Mother Before Wife (The Compound #2) (8 page)

“For all questions, the Prophet’s word is the answer.”

—The Prophet, Clarence Black

Aspen

I could feel the disapproving gaze of the Prophet on me as Jorjina and I ended our embrace of mutual concern for Brinley. I dabbed my eyes with a napkin before glancing to the right. He was there, standing with Paul and a few other members of the priesthood, but his eyes remained on me.

A shudder coursed through me, but I pulled myself together so as not to seem awkward with Jorjina. She couldn’t know my hesitation regarding her son. No one could.

“Will you excuse me, Mother Jorjina? I need to check on the girls.”

“Of course, dear.” Jorjina waved me along with a warm smile on her aged face, but then brought her hand back to her mouth before she spoke. “Let’s have lunch or tea sometime.”

I nodded, my lips perking up into a smile. I’d felt comfortable with Jorjina since I met her on my wedding day, but now, knowing our mutual feelings for Brinley, I was eager to spend more time with her, if only to feel that solidarity once again.

“I’d be delighted. Thank you.”

Ignoring the glare of the Prophet, I walked to the serving table where Sarah was still dishing out pieces of cake to the children. I offered assistance, hoping she’d accept my help with the cake, but she dismissed me, telling me to enjoy the party.

“Are you sure?” I asked, my eyes wide. Of course, she had no idea that I was trying desperately to keep busy and distance myself from a confrontation with the Prophet, and so she shook her head with a smile.

What do I do now?

Taking a deep breath, I scanned the yard, looking for my girls. I found Ruthie sitting alone on a large rock in the yard, her face forlorn, her knees pulled in toward her chest. Although I knew he was watching me, I joined my daughter, knowing that this event was difficult for her. Her crush was still burning strong.

“Hello there, can I join you?”

“I guess so.”

“Hey.” I reached out to tilt up her chin. “Keep sweet, my darling. I know it’s hard, but you must.”

“I can’t, Mama. He’s married now. I love him, and he’s married.”

“Ruthie, we’ve discussed this. It would never have worked for you and Jordan. And besides, you have years of childhood ahead of you before marriage will be a reality.”

Just as I uttered those words, I could feel him, standing near and looming over us.

“What seems to be the matter here?” Clarence Black asked. With his hands joined in front of him and the sun shining behind him, he looked like an angel from the heavens. Majestic, otherworldly, like a gift from Heavenly Father.

But he’s not. He can’t be. Can he?

Quickly, I stood to greet him. Despite suspecting him of wrongdoing, I had to show respect to my Prophet.

“Are you hurt, Ruthie?” he asked when she remained seated on the rock.

“No.” She played with the laces of her sneakers, keeping her head bowed and not making eye contact with the Prophet.

I nudged her and said in a corrective tone, “You stand and greet the Prophet when he addresses you.”

Reluctantly, Ruthie stood, made brief eye contact with him, and then looked back down at her feet.

“Then why the sadness?” he asked. “This is a joyous occasion, is it not? Your brother is married now.”

“It should’ve been me,” she muttered under her breath.

“Ruthie,” I snapped.

“Ah.” The Prophet nodded. “Your time will come, Miss Ruthie. Believe me, your time will come. Now, run along and mind your siblings. I’d like to have a word with your mother.”

“Yes, sir.”

Ruthie ran into the house and I was forced to face the Prophet alone. There was no safety net for this conversation, so I had to be brave and handle it myself. My stomach flipped in anticipation as we stood in silence.

The Prophet linked his hands behind his back, tilting his head a bit as he studied me. “The cake is delicious. Did you make it?”

“I’m glad you enjoyed it, but no, Sarah is the baker of the family. I do make a delicious roast chicken.”

“I should like to try it sometime.”

“I’d be honored.”

Another pause, and my heart raced. There had to be a reason for this conversation. Perhaps he would explain his actions, although the chances of that were slim. The Prophet answered to no one. Who was I to think he’d feel any obligation to explain himself to me?

Get a grip, Aspen. You’re nothing special, just a woman, like any other on this compound.

“My mother is certainly taken with you.”

“Thank you. I like her very much.”

The Prophet stared back at the bench where Jorjina was watching birds chirping from the tree above her. “Well, she always has liked Paul’s wives.”

“Excuse me?” I asked, wondering if I’d misunderstood his last statement.

“How’s your dog?” he asked, clearing his throat. When he turned his attention back toward me, his face hardened.

“Scout?” I asked, my throat dry. “He’s fine. He’s off playing with Jeremiah, I’m sure. They’re attached at the hip.” I attempted to divert the conversation in another direction, but I failed.

“Yes, your boy seems rather attached, doesn’t he?”

“They’re the best of friends.”

“You know, I was surprised to see the dog off the grounds of his home. Is he allowed to roam?”

“No, sir, he normally stays in our yard. Someone left the gate open and he just got out, I guess.”

“Ah, I see.”

“I’ve asked my sister wives to double-check that they always lock the gate, so it shouldn’t happen again.”

Please understand what I’m saying. Please don’t punish my family for what I saw . . . what I think I saw.

“I should hope so. It would be a shame if he wandered away; it seems your little boy would
surely
follow. You said yourself they’re attached at the hip.” He tipped his head forward and raised both eyebrows. “Am I making myself clear?”

Jeremiah? No! Don’t you touch my baby!

I swallowed hard as sweat popped out on my forehead, my neck, my hands. The Prophet was threatening me, threatening to harm my little boy. In sheer panic, I gave the only answer I could possibly offer.

“Yes, sir.”

“Good.” He clasped his hands together. “Now, I believe I’ll have another slice of cake.”

He stared at me, waiting for me to serve him. I was nothing if not perceptive to expectations. The Prophet had threatened me, and then demanded dessert. His eyes were dull and lifeless, as if threatening to harm my child was just another part of his daily role as Prophet.

In that moment, something shifted within me. If the Prophet felt the need to threaten me, to threaten the life of my youngest child, then he was up to no good. This became quite clear.

And at that realization, I grew angry. Furious.

For weeks, I’d hoped that I was wrong, that I misunderstood. But I knew without a shadow of a doubt that if I’d misinterpreted what I’d witnessed, then there would be no need for the warning that had just taken place.

So I harnessed my bravery within, took a breath, and looked him square in the eye. “Of course, dogs do have minds of their own, don’t they?”

The Prophet’s jaw tensed and his Adam’s apple bounced as he swallowed. “I suppose they do.”

“We try to control him, but he’s just an animal, after all.”

The Prophet stared at me in silence.

“I’ll get that cake for you,” I said with a nod, and went to retrieve a plate with the largest piece I could find as my heart pounded furiously in my chest.

As I walked back to join him, I felt strong, powerful. I’d called his bluff and gotten away with it.

Or had I? Panic replaced my confidence as my heart continued to thump so hard within me that I felt my lungs could deflate completely. The pressure within my chest was almost unbearable.

What on earth did I just do? Have I put my baby at risk? What kind of mother am I?

Apologize, Aspen. Repent! Make things right!

I returned to the Prophet, placed the plate in his hands, and opened my mouth to speak. Before I could utter a single syllable, he gripped the plate with one hand and my forearm with the other. He squeezed hard, painfully, and I gasped.

“Watch your step, Aspen. Your life can change in an instant.”

“Yes, sir.” I looked around the yard to see Paul watching my interaction with his brother. A concerned and confused look crossed his handsome face as he studied me.

Keep sweet. Keep sweet. Keep sweet.

“If you’ll excuse me, I should join Paul and my sister wives.”

“Of course.” The Prophet nodded, releasing my arm and turning his attention to the cake on his plate. He glanced down and smiled. “Ah, a corner piece. My favorite.”

He plunged his fork into the thick icing and placed the large bite of cake in his mouth, such a carefree action considering the tension that loomed between us just seconds before. While I required every ounce of strength within me to join my husband and appear unruffled, the Prophet had no trouble going about his business and enjoying his dessert.

A disturbing thought came to me as I walked to join Paul.
Perhaps I don’t know the Prophet at all.

I’d spent the last twenty-six years of my life studying his word, following his laws and worshipping him in his position in our community as the mouthpiece of God. To be threatened by him was surreal, and I struggled to reconcile what I thought I knew about this man with the reality that faced me now.

The Prophet had sent people from our community—that fact wasn’t lost on me. But those people deserved it. They’d stepped out of line, disrespected our way of life, refused to follow the rules.

They weren’t defenseless two-year-old babies . . .

“What was that about?” Paul whispered in my ear as I joined him and two of his other brothers.

“Oh, nothing. He was just . . . checking on us. You know, in general.”

Paul’s expression fell. “I see.”

He knew I was lying, and my stomach churned. I didn’t lie. Well, not often. I’d once lied on Brinley’s behalf to our witch of a sister wife, Leandra. But stretching the truth was not something I engaged in unless utterly necessary, and this fit the bill. I’d made a choice not to tell Paul about Scout’s escape from the yard and what I’d observed at the temple. I couldn’t jeopardize his relationship with the Prophet, not again. I’d lied to protect, not to harm.

But something in the pit of my stomach told me that the Prophet and I didn’t have that in common. He was telling lies, keeping secrets, and betraying his people. I knew it in every fiber of my being. But aside from what I’d witnessed weeks before, I had nothing to go on. I knew I had to be careful, to keep sweet, and to maintain normalcy.

For Jeremiah’s sake.

But that didn’t mean I would stop trying to find the truth, no matter how long it might take. I just had to be smart, calculating, and discreet.

I glanced back at Jorjina, still cozy on our bench, and smiled, knowing that a friendship with her had the potential to feed my soul and to protect Jeremiah. If Jorjina had any influence at all over the Prophet, and my past knowledge of her involvement with Brinley indicated that she did, her friendship could serve as protection for me and for my little boy.

My thoughts drifted back to Brinley and to her life outside our community. And then I remembered.

“Will you excuse me?” I asked Paul before searching the yard for Jeremiah.

“Come on, sweetheart. It’s time for your nap.” I took my son by the hand and slipped into the house.

My heart still pounded as I entered my room, locking the door behind me. I placed Jeremiah on the bed and instructed him to get under the covers. He tipped his head to the side in confusion. He’d never taken a nap in my room before.

“This is a special nap, sweet boy. You get to be in here with Mama. Isn’t that fun?”

Jeremiah nodded, frosting smeared across his cheeks. “Yeah, yeah.”

“Now, lay down, sweetheart. Mama will be right here when you wake up.”

Jeremiah yawned and placed his head on the pillow. I stroked his hair with trembling fingertips, willing myself to calm. Willing my body to settle.

Once he’d drifted to sleep, I opened the top drawer of my dresser and pushed past my undergarments to find the reason for our trip to my bedroom. The phone Porter had given me three years ago sat at the back of the oak drawer along with a charger I’d purchased at the local drugstore before my marriage to Paul. Just in case.

I plugged the phone into the wall and paced the room, waiting to see if it would work.

Please, please, please work.

Moments later, the screen brightened and the phone chimed.

It works!

Quickly, I scanned to find the telephone number Porter had mentioned years before. It was still there. I sat, holding the phone in my trembling hands.

An alert flashed. Three new text messages. Tears formed in my eyes as I read them.