ready to fall off the tree. When Helen came back to take the
plate from Martha, she told her she could manage fine and of‑
fered her a genuine, warm smile. Kitty rolled her eyes.
“Let me take it, Martha.” Nellie felt how taut Martha’s
pregnant belly was as she reached over her to take the plate. It was like she was carrying a tenpins bowling ball in there. “Would you
mind washing up the last of the dishes, Helen?”
“Why would she mind?” Kitty asked, answering before
Helen could. “That’s exactly why she’s here.” She cocked her
head and gave Helen a pointed smile— part condescension and
part amusement.
Helen retreated to the kitchen, and Nellie said, “Kitty, was
that necessary?”
“What?” Kitty set her purse on the long table at the
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entrance of the living room. She held a notepad in her hands.
“She’s your girl! She’s here to help you. ”
Martha nodded but said nothing, and Nellie resisted saying
anything further as she ushered them into the living room,
where Helen had set up jugs of iced tea and lemonade, along
with the sandwiches and cooling chocolate cookies.
“Oh, I love your boiled chocolate cookies,” Martha said,
looking enviously at the tray on the sideboard. “But I can barely
fit a sip of water in here these days.” She rubbed a hand over her
bulging stomach.
“How much longer now?” Nellie asked, pouring iced tea as
they waited for the others to arrive. Out of all the women in her
church and neighborhood‑watch groups, Nellie was probably
closest to Martha, who was simple and kind and easy to spend
time with. But she was cautious about her friendships with the
wives, understanding the hierarchy. A wife yielded to her husband,
which meant whatever she shared with Martha or Kitty would
surely find its way back to Richard.
“Not long, God willing.” Martha shifted awkwardly on the
sofa— Nellie no longer sat on the sofa, after what Richard had
done to her there— and leaned against a pillow, her face contorting in a flash of pain. “I’m not sure how much longer I can last. The
back pain is terrible this time. It’s really quite unpleasant.” Martha already had one child, a boy named Arthur who was sweet and
soft‑ spoken, much like his mother.
Kitty raised her eyebrows but said nothing, thankfully. She
was mother to three, the youngest only thirteen months, but
had bounced back from pregnancy like it had never happened—
her body slim and her face unlined. She was only twenty‑ six, and the Goldmans had a live‑ in girl who helped with the children
and the home. Kitty focused on her charitable responsibilities to
the church and the neighborhood‑watch group, as well as hosting
Tupperware parties every chance she got.
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Nellie set a hand on Martha’s shoulder and handed her the
tea. “You look lovely, Martha. Pregnancy really suits you.”
Martha grinned, but it soon faded as she remembered Nel‑
lie’s recent miscarriage. “Oh, leave it to me to complain about
such a miraculous thing.” She gave Nellie a sad smile. “I’m
sorry. It’s quite thoughtless of me, Nellie, with what you’ve
been through.”
“Good grief, Martha,” Kitty said, her tone scolding, as though
she was speaking with one of her children. “I’m sure Nellie doesn’t need any such reminders.”
Martha looked pained, and Nellie offered a reassuring smile.
“It’s fine. Don’t you give it another thought.”
“You’re too kind, Nellie,” Martha replied, her relief pal‑
pable.
“You are,” Kitty said, somewhat under her breath, but clear
enough that they all heard it. Suddenly Kitty gasped.
“Nellie Murdoch, what is this?” Kitty stood at the small
writing table by the window. She spun around, holding a handbag,
her mouth open and her eyes wide.
“A gift from Richard,” Nellie replied keeping her voice even.
The Chanel 2.55 handbag, with its black, hand‑ stitched, butter‑
soft quilted leather, and gold chain strap, was a much‑ coveted
purse among Nellie’s circle of friends. It had been designed by
Coco Chanel herself.
“Oh my,” Martha said, slightly breathlessly. “It’s so lovely.”
Kitty walked back to her armchair still holding the bag. She
opened it without asking if she could, which Nellie found rude,
and fingered the interior’s red fabric. “It looks like you haven’t
even used it.” She looked up at Nellie. “Why on earth not? If
Charles gave me this bag I would wear it to bed!” She laughed
and Martha joined in.
Nellie shrugged. “I haven’t had the occasion yet.”
“Oh, sweetie. You don’t need an occasion. That’s the beauty
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of a bag like this.” Kitty slid the chain over one shoulder. “It
goes everywhere, with everything.”
“May I see it?” Martha asked.
“You have sticky tea on your hands,” Kitty said, and Martha
self‑ consciously wiped her hands on the napkin. Kitty sighed
impatiently as she watched her, holding the bag out of reach.
“Do tell,” Kitty said, reluctantly passing the purse to Martha.
“Is it your anniversary?”
Nellie paused, and was grateful for the doorbell’s ring. “Oh,
looks like everyone’s arriving,” she said, rising and moving toward the door with only a slight limp. “Why don’t you help yourselves
to some sandwiches? I’ll be right back.”
Soon her living room was full of women, chattering about
mundane neighborhood issues such as someone’s lawn not being
trimmed often enough, and a barking dog keeping children up at
night, and the safety of a particular crumbling section of sidewalk.
Nellie sipped her tea and participated in the conversation only
when directly asked something, unable to take her eyes off the
Chanel purse Kitty had left in plain sight for all the women to
fawn over. As they swooned and told her they wished their hus‑
bands could be more like Richard, she smiled politely and
thought about the reason for his extravagant gift. Her reward.
Nellie was pregnant.
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28
q
After you marry him— study him. If he is secretive— trust him.
When he is talkative— listen to him. If he is jealous— cure him.
If he favours society— accompany him. Let him think you un-
derstand him— but never let him think you manage him.
— Western Gazette (August 1, 1930)
Alice
August 12, 2
018
N ate was inside stripping the last of the wallpaper in the third bedroom, which he continued to refer to as “the nursery.” He’d
insisted Alice get out of the house, was worried about the fumes
from the heavy‑ duty glue stripper. “What if you’re already
pregnant?” he asked when she protested, saying if they worked on
it together it would be done much faster.
“I’m not.” She laid a sheet over the narrow bed, which they’d
moved to the center of the room. The bedroom wasn’t large and
she had barely enough clearance to walk past the ladder Nate was
setting up against one wall. Though it was Sunday, Alice had yet
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it, she thought as she straightened the sheet so it was even on all sides. Nate, I’m not ready for a nursery.
“How do you know?” Nate pulled a mask over his head, set‑
tling it temporarily against his Adam’s apple. Then he opened
the window as wide as it would go, stuck a paint stir stick in to
keep it propped open. She knew he was thinking about Tuesday.
It’s day twelve, babe. He’d come home earlier than normal that night and her guilt had softened her resolve. Besides, it didn’t
matter . . . she wouldn’t get pregnant. “I’ll feel guilty forever if our kid comes out with eleven toes.”
“You shouldn’t joke about that,” she said, to which he re‑
plied, “I’m not!”
Nate was adamant, even when she offered to wear two masks,
suggesting she tackle the weeds instead. So, while Nate set to
work on the wallpaper, Alice toiled in the back garden. She was
soon hot and dirty, her muscles screaming for a rest. Though
she’d only been at it for about an hour, Alice decided she deserved a break, and settled into one of the garden chairs with the second
stack of Nellie’s letters.
She was trying to like gardening, or at least appreciate its ben‑
efits, but was more interested in Nellie’s letters than she ever
would be in weeding. Especially since she’d abandoned her first
idea— did the world really need another Devil Wears Prada? So, she needed to dedicate time to the letters and the magazines be‑
cause if she couldn’t get traction on the writing, at least she could research, thanks to Nellie Murdoch. Alice unwrapped the elastic
from the stack and opened the delicate folds of the top letter.
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From the desk of Eleanor Murdoch
August 30, 1956
Dearest Mother,
I miss you terribly. It feels like far too long since
we’ve seen each other, but I will visit soon. Once my
ankle fully heals and I can find some time to get away
for a few days. The business continues keeping Richard
busy— who knew chewing gum could be so time-
consuming?— so I do need to be here right now.
Speaking of my ankle, it has improved greatly and I’m
up and about more easily these days. My garden isn’t
doing as well as my leg, I’m sorry to say, but thankfully
a neighborhood boy has been helping with the weeding
and pruning. The hostas are, as usual, taking over like
the bullies they are, but my roses continue to do well. I
will bring you some when I come next.
I have some news to share, Mother. I’m expecting.
Alice sat up straight and reread the line. Nellie was pregnant?
But what happened to the Murdochs being childless?
I’m feeling well, and so far, pregnancy seems to agree
with me. Richard is over the moon, as you can imagine.
It did come as a surprise, and I must tell you . . .
“Whatcha reading?”
Alice jumped in her seat, the letter falling to the grass below.
The bottle of water she’d been holding in her other hand slipped,
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drenching the letter at her feet as the liquid glugged from the
bottle.
“Shit!” Alice quickly retrieved the sopping pages, hoping
they weren’t ruined. Too late— the old paper was no match for
the washing it had been given, and the ink was blurred. “Shit,”
she said again.
“Sorry.” Nate glanced at the soggy paper in Alice’s hand. He
tilted his ball cap so the peak shaded his eyes to the sun. He had
red indentations under each eye and on the bridge of his nose,
where the mask had pinched his skin. “Was that important?”
“Not really,” Alice mumbled, laying the paper on the table.
Some of the ink had transferred to her fingers and she rubbed
them against her denim shorts.
Nate perused the garden beds, the few small piles of weeds.
“Taking a break already?”
“I was doing some research.”
“Right,” he said, sitting in the chair beside her. He gestured
to the pile of letters on the table. “Is this it?”
“Yeah. The letters I told you about the other morning. The
ones Nellie wrote to her mother, in the fifties? Sally gave them
to me.”
out his legs. “So how’s the garden? Where are we at?”
Alice bristled at the “we,” because Nate had yet to do any‑
thing in the garden. But he was tackling plenty of unpleasant
tasks inside the house. Plus, he left every morning at seven and
wasn’t home much before eleven most nights so they could afford
the house and everything that came with it. The least she could
do, she reminded herself, was to pull the damn weeds without
complaint. “Turns out gardening is actually weeding. Endless
weeding.” She sighed, placed the elastic back around the re‑
maining letters. “How’s the wallpaper removal going?”
“Slow. There’s a lot of it to get off.” He leaned forward,
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moved to get up. “Can I help? I’m feeling a bit high from the
glue remover. Could use some fresh air.”
“Sure,” Alice said, grabbing her gloves and following Nate
to the garden. He stood with hands on hips, lips pursed as he
glanced around.
“What’s next?”
“Honestly, I’m still not sure what’s a plant and what’s a weed.
So maybe let’s pull the stuff that looks like it doesn’t belong? Like these.” She crouched in front of a small patch of dandelion.
“These I know are weeds. Want gloves?”
“Nah, I’m good.”
Alice took the spade and dug around one of the dandelion’s
roots, lifting it out with a large chunk of dirt attached. She shook it to release the earth and tossed the weed onto the lawn behind
her. Nate stepped to the right and started moving some of the
large hosta leaves to t
he side so he could look for more dande‑
lions. Alice was focused on getting the spade deep enough to
avoid cutting the root too high, like Sally had showed her, when
Nate said, “These are nice. What are they?”
Nate stood beside one of the foxglove plants, reaching toward
the flowers. “Don’t touch that!” Alice exclaimed.
He jerked his hand back. “Why not?”
“That’s foxglove. Sally told me it’s poisonous.”
Nate rubbed his hand quickly on his shorts and looked back
to the plant, the flowers sprouting like hanging bells along the
length of the thick green stalk. “What do you mean, ‘poi‑
sonous’?”
“What I mean is, you shouldn’t touch it with your bare
hands.” Alice tossed the dandelion to the side.
Nate’s hands were back on his hips as he looked between the
plant and Alice. “We have a poisonous flower in our garden?
Like, how poisonous are we talking?”
“Sally said it can cause heart problems. Apparently, it’s used
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to make some sort of heart medication, but the whole thing—
stem, flowers, seeds— toxic.”
He walked the length of the garden, murmuring under his
breath, and turned back to Alice with wide eyes. “Jesus. Ali. It’s all over the place. ” There were three bunches of the foxglove plant, which to Alice hardly constituted “all over the place.”
Nate’s mouth tightened and he held out a hand. “Give me your
gloves.”
“Why?”
“Ali, gloves.” Alice took off her gloves and handed them to
Nate. He put them on, though they were small, and grabbed the
garden shears Alice used for pruning. In one quick motion, he
sliced right through a foxglove stem, near the bottom, and it fell
sideways. He picked it up with the too‑ small gloves and tossed it on the pile of weeds.
“What are you doing?” Alice watched him repeat the process
on the next stalk of foxglove. “Those are one of the few things
the deer won’t eat! And now there’s going to be empty holes in
the garden. What can we plant there now? Summer’s half over.”
She had little appreciation for this garden but felt a strange re‑
sponsibility to take care of something Nellie had nurtured and