“Is there a specific time you were planning on going?” Tish continues. “I prefer the mornings myself, but I know you like to sleep in…”
This again. Ever since her mother-in-law learned that Alice occasionally wakes up around eleven in the morning—a sin as far as Tish Dewar is concerned—she’s found ways to work it into conversation. As though it’s any of her business. As though it’s shameful. For years, Alice had woken up at 5:30 a.m., her mind humming in anticipation at the start of a new day filled with challenges and deadlines. Alice had been good at her job: quick on her feet, diligent, and driven. But it had all been taken away from her. And after Allegra was born, Alice hadn’t slept at all, haunted by the sensation that she was entirely ill-equipped to take care of a newborn. Is it such a crime that after years of being an early riser Alice is finally sleeping in? It’s not like there’s anything to get up for in this town.
“Are you still there?” Tish’s tone is impatient.
Alice runs her fingers up and down the chaise’s suede fabric. “I don’t remember it being my turn to extend the official ASC greeting.”
The truth: Alice does remember. But she also knows how much it bothers Tish when she acts forgetful. It’s sad, really, how much pleasure Alice derives in vexing her mother-in-law. But Tish is her jailer and Alice doesn’t believe in silent demonstrations of disobedience.
“We discussed it at the last meeting.”
“All right, then.” Alice props her legs on the chaise, assuming a fully reclined position. She might as well get comfortable. This conversation isn’t likely to end any time soon. Brevity isn’t Tish’s strength. “I’ll stop by tomorrow.”
“When exactly?”
“I’m not sure.” Alice smiles. Her nonchalance is probably making Tish sweat.
Tish clears her throat. “As I’m sure you know, Alice, I am very proud of the ASC and its history.”
Alice rolls her eyes. All Almanacs know the story of the Alma Social Club—and every time Alice hears it, she has the urge to call bullshit. The ASC was founded almost one hundred years ago, close to when Alma Boots began manufacturing what later became known as its signature winter boots, introduced to the market during World War I—a time when sales had been so low, Backer Dewar had considered closing the shoe shop he had opened at the beginning of the century.
But then, a miracle!
In the early 1920s, Backer received dozens of orders from across the country. That’s when everything changed: the shop turned into a small factory. Women’s shoes were added to the catalogue. Some fifty men had to be hired from out of town. Backer made it a point to employ married men only, as he believed they made superior workers. But that practice resulted in several women—the wives of the new employees—feeling isolated in a new, unfamiliar town, far away from their friends and family. That was when Hildegard Dewar, Backer’s wife, decided to start a club for the wives to meet, bond, and help keep the Alma spirit alive.
(Again: it’s as tacky as it sounds.)
Tish loves telling tales of the days when Alma Boots was a small company, and not the billion-dollar corporation it is now, pointing out that it is still a family business at heart. “And the soul of Alma Boots is the ASC,” Tish likes to say. But this is what Tish conveniently leaves out of the allegory: the real reason behind Alma Boots’ success had been Prohibition. After the Eighteenth Amendment to the Constitution passed, Backer Dewar began smuggling alcohol inside the boxes of his famous pairs of sheepskin footwear. Alma Boots sold because of its craftsmanship and high quality, but it only managed to raise capital and reach window displays all over the country because of good old-fashioned bootlegging. The ASC is a club founded on—and funded by—crime.
“Alice?” Tish says, her tone growing more impatient. “Are you still there?”
Alice hears the rustling of keys coming from the front door. (She’s probably the only person in Alma who keeps the front door locked. Yet another measure to keep Tish away.) She gets up quickly, gently patting her bun to ensure it’s in place.
“Tish, I went to Wharton for my MBA. I’m quite sure I can manage greeting new neighbors. I have to go.” She feels a trill of delight as she hangs up the phone. “Honey,” Alice calls out, walking towards Nick. “How was your day?”
Alice takes one look at her husband and feels her stomach sink. One of the astonishing things about Nick is that he arrives home as fresh-faced and unperturbed as he leaves in the morning (it’s been years since Alice has held a full-time job, but she remembers feeling exhausted at the end of the day: stiff neck, aching feet). But now he looks harried, stressed. It’s a first for Nick.
“Want me to fix you a gin and tonic?” This is a first for Alice, too. Greeting one’s husband at the door and offering him a drink is the quintessential humdrum housewife move. But all’s fair in love and war—and in plotting to escape Alma.
“Sure,” Nick says. And then, as an afterthought, “You look nice. Do we have an appointment with Cassie tonight?”
The question bothers Alice. It’s not like she only dresses up for their Skype session with their couples therapist. She always looks put together.
She walks over to the bar cart in the corner of the room. “Thank you, and no. Cassie is away on her book tour, remember?” It’s the downside of having a famous marriage counselor. Alice tries not to let it bother her. “I hope you’re hungry. I asked Yolanda to make your favorite risotto.”
“What’s the occasion?” There’s a note of unease in his voice.
Alice feels her cheeks grow hot. Is it possible he’s found out about her plan? Could Ryan have called him? Or maybe her eagerness has given her
