by Karma Brown
“It’s a long, complicated story.”
“Those are my favorite kind,” Bronwyn said, swinging her
feet up to rest on Alice’s lap.
Alice glanced toward the kitchen, then lowered her voice.
“It’s no big deal, but I had to go in and meet with Georgia, and
I didn’t want to tell Nate because, well, he’s got so much going
on with work and he doesn’t need anything else to worry about.”
“Why did Georgia want to meet with you?”
“Shhhh. Bronwyn, you can hear everything in this old house.”
Bronwyn cringed. “Sorry,” she whispered, leaned closer to
Alice. “But what did the Queen Bitch want?”
Alice paused. She could tell Bronwyn— should tell her. And she’d be happy to, actually, because Alice felt quite victorious
about how things had sorted themselves out. “It was James
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Dorian.” She spoke softly, and Bronwyn’s eyes widened. “There
was this lawsuit— ”
Darren popped his head back into the living room. “Hey,
Ali, where’s the sugar?”
“Um, in the right‑ hand cupboard. Bottom shelf,” Alice re‑
plied, her voice suddenly too loud.
“Thanks,” Darren said, retreating back to the kitchen.
Bronwyn grabbed Alice’s free hand. “What lawsuit?” she
hissed. “What the hell, Ali? Are you okay? Why didn’t you tell
me any of this?”
Alice only had time to tell Bronwyn the lawsuit had thank‑
fully been dropped— without going into detail— as a moment
later Nate and Darren were back with a tray of mugs, along with
the sugar and creamer. “Coffee will be ready momentarily,”
Nate said, putting the tray down. “So, what did we miss?”
Bronwyn looked at Alice, opened her mouth, then shut it.
Then put on a big smile and turned to Nate. “We were just dis‑
cussing opening another bottle of wine. It’s only eleven, which
is too soon for coffee, don’t you think?”
Darren shrugged and Nate said, “That works for me.”
“All righty, then.” Bronwyn pushed up from the couch,
taking a full bottle of wine from the stand by the dining room
table. “Shall I open this?”
“You shall,” said Alice, nodding affirmatively, grateful for
the reprieve.
Coffee forgotten and wineglasses full, conversation soon
turned back to the renovations, and Alice groaned and lay her
head back against the couch. “Nate, come on. Darren, what’s
your hourly rate? I think we’ve about maxed out on the free
advice at this point.”
Darren and Bronwyn smirked, and Nate looked appropri‑
ately sheepish. “I know, I know. Sorry,” he said. “But, Ali,
Darren had some great ideas for upstairs.” He perched on the
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edge of his chair. “Like putting in a Jack and Jill bathroom be‑
tween our room and the nursery. What do you think?”
“Nursery, huh?” Bronwyn asked, eyes locked on Alice.
“Our next little project,” Nate said, his grin wide, emphasis
on the word “little.” “I think barefoot and pregnant will look
good on Ali, don’t you guys agree?” He laughed, too hard, a bit
drunk, and Darren joined in. Until Bronwyn, who had quietly
uttered, “Oh boy . . . ,” at Nate’s terrible joke, gave her boy‑
friend a look, and it petered out.
Nate, sensing the joke hadn’t landed the way he’d hoped,
leaned forward and kissed Alice on her cheek. “Ali, come on.
I’m kidding. You can be a great mom and a New York Times bestselling author.”
Bronwyn whispered, “No pressure,” and Alice gave a quick
shake of her head. Her heart hammered with irritation, and a
hint of resentment toward Nate. Why did he have to bring it up
now, and like that? As though these considerable milestones
could be summarized in a lame punch line?
But expressing that would surely have led to an awkward
scene. So instead Alice cleared her throat and raised her glass,
though she hated herself for playing along. “To a bestselling
novel and getting knocked up!”
There was a group “Cheers!” and then Nate started in again
on the house and Alice sipped her wine, thinking— with only a
smidgen of remorse— how grateful she was that Nate couldn’t
read her mind.
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Nellie
July 30, 1956
Tuna Casserole
2 cans cream of mushroom soup
1 cup milk
2 7- ounce cans tuna, drained
3 hard- cooked eggs, sliced
2 cups cooked peas
2 teaspoons salt
1 teaspoon pepper
1 cup crushed potato chips
In a casserole dish, blend mushroom soup and milk, stir in tuna, sliced eggs, cooked peas, and salt and pepper. Bake at 350°F for 25 minutes.
Top with potato chips and bake 5 minutes longer.
R ichard would be home soon, and Nellie— though she was
getting better at moving about with the plaster cast— was behind
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schedule. She placed her index finger on the recipe, double‑
checking the ingredients, and grimaced as an overwhelming itch
crawled up the shin of her casted leg.
Swiveling in her kitchen chair away from the worktable,
Nellie grabbed the knitting needles from the counter. She slid
one needle into the front of her cast and scratched, groaning
with the relief. There was no longer pain in her ankle, now that
it had been casted for a few weeks, but the itching was awful.
Scratch finally managed, Nellie went back to her recipe. The
tabletop had been wiped clean and the casserole was ready for
the oven, but the cookbook remained open in front of her. She
glanced at the notation her mother had written in the margin ( a generous sprinkle of spices after cooking as needed) and hopped over to the cabinets near the sink. Nellie set the jar of herb mix
Miriam had helped her prepare on the counter, near the water
glasses, so she’d remember to put it out with dinner.
The clock above the door sang its on‑ the‑ hour tune, and a
fresh wave of anxiety moved through her. She was a disheveled
mess; her pinned hair was loosening, her makeup had sweated off
due to the heat of the stove and the effort of preparing dinner
while on crutches. Supporting her weight on the sink’s edge,
Nellie turned on the tap and wet a dish towel to wipe her face.
She probably should have shortened her earlier visit with
Miriam to prevent the scrambling she was doing now. But
Miriam had been a lifesaver recently. In many ways, she was the
mother Nellie had never had. Nellie loved Elsie, who was bril‑
liant and side‑ stitch funny and could bake the most delicious
cake with her eyes closed and grow beautiful things as if by
magic. But she could be difficult to be around. Nellie under‑
stood, even from a young age, that her mother had an illness— a
darkness of mind that never allowed her to reach her full
potential. Elsie Swann constantly struggled to keep her head
above those charcoal‑ black waters threatening to drown her.
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Miriam, by comparison, was easy to be with because she was
filled with sunbeams; Elsie had little more than thunderclouds
inside her.
Oftentimes throughout her childhood it seemed as though
Nellie was the one mothering Elsie. While her schoolmates ar‑
rived with bagged lunches made by their mothers, Nellie not
only prepared her own lunch but also left something in the
fridge for her mother each day. As well as a note on a still‑ asleep Elsie’s bedside table with instructions for how long to heat it,
even though many days Nellie came home to Elsie still in bed,
lunch untouched in the fridge. She did the household chores—
the washing, cleaning, marketing when she was old enough to
go on her own— and managed the bills, which were a puzzle to
sort out some months when money was tight. Nellie was inde‑
pendent and capable of taking care of the home by the time she
was twelve years old and probably could have done anything she
set her mind to. But instead she married Richard, in part be‑
cause that’s what young women did— becoming a “Mrs.” was
what proper girls aspired to. But it also meant there would be
someone to take care of Nellie for a change.
Nellie set the timer as the front door opened, ten minutes
earlier than expected. She chided herself again for not watching
the time more carefully. One hand still on the countertop for
balance, Nellie scrambled to prepare Richard’s old‑ fashioned. In
her haste, the cocktail glass slipped while she muddled the sugar
cube with the bitters and it smashed on the floor. At the sound
of the breaking glass, Richard came to the kitchen and saw the
shards of glass and scowled.
“Where’s Helen?” he asked, his tone sharp. He was in a ter‑
rible mood; it must not have been a good day at the plant.
“I sent her home this morning,” Nellie replied, wondering
how to clean up the glass without being able to crouch. The
now familiar feeling of helplessness she loathed swept through
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her. “She’s been here nearly every day, Richard, and she has a
family to look after, too.”
Richard took off his hat and coat and set them on the kitchen
chair, sighing with annoyance. He didn’t much care for Helen
(he found her timid nature unbecoming and her height intimi‑
dating, though he would never have used that word), but he also
wanted his house pristine, his meals hot, his drink handed to him
rather than in a puddle on the kitchen floor. “I’ll do it. Move.”
She did as he asked, backing up with her crutches and sitting
in a chair on the other side of the kitchen. Richard grumbled as
he bent to pick up the glass, using the kitchen cloth to clean up
the small puddle of bitters and sugar. Nellie didn’t comment
that there was a cloth for the floor under the sink, that he was
using the one for washing dishes and wiping counters. She would
have to throw it away now or risk cut hands, the tiny shards of
glass nestling firmly into the cloth’s woven surface with every
pass on the floor.
“I’m sorry. I’m clumsy with these crutches.”
Richard said nothing, continued wiping with her good cloth.
“Dinner is in the oven and I can make you another drink,”
she added.
The silence in the Murdochs’ kitchen stretched, punctuated
only by Richard’s grunts and sighs, the sound of running water
from the tap. He left the balled‑ up cloth in the sink and took
another glass from the shelf, made himself a drink without
asking Nellie if she wanted anything.
Frustration simmered in Nellie’s chest as she watched him,
oblivious to his invalid wife sitting two feet away. It was a burn
she recognized— anger at being dismissed, at being ignored.
Oh, if she could only go back to that night they met, when
Richard made her swoon with his attention, his money such a
nice change from her frugal upbringing, and not give in to his
charm. But it was far too late for such wishful thinking.
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Richard drank his cocktail quickly and made another. Again,
not asking Nellie if she wanted or needed anything. Finally, he
settled somewhat and loosened his tie, taking a seat at the table.
“What’s for dinner?” he asked, shaking his glass to distribute
the ice cubes.
“Tuna casserole. With buttered carrots and fruit salad.”
He finished the last inch of his drink, nodded. “Fine. How
much time do we have?”
“About fifteen minutes?” Nellie glanced at the timer. “It’s
difficult with this leg, to get things done as quickly as I’m
used to.”
“Should be long enough.” Richard stood and headed into
the living room. “Come with me.”
“Where?” Nellie asked. “For what? I’d like to rest here for a
few minutes before I need to get dinner out of the oven.”
“Follow me, Eleanor.” There was no mistaking his tone, or
the use of her full name— this was not a request.
Nellie settled her crutches into her armpits and hobbled
after him. “What is this about, Richard?” she asked, once she
made it into the living room.
His back was to her at first, but when he turned she saw him
undoing his belt buckle. “Lie down on the sofa.” He jerked his
head toward the green Kroehler sofa Nellie had chosen when
they first moved into the house, the color reminding her of vi‑
brant springtime leaves.
She stared at him. “Why?”
Suddenly he was right in front of her, and though Nellie’s
instincts told her to Run! Get away! she stayed put. She was slow on her crutches and wouldn’t get out of the room before he
caught up. “Lie down on the sofa, Eleanor. And take them off.”
“Take what off?”
“Your panties, Nellie. Take them off.” Her mouth dropped
open. Surely he didn’t intend to do what she thought he was
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suggesting? Her heart pounded, and she wanted
to cry. But she
did as he asked and didn’t shed a tear, because what was the al‑
ternative? She set her crutches to the side and sat somewhat
clumsily on the sofa’s edge, removing her panties from under
her skirt. She took an extra moment to fold them and set them
on the coffee table before lying back and closing her eyes.
“Open your eyes,” Richard said gruffly as he settled his
heaviness between her thighs, shifting and moving her skirt up.
Roughly pushing her legs apart with one hand as he opened his
fly with the other. His tie remained on and his shirt collar,
Nellie noticed, was still freshly laundered white— absent a lip‑
stick stain. Perhaps today’s black mood had more to do with
that than anything else.
“Richard, my ankle!” Nellie gasped as he shoved her plas‑
tered leg deep into the back of the Kroehler. It didn’t hurt, but
it seemed the only rebellion she could get away with. He didn’t
apologize or seem concerned about her comfort— or the open
drapes framing the picture window that faced the street— as he
pushed himself inside her. She wasn’t ready for him, her anxiety
making his passage uncomfortable. Nellie bit her lip and turned
her head.
Richard abruptly stopped his rough movements, grabbed
her chin, and forced her gaze back. “Look at me, Eleanor.”
She did, and had never hated her husband more.
As he thrust and grunted and writhed over her, the sofa
springs groaning with the force, Nellie’s body stayed still. Quiet
and contemplative in a battle she couldn’t win. Her arms useless
by her sides, the only clue to the tension swirling inside her
found in her fists, clenched so tightly there would be bloodred
marks left on her palms from her nails. She briefly wished she
had not sent Helen home, because then dinner would have been
ready and Nellie wouldn’t have broken the glass and Richard
would never have forced himself on her like this.
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She drove her mind out of her living room, away from her
husband’s face so close to hers she could smell the whiskey on his
breath, and thought about her garden. About how she needed to
cull more herbs, maybe cut some flowers for Miriam. Perhaps a
collection of roses— Miriam loved Nellie’s roses. She imagined
