible friend who had no right to judge anyone’s marriage,
especially after her recent actions within her own; and two,
maybe Bronwyn had the right idea. Perhaps marriage should be spontaneous, based more on feeling than on thinking. Maybe
the harder someone worked to create a perfect union, the more
power one gave the institution of marriage, rather than the re‑
lationship itself, which is where the focus should be.
Shortly after they moved to California, preteen Alice had
asked Jaclyn when she was going to marry Steve. Alice’s father
and Jaclyn had never officially married, living as common‑ law
spouses through their tumultuous decade‑ long relationship, and
Alice desperately wanted her mother to wear a wedding band so
she was more like the other moms. Commit officially this time,
so Steve wouldn’t leave them and they wouldn’t have to move
again.
Jaclyn had cupped Alice’s little chin in her palm and gave
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her a quite serious look. “Alice, there are plenty of re
asons to
marry that have nothing to do with love. And you can be head
over heels in love and not get married. But no matter what, you should never marry someone unless you believe you’ll die— one
way or another— without that person. They should feel more
important to you than oxygen. Otherwise you’ll suffocate, one
damn anniversary at a time.”
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27
q
Nellie
August 28, 1956
Boiled Chocolate Cookie
2 cups granulated sugar
1⁄ 2 cup milk
1⁄ 2 cup cocoa
1 tablespoon butter
2 cups quick oats
1 cup coconut
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
Boil sugar, milk, cocoa, and butter for five minutes. Remove from
heat. Add oats, coconut, and vanilla and, working quickly, stir well and drop by spoonful onto waxed paper. Let cool.
T he cookies were cooling, and Nellie had finished placing the salmon and dill‑ pickle roll sandwiches on a serving tray when her first two guests— Kitty Goldman and Martha Graves— arrived, 198
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both never a moment late for anything. Helen answered the
door, and Nellie heard Kitty first. “These are ready for the table, right in the center if you don’t mind. Oh, careful there. You
should probably use two hands. That tray was my mother’s.
Quite priceless. ” She emphasized the last part in a theatrical whisper, and Nellie chuckled at Kitty’s dramatics as she hung her
apron. “Nellie! We’re here!”
It was their monthly neighborhood‑watch meeting, and
while it was usually held at Kitty’s home— she was the group’s
president— she’d begrudgingly agreed to move it to Nellie’s place
this time, due to her injury. The cast had been off for almost two
weeks, but Nellie was still slow walking, her ankle stiff and her
leg emaciated from being imprisoned by plaster.
Nellie greeted the two women in the front hall as Helen
carried (carefully, with two hands and a small scowl on her face)
the plate of cookies and bars Kitty had brought. Martha, who
rested a plate of deviled eggs on her expansive belly, huffed as
she leaned in to kiss Nellie on the cheek. She was swollen and
ruddy‑ skinned with child and looked like an overripe plum,