Wife Number Seven (The Compound, #1)(42)

But then I took a sip of my water and looked out the window to see two small birds sitting on a branch just outside the kitchen. I smiled when I realized that Jorjina was simply studying them, watching them as they chirped and took tiny hops across the branch. Perhaps I wasn’t the only one so fascinated by these creatures. Creatures who, to me, represented freedom in all its glory.

Perhaps we both yearned to fly free.

After a moment watching the birds, her face softened. Mrs. Black turned to me and her lips pulled into a half smile.

“You can stay.”

Those three words gave me the acceptance I craved in that moment. I’d been given this honor, and intended to fulfill all the expectations that were placed on me.

“Can you cook eggs?”

I scanned her face, noting she looked tired. The woman had to be at least eighty-five years old. She seemed frail and shrunken, with liver spots prominent on the pale skin of her hands. My heart reached out to her as I wondered what lay beneath that question, so I spoke with confidence, willing Jorjina Black to give me a chance.

“Yes, ma’am. They’re one of my specialties.”

“Good.” She took another sip of water. “I miss eggs.”

Her tone made me smile. The frankness in this woman’s speech made her different from the other women in our community. I sensed resistance from her in complete opposition to the submission that was expected from women of our faith. But she was the prophet’s mother, and with that came privileges the rest of us couldn’t even begin to comprehend. Jorjina Black didn’t need to keep sweet. She didn’t need to keep herself composed or well-mannered. And there was a freedom to that.

She’d lived her life. She’d raised her sons. She’d raised our prophet. She had no need to seek anyone’s approval or opinion.

I wasn’t looking for a new mother figure or even a friend. I just wanted to do my job, and do it well. Little did I know that this tiny woman would quickly become one of the most important people in my life.



Chapter 16

Jorjina Black was not what I had expected. I’d spent two weeks assisting her in her home, and each day she managed to surprise me in some way. Her favorite food was chocolate cake. On my first day, after Lehi and the prophet had left us alone, she told me that she expected to have chocolate cake in the house at all times.

“Deep, dark chocolate,” she said with a sparkle in her eye. “Don’t skimp.”

I’d never heard that term before, and had to ask her to explain it to me. She shook her head, then looked at the kitchen floor and back at me before explaining the term.

She believed in the power of exercise, insisting that we take walks each day to “cleanse our minds.” So each morning, after I fixed her breakfast—which usually consisted of eggs and/or chocolate cake and a large glass of milk—we walked several blocks to the open field where children came together to play. We’d take a short rest on the green park bench, and she’d pontificate on the importance of family, the blessings of Heavenly Father, and the relevance of polygamy in the modern world.

I’d nod along, listening intently, hoping for some sort of light bulb to glow above my head, and pull me away from the rising voice that echoed inside: Porter, Porter, Porter.

But that didn’t happen.

And after several trips to the park, I started to notice that the Jorjina who spoke in the light of day was a different woman from the Jorjina within the confines of her home. In her house, she was a different woman; she didn’t discuss polygamy, our community, or even Heavenly Father. Instead, our discussions focused on the home. She enjoyed sharing her secret family potluck recipes: casseroles, Hawaiian haystacks, and frog-eye salad. She relished telling me about unexpected ingredients that made her dishes tastier than the standard recipes found in our community.

“You serve it like this, and that husband of yours will be wrapped around your pinkie,” she joked while placing her latest casserole in the oven. When I didn’t reply, she looked up at me sharply.

“Interesting,” she said with one eyebrow raised, her lips pressed together tightly.

“I . . . I . . .” I stammered as I cast about, trying to figure out what to say.

“Anyway . . .” She enunciated each syllable dramatically, then tossed the oven mitts on the counter before straightening her collar and giving me a wink. “Let’s get started on another cake.”

Jorjina was on to me.

She knew I wasn’t in love with Lehi. But then again, there were dozens of wives in our community who weren’t truly in love with their husbands. We all had our own reasons for wanting to please our spouse. For women like Leandra, it was power and control. For me, it was maintaining harmony and avoiding confrontation.

It was no great effort for me to shrug that off.

But the hints continued, the heavy-handed statements about love, marriage, and happiness. And I found myself questioning her motives. I wasn’t sure if I could trust Jorjina. As much as I was enjoying her company, I had to remember that she was the mother of the prophet, and my secrets could not be trusted with her.

“I miss my husband every single minute,” Jorjina said sadly. “He was a good man. There aren’t many quite like him.”

Her husband was the prophet when I was born. I was nine when the role of prophet had been passed on to his son after Jorjina’s husband suffered a massive heart attack.