Mother Before Wife (The Compound #2)

by Melissa Brown

  Sniffling back my tears, I said, “I hadn’t thought of it like that.”

  I looked into his blue eyes, feeling naked although my nightdress still hung from my body. As angry as I was at him for forcing me to achieve an orgasm I’d never wanted in the first place, I felt a connection to my husband through that act of intimacy, as if we had a secret no one else could ever know.

  Once again, he placed kisses on my neck. “Let me teach you . . . please.”

  “Teach me?” I asked, confused.

  “To not only let go, but to enjoy yourself with me. Here in this room. If we have that, no one can break us. It’ll bond us, Aspen. It will cement our marriage, our union. Please, trust me. What you just felt, that’s only the beginning. As you trust me, as you let go, it’ll only get better. I promise.”

  “All right.”

  I wiped the last of my tears from my burning cheeks and wrapped my arms around my husband, falling into his embrace. And when I did, I felt him sigh against me. A sigh of relief.

  My body was unwinding, settling into a relaxed, almost euphoric state, and I couldn’t argue with him any longer. Paul was my husband, and I wanted to please him. I wanted to believe his logic—that if I allowed him to make me feel that way, to achieve a release, I was pleasing him in return. And if I could feel that way again, and release my guilt, I sensed that I could fall in love with Paul the way he was clearly falling for me.

  My brain told me that was a foolish notion to entertain, but my body once again betrayed my mind. My body wanted to feel that way again, to revel in the intimacy I felt with Paul as he held me tightly.

  Please forgive me, Lord. I only want to please him. Please, please, forgive me.

  Chapter 5

  “If you are faithful, I will be immortal.”

  —The Prophet, Clarence Black

  Aspen

  One of my earliest memories was of my mother’s lap. I was small, most likely four or five years old, and I was huddled inside a nest she’d created with her crossed legs, waiting for our Lord to call us up to the heavens.

  Our Prophet had said it was time, the end of days, so we spent the entire day in an open field, singing songs with hands clasped, grasping one another for dear life. Fear overcame me as my mother rocked me back and forth, assuring me that our Prophet would lead the way to eternal salvation. But Heavenly Father changed his mind and gave us more time on this earth.

  In the back of my mind, I’d always wondered when he would call us back, when the end of days would return. And this morning, I thought I had my answer. While I was in the middle of helping Beatrice into her sneakers, Flora rapped on the bedroom door.

  After offering general morning greetings, Flora requested a word with me in the hall. The deep-set wrinkles above her nose telegraphed her distress.

  “What is it?” I asked, smoothing down my dress.

  “The Prophet has called the faithful.”

  Adrenaline surged within me. We’d always been told that one day our Prophet would choose the most faithful of the ten thousand residents of our community, would call them together to wait for Heavenly Father; to wait for salvation.

  I forced myself to breathe deeply before responding. I had to remain calm. My mother’s words danced through my mind. Keep sweet. The Lord is bringing us home.

  “Has he called us?” I asked.

  With another surge of adrenaline, my brain flashed a reminder of the orgasms I’d had with Paul. Four, in fact. I had made the decision to submit completely and wholeheartedly, to obey his wishes, and because of that decision, our private time together was extraordinary. As a result, I was counting down the days until my period was due, praying it wouldn’t come. I was ready for life to grow inside me once again.

  But the thought of not being called, of not being deemed part of the faithful was, in my mind, a fate far worse than death. To be left behind on this desolate earth without any chance of salvation was ghastly.

  Flora’s forehead relaxed. “Yes, all of us.” She paused, looked up to the heavens, and said, “The Lord is good.”

  “The Lord is good,” I repeated.

  “Gather your girls and a few belongings, and meet us in the field. We must be there by nine o’clock. Paul is there with the Prophet; he needs us by his side.”

  “I understand,” I said with a nod. “We’ll be there.”

  • • •

  “I’m scared, Mama. I don’t want to die.” My youngest child’s face was ashen, and trails of tears stained her cheeks.

  Cradling Beatrice in my arms, I pulled her tight and kissed her forehead. And just as my mother had said twenty years prior, I said to my daughter, “Keep sweet. The Lord is bringing us home.”

  She fell asleep in my arms while Ruthie and Susan played with their new brothers and sisters, only pausing to join me on our small blanket for sustenance. Dozens of ladies were gathered in the center of the field, hands clasped together as they prayed to Heavenly Father. As the hours passed by, their voices continued, but the fervor they’d maintained throughout the daytime hours was dimming along with the setting sun.

  Our Prophet was nowhere to be found. Paul had explained that he needed an hour for self-reflection and communication with the Lord. But that was hours ago. Where was he?

  My gaze wandered the field, kissed by twilight and darkening clouds. Hoping it wouldn’t rain but enjoying the cool breeze the looming storm would offer, I pulled Beatrice closer to my chest as she snored softly.

  And then I saw a face I didn’t recognize, a face that made my pulse race and my fingers tremble. My focus no longer lingered on the storm that approached; it remained on him, this stranger. This man who didn’t belong.

  Although I wasn’t familiar with every resident of our community, we had only a dozen major bloodlines, and most of the men were honored members of the priesthood. Our Prophet explained that our Lord was weeding out the wicked and so, even if I didn’t know a man personally, I recognized his face as the brother, cousin, or uncle of another man with whom I was familiar.

  But not this man. No, this was a face I’d never seen, a face that didn’t belong. A face of pure evil.

  He leaned his stout body against an imposing oak tree on the outskirts of the field. Dressed just like the men in our community in a plain buttoned-down shirt and trousers, he shoved his hands deep within his front pockets. If his goal was to fit in, he was succeeding.

  I glanced around at my sister wives, but none of them seemed to notice this mysterious figure against the old oak tree. I watched him for what felt like hours, tempted to ask Paul if he knew the man’s identity, but I couldn’t find my husband either.

  My thoughts were interrupted by a familiar voice. A soft, timid voice I’d left behind months ago.

  Rebecca. My former sister wife was standing a mere two feet away, cradling a newborn to her chest. Of course; this must be the baby who had sealed Rebecca’s fate with the Cluffs. She forced a smile on her wan face.

  “My goodness, Rebecca, how are you?” When I patted the spot next to me on the blanket, she obliged and sat cross-legged, clutching the babe who was wrapped tightly with blankets. “And who is this . . . blessing?”

  Rebecca pinched her eyes shut. “Margaret. My first girl.”

  “I see.” I pursed my lips in understanding. Rebecca wore her conflict like a mask for all to see. “Is Lehi pleased?”

  She shrugged. “He speaks to me only when necessary.”

  “I imagine you’re just fine with that?” I pressed.

  How could Rebecca possibly want to spend time with the man who had murdered Burt, the only man she ever loved? My feelings for Paul were ever increasing as we spent time getting to know each other, so I could only imagine how the death of Burt still haunted Rebecca, knowing how devoted she was to him, and he to her. He’d wanted them to run away together, to be happy, to be a family with their four boys. But it didn’t work out that way.

  “Yes.” She nodded. “And you? Leandra informed us of your new f
amily with the brother of the Prophet. That’s wonderful.”

  “He’s a good man.” I paused. “I wish you could’ve come with me. He’d love Margaret and the boys; he really would.”

  “I’ve accepted my fate,” she said with a shrug. “And honestly, I don’t mind the solitude. My children and I reside on our own island within the house. The other sister wives don’t bother with me, and I like it that way.”

  Forgetting my manners, I grimaced. Clearly, she was finding a way to survive in the Cluff home, but despite our differences in the past, I didn’t want her to be miserable. She was a servant of the Lord and of our Prophet. She deserved better than the Cluffs.

  The stocky man who remained against the oak tree allowed me to change the topic. I leaned in closer to Rebecca. “That man by the tree . . . do you recognize him?”

  Rebecca studied the man with dark eyes and deep wrinkles in his tanned skin before shaking her head. “No, should I?”

  “I don’t know. Something in my gut tells me he doesn’t belong, and I plan to get to the bottom of it.”

  “Be careful,” Rebecca said. “Some things are better left buried.”

  We locked eyes, and I sighed. “I’m sorry you feel that way. I pray that one day you’ll see the world differently.”

  She laughed under her breath as she rose to her feet and gestured toward the sky. “Well, if our Prophet is correct, there’ll be no time for that. We’ll be called by day’s end.”

  Good point. “I can’t argue with that. Keep sweet, my friend.”

  Rebecca offered a polite wave as she left me on my blanket, joining her boys at the other side of the field.

  An odd sensation came over me, making me certain I was being watched. Without thinking, I turned my attention back to the tree, and gasped to find my suspicions were correct.

  He’s looking at me, or through me. I can’t be sure.

  My heart raced as I searched for Paul. Once I’d placed Beatrice on the blanket, I stood and saw my husband speaking to other men in the priesthood. Our eyes met, mine telegraphing my panic.

  He quickly excused himself and joined me at the blanket. “Are you all right?”

  I turned my back to the tree and the man who was still leaning against it. “That man by the tree, the stocky one with the leathery skin.”

  “What about him?”

  “Do you know him?” I asked, hopeful that I was mistaken. I prayed that this was a well-respected man in our community I’d simply never noticed before.

  “I don’t.” He paused, shaking his head. “I don’t think so.”

  “So you can understand my concern. If he’s not one of us, then why is he here?”

  He leaned in, kissed my forehead, and pulled back, his eyes locked with mine. “I’ll find out; don’t worry. I’ll speak to the Prophet immediately.”

  When I turned to look back at the oak, the man was gone.

  But the Prophet had returned. He walked calmly to the center of the field, holding a microphone.

  “Children of Zion,” he began, his tone and expression melancholy. “Moments ago, Heavenly Father spoke to me . . . and I’m afraid there is nothing to rejoice, nothing to celebrate here today. There are too many sinners, even amongst our most faithful, too many men and women of our faith who are seeking the pleasures of this world instead of planning for the eternal treasures of the celestial kingdom. To say I’m disappointed in you all would be a grand understatement, my children. If you are faithful, I will be immortal.”

  He paused and pulled a penknife from the pocket of his trousers.

  No, please, not in front of the children.

  “And clearly—” He raised the knife for all to see before pressing it to the palm of his hand. He winced as blood poured from the gash in his skin. “I am mortal. Until you are faithful enough, this is how I’ll remain, a man among you. But, my children—if you cast away your sins, if you resist the wicked urges the devil has placed within you, then Heavenly Father shall welcome us into his kingdom. Until then, you must repent, repent and strive for my immortality.” His shoulders slumped, he hung his head. “You are dismissed. You may go home now.”

  The Prophet’s first wife, Janine, ran to his side, falling to her knees to wrap his wound with gauze. He stood, watching us all with disappointment as people gathered their belongings to head home.

  Ruthie and Susan fell to the blanket, clutching my arms as Beatrice sobbed, terrified by the Prophet’s speech.

  “Mama, we didn’t sin, I promise,” Susan insisted, her eyes wide with sincerity and glistening with unshed tears. “I didn’t hit Ruthie today, not even once.”

  “Shhh, keep sweet,” I whispered. “No tears. Harness your strength and serve the Lord. That’s all we can do, be the very best people we can be. One day he’ll be ready for us.”

  If only I could believe my own words. I couldn’t help but panic that I was one of the chosen who’d kept us from ascension into Heavenly Father’s kingdom. Were we being punished for my sins in the bedroom? For betraying my belief system to please my husband, and admittedly, my own body?

  I had to keep sweet, to push those thoughts away as much as they tried to insinuate themselves into my brain, into my heart. I had to remain strong and vigilant for my girls. I had to lead by example.

  Secretly, I was relieved that my next night with Paul was not for several days. I would use that time to connect with Heavenly Father, to pray and repent and beg his forgiveness for my transgressions. And even though I knew Paul would be disappointed, I needed to retreat from the pleasures of the flesh. Sex between us would only be for procreation. That was all. I could only hope he would agree.

  Exhausted, we walked back to the house, but when we passed the oak tree, my heart leaped into my throat as an image of the dark eyes of the man who’d leaned against it took hold of my mind once again. Even when we reached the safety of our home, I couldn’t get those eyes out of my head, and I mentally searched the bloodlines of our people again and again, hoping to recall a cousin, a brother, an uncle. Someone.

  Was he a Barlow? No. A Jessop? Definitely not. A Cluff? Not a chance. And he certainly wasn’t related to the Prophet.

  I could only hope Paul would have answers for me. And if he didn’t, I’d just have to get them on my own.

  Chapter 6

  Flora

  The first wife of Paul Black took pride in the amount of patience she bestowed upon her husband’s other thirteen wives, who she lovingly referred to as his “baker’s dozen.” Paul wasn’t pleased when Flora used that phrase, reminding her that she was, in fact, part of their group, and not separate from them.

  “Fourteen does not a baker’s dozen make,” he’d say chidingly in a singsong cadence.

  She’d shrug her shoulders and offer a polite laugh, but deep down she knew she was different. She was his first wife. That meant something in their community. It was a role to be revered, respected, and it set her apart from the others.

  She and Paul had known each other since they were very young. In fact, they were second cousins, and essentially were promised to each other at a young age. When they married, they were both teenagers, inexperienced and sheltered. Flora was always tall and sturdy, not one to turn the head of men. So she was relieved to be paired with a boy who was as handsome as Paul, and happy to be matched with someone so kind. Pleasing Paul became her number one priority in life. And, in her opinion, she was quite good at it.

  That is, until Aspen.

  On the surface, Flora tried to be amiable to Paul’s newest wife, but she could feel a distinct difference in her husband once he learned of the impending marriage, and it was upsetting. She could feel him slipping away. Not only from her, but from all the other wives. Even Aspen seemed unaware of his lingering stare, his cheeks quick to flush in her presence, his overly attentive nature with her girls.

  He was acting like a boy. A silly boy. He had never behaved that way with her, even when she was his one and only, and that killed Flora. It felt li
ke a knife jabbing right through her heart.

  Keep sweet. Keep sweet. Keep sweet.

  The mantra echoed through her consciousness whenever Paul stumbled over his words when speaking to his newest wife, or when Flora noticed him watching Aspen as she ate her supper. Flora repeated it when he explained his reasoning for spending so many evenings with Aspen. He said all the right things, such as “I need to get to know her, to make her comfortable.”

  But Flora knew the truth. He was infatuated with Aspen.

  Weeks ago, she’d heard a scream. It was a scream of ecstasy, of pleasure, and she knew it was Aspen’s voice. Not only that, she was fully aware of what that scream of signified.

  Passion.

  She herself had never screamed. In fact, she’d never been offered the release that Paul was clearly giving his newest bride. They’d lain together hundreds of times over the years, but Paul was the only person to end their lovemaking session with a release.

  Had she wanted one? Not exactly. But when she heard the obvious passion coming from just down the hall, it made her wish for a different story, a different past with her husband. And it hurt her heart.

  Why wasn’t she desirable in her own right as his first wife? Why didn’t he want to please her too? Wasn’t she good enough?

  Keep sweet. Keep sweet. Keep sweet.

  When Paul allowed his infatuation with Aspen to affect them all, however, Flora’s hurt feelings turned to anger for the first time in their twenty-two years of marriage. She was furious, and no longer had the desire to hide her animosity.

  The morning after they’d joined the Prophet and hundreds of others in the field, waiting for Heavenly Father, Paul had come to her in the kitchen with pale cheeks and red eyes, asking for a private discussion.

  Something was very wrong.

  He asked her to join him in his study, and so she’d entrusted JoAnna to finish supervising breakfast cleanup with the children. The youngest sister wife had happily accepted the new responsibility.