“For once? But—” My jaw dropped as I flashed back to the scene in the kitchen two days prior. Leandra yelling at Rebecca burning the eggs.
Everything was starting to make sense. Everything.
The girl who burned the eggs. The one Jorjina mentioned months before.
It was Rebecca. Rebecca was reassigned after working here, after helping Jorjina.
She was being watched.
Gut instinct told me that Jorjina was telling the truth today. Her confession was clear. Her trembling hands, her tear-soaked face told the story of her regret, but obviously that had not always been the case. She’d been the prophet’s informant for months, perhaps years.
“You’re safe here,” Jorjina whispered. “I swear it. Please, Brinley. You have to believe me. You’re safe.”
“I believe you,” I said, taking her hand in mine. “I do.”
She wrapped her arms around me and sobbed into the crook of my neck, her wails loud enough to wake her cat who slept in a ball on one of the kitchen chairs. He stood, yawned, and glared at me.
I shrugged at the cat as I held Jorjina close to me, murmuring soft words and running my fingers up and down her back in soothing motions. No matter what story her past might tell, I knew she was taking a stand, changing her direction and fighting for me. And I respected her for that. But there was no way I’d reveal my secrets.
I was going to leave the compound. This much was true.
But I was going to do it on my own terms. No one else’s.
Just mine.
Chapter 24
It was Leandra’s idea.
Months earlier when Rebecca had returned to the Cluff house with puffy eyes and balled-up fists, Leandra had pulled her aside to the fabric room and insisted that she share what was bothering her.
It was Brinley. And Rebecca’s former husband, Burt Jameson.
Rebecca had seen them talking on the street corner. She said that Brinley had looked upset, and although Rebecca couldn’t see Burt’s expression, she told Leandra that she no longer trusted Brinley and her intentions toward Burt, herself, or anyone in their community.
Leandra was surprised at how easily Rebecca could be convinced to talk about what had happened, especially since it was taking quite a while for Rebecca to initially warm up to her. Leandra had blamed Brinley for that, and now she was feeling justified in her intuition.
She was a bad seed, and now Rebecca saw it too.
“You must tell the prophet. It’s your duty as a member of this family.” The anger in Rebecca’s face turned to intimidation and fear. Leandra wasn’t surprised by that reaction; many responded that way to the prophet. But not Leandra.
Yes, to Leandra the prophet was a smart, powerful man who could make or break the lives of those in the community. But she knew that she could use that to her advantage.
Leandra had a history of staying on the good side of the prophet. Her mother had been the original housekeeper of the Black household. For years, Leandra had watched her mother serve the prophet. When she was fifteen, Leandra had begged her mother to allow her to assist her at the large home of the prophet. Her mother had rejected her requests several times, until one day she was too tired to resist. She’d allowed Leandra to join her on Saturday mornings, and soon they became a team, scrubbing, mopping, and dusting the home of Walter and Jorjina Black.
Her mother was grateful for the assistance, and Jorjina Black was impressed with the young Leandra, often saying that she felt she’d make an excellent wife to one of the many men in the community. Leandra didn’t want to be just any wife, however. She wanted to be a first wife. To her, there was no other rank more supreme than the first wife of a man of substance, a man with close connections to the prophet himself.
When she was sixteen years old, Leandra knew she wanted to marry Lehi Cluff. He was just a few years older than she, and his father was a close advisor to the original prophet, Walter Black. She studied Lehi, knew he was in good standing with the prophet, and knew that he had the potential to become an important elder of the church. All he needed was an exceptional first wife.
While in the company of Jorjina Black, she found ways to drop hints about Lehi. How handsome he was, how resourceful he was in his role as foreman of the prophet’s construction company on the compound, and what a devout follower he was of Heavenly Father.
Jorjina would nod without a smile, and encourage Leandra to prepare herself for marriage. After all, by the age of sixteen, many women in their community were doing just that—becoming wives. Becoming the glue that held families together.
When she was seventeen, Leandra and Lehi were married in a small ceremony. She beamed and couldn’t keep her eyes off her new husband, the man who was going to give her purpose, give her standing in the community . . . right alongside the prophet.
For over twenty years, Leandra and Lehi had a strong partnership, one not based on love, but appreciation. He respected her abilities in running a household, her unique ability to make the other sister wives fall in line with her wishes.
Until Brinley, that is.
Brinley stuck out like a sore thumb from the very beginning. She was nineteen, older than many of the others had been when they’d joined the family. Lehi dismissed it, insisting she was a sweet girl who was eager to please the prophet and to join them all in the celestial kingdom. But Leandra wasn’t convinced. Something was off about the seventh wife of Lehi Cluff. Leandra just couldn’t put her finger on it.
Until, that is, the day she convinced Rebecca to share her story with Clarence Black, their current prophet. She was hoping the prophet would hear Rebecca’s story and reassign Brinley immediately. Perhaps she’d be sent to another compound, maybe one in Texas where many of the prophet’s siblings resided. The logistics didn’t matter to Leandra.
She just wanted Brinley gone, and she was determined to see it through.
No matter the consequences.
• • •
And so, she’d walked with Rebecca to the house of Clarence Black. One of his many wives answered the door and allowed them to enter, escorting the two women to the prophet’s office where he delivered his sermons via loudspeaker. It was also the place where he conferred with Heavenly Father, as well as church elders.
The prophet welcomed the two women into his office, but expressed his surprise that Lehi had not accompanied them, as was customary.
“I apologize,” Leandra had begun. “He’s at work and won’t return until this evening. And I’m afraid this is urgent.”
“Oh.” His head snapped back slightly. A pen balanced between his two index fingers as he leaned back into the soft leather of his armchair. “And what is the emergency at hand?”
Leandra turned to Rebecca, who then cleared her throat. “It’s Brinley, our sister wife.”
“And what about her?” the prophet asked, his brow furrowed. There was nothing dismissive about his body language. Once he’d heard the name, he’d sat up straight in his chair, his eyes boring into Rebecca’s. Leandra knew they had his full attention.
“I saw her speaking to Burt.” Rebecca cleared her throat again and corrected herself. “I mean, Elder Jameson.” He was no longer her husband. It was no longer appropriate for her to refer to him in such a casual way.
“And what were they saying?” the prophet asked, crossing one ankle to rest on his opposite knee, that pen still balanced between his fingers. He moved it toward his mouth, back and forth . . . slowly, ever so slowly.
“I-I couldn’t hear them,” Rebecca stammered. “But Brinley was visibly upset. I can’t help but feel as if they are planning something.”
“Why do you say that?” the prophet pressed.
Leandra knew this was his way. He didn’t say much but asked many questions, allowing his subject to connect the dots, place the pieces of the puzzle together, make the connections for him.
“Because, he . . . .” Rebecca hesitated for a moment before closing her eyes and continuing. “He wrote me
a letter. And Brinley delivered it.”
“What did the letter say?” The prophet pursed his lips tightly, and Leandra drew in a heavy breath, feeling weighed down by the tension in the air.
“He wanted me to leave with him.”
Rebecca hung her head and Leandra gasped. She did not know the extent of Brinley’s history with Burt.
The prophet placed both his feet on the floor and slammed the pen down on his mahogany desk.
“And abandon his wives?” he snapped.
Rebecca flinched. “Yes,” she whispered, staring down at the floor.
“I see.”
The room was silent for several seconds. Leandra shifted in her seat. She didn’t regret bringing Rebecca here, not for a second. But she was uncomfortable with the tension in the room. She was used to controlling the tension, and this time the control was out of her hands. She didn’t like feeling powerless. Not one bit.
“I am going to confer with Heavenly Father in this matter,” the prophet said, leaning back in his chair and regaining his composure, his voice modulating into his usual monotone. “But rest assured I will follow through. It may take some time. I need to investigate the situation more thoroughly. And I’ll need to see that letter.”
The two women glanced at each other. Leandra was unsure of what that meant. She knew it was not her place to question the prophet, but the words left her mouth before she could stop them.
“Will Brinley be reassigned?”
“Miss Leandra, I hesitate to take such drastic action, especially since the Cluff household has already been altered these past few months.”
Leandra nodded, biting down on her lip. She knew she was being scolded, no matter how nonthreatening his words might have been. Leandra glanced at Rebecca, who had several tears rolling down her cheeks. For a moment, Leandra felt sorry for Rebecca and for the upheaval she and her sons had endured. But her faith was undeterred and she knew it was for the best. Rebecca would heal and the boys would benefit from the influence of the Cluff family’s standing within the community.
“Trust that Heavenly Father will give me the knowledge to make the right decision in this matter.”
“Yes, of course.” Leandra remained in her seat, hands folded in her lap, waiting to be dismissed by the prophet. She glanced again at Rebecca, whose leg was bobbing up and down. Her nerves were clearly getting the best of her. It was obvious that, despite her anger, Rebecca still cared for Burt Jameson, and that the anger she felt earlier that day was being replaced by fear.
But what was done was done.
“Thank you for the visit today.” The prophet rose to his feet, and Leandra and Rebecca followed suit. “Give my regards to your husband. I’ll be in touch.”
Leandra and Rebecca nodded in silence, then walked to the front door of the Black household.
• • •
“That was a mistake.”
Rebecca hadn’t said a word for two blocks. Leandra shook her head at the misguided eighth wife.
“Pish posh,” she snapped, knowing that their visit with the prophet was entirely necessary for the survival of the Cluff name. She couldn’t allow a foolish twenty-two-year-old girl to tarnish the reputation she’d spent decades building and maintaining. “Do not speak a word of this to anyone but Lehi. And make sure you deliver the letter as the prophet requested.”
“Yes, Leandra.”
“I’m serious.” Leandra planted her feet and glowered at Rebecca. “Brinley and the other wives can never know about this.”
“I understand. I have no intention of saying anything to anyone.”
“Good.” Leandra nodded. “Keep it that way.”
Chapter 25
Porter hadn’t answered my texts. All day.
I wanted—no, needed—to tell him about my experience with Jorjina that day. I needed him to know that I was contemplating packing my things, contemplating leaving the Cluff home. I just wanted the green light. I needed to know that I had a place to stay.
But he wasn’t answering.
The blue suitcase called to me from my closet.
Go.
Do it.
Be brave.
Just go.
But I couldn’t, not without talking to Porter first. While I waited to hear from him, I removed the pile of money from my pocket and placed it inside the front pouch of the suitcase. I sorted through the dresses in my closet—blue, green, lilac. They were all the same, and they were items I would never wear in the outside world. Jorjina’s money would see to that. I’d be able to buy new clothes, and help Porter with the cost of groceries until I was able to find a job. Perhaps Tiffany could put in a good word for me at the free clinic. I’d be a loyal worker, earn my own money, and make my way in the world.
My mind continued to spin as I pondered what else to pack. Certainly not my dresses or long underwear. I looked around my bedroom, searching for items I didn’t want to leave behind. The trinkets from Aspen’s children, those would come with me. They’d remind me of the sister wife who actually cared about my well-being. I’d miss her, miss her instincts and her honesty. But she wasn’t enough to keep me here. I needed Porter.
The photographs of my family called to me from the wall. I couldn’t pack them yet, or else Aspen or the other sister wives would be aware that something was amiss. But I made a mental note to pack them when the time came.
I pulled the phone from my pocket. Still no texts from Porter. Perhaps he was working on the house.
Whenever I thought of the tiny cottage, I got goose bumps on my arms. The thought of living there, just Porter and me, delighted me to no end. When I daydreamed, I envisioned an endless loop of possibilities playing out in my head like a picture book.
Maybe we’d paint the walls a beautiful sea green, and he’d chase me around the living room until he caught me, pulled me to the floor, and wiped fresh paint on the tip of my nose. I’d pretend to be upset and swat him on the chest.
We’d make love in the empty room, reveling in our privacy, in the home we were creating together. Maybe I would teach him to cook my famous apple dumplings, show him how to peel the apples and roll the dough. He’d flick bits of flour at me as I instructed him, distracting me with his humor, then he’d grab me by the waist and hoist me up on the counter. My bare legs would wrap around his waist and I’d kiss him hard before insisting we get back to baking the dessert. Maybe we’d . . .
Boom.
What was that?
I gripped the corner of my dresser, wondering where that loud noise had come from.
Boom.
There it was again. It was coming from the window. I’d left it open slightly since a thunderstorm had begun earlier in the evening. I sent up a quick prayer to Heavenly Father that Porter was on the other side of the glass.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Someone was at my door. I had to decide—window or door? Window or door?
I chose door. I had to.
Aspen was standing on the other side. “Did you hear that?” she asked, peeking over my shoulder into the room.
“Yeah, I did. I think it was a raccoon.”
“A raccoon? No, I don’t think so. That seems very unlikely.”
“It was. I watched as it pounced toward my window,” I lied, “practically scared me to death. But it’s gone now, it ran away.”
“Oh.” She hesitated, narrowing her eyes, still looking past me. “All right. If it comes back, let me know.”
“Of course.”
Closing the door after Aspen, I locked the latch and returned to the window, throwing it open and facing my fears head-on.
A pair of familiar knuckles gripped the window sill.
“Porter, what are you doing?” I shrieked, pulling on his forearm, helping him into the room.
He was a mess. His hair, his skin, his clothing—all soaked from the rain. But not only that, something was off. Something was horribly wrong.
“What’s going on?” I asked as he hoisted himself over the
window and crouched on my floor, wrapping his arms around his knees. But he didn’t answer, didn’t speak a word. Instead, he pulled me down to the floor, his hands gripping my wrists like a vice.
“Porter, you’re scaring me.”
Still, he said nothing. His body slumped until his head rested in my lap, his arms wrapped around my waist. And then it happened.
Porter Hammond cried.
He hiccupped and he sobbed, soaking my dress with his tears. Again and again, I pleaded with him as I stroked his sopping wet hair.
“Porter, please . . . tell me what happened.”
But he didn’t respond and each time I asked, he simply tightened his grip on my waist. I was terrified for him, for us. I didn’t know how to help him, didn’t know how to care for the man I loved. Not unless he told me what was the matter.
Something had ripped him apart. Something or someone had done this to him.
Finally, he let out an agonized whisper. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”
“About what?” I asked, trying desperately to understand.
“I shouldn’t have done it.” He choked on his sobs. “I should’ve known better.”
“I don’t understand. What did you do?”
Was he referring to me? His love for me? I was completely bewildered by his behavior. And I had no clue how to support him.
“Never,” he said between sobs, “never again.” His fingers dug into my waist and I flinched at the throbbing pain. But I welcomed the pain. The pain told me that his regrets had nothing to do with me, with us.
No, this was something bigger. Something much bigger.
My mind was a whirlwind. Even though I was confident that his devastation had nothing to do with me, I still had no idea what he was talking about. I’d never seen him like this, so unglued; even when he was coming down from the meth, he wasn’t like this. This was an emotional response, not a physical one.
Wife Number Seven Page 21