Tia

The moment I walk into the farmhouse, I let out a sigh. A river rock fireplace emits a warmth to the great room as well as much-welcomed heat. There are braided rugs that surround the hearth and cozy armchairs are covered in blankets and throw pillows. A long, worn wooden table is set with enamelware dishes and the fragrance of roasted chicken and freshly baked bread delights my senses. A pair of dogs jump up to greet us, and everyone is smiling. Literally, every single person is nearly bursting at the seams over our arrival.

My heart unclenches as I look around, my body finally relaxing for the first time in weeks. The cloud lifts from the stormy thoughts swirling around my head since I found out I was pregnant.

How is it that this place feels like home when I’ve never been here before?

I read the Little House on the Prairie books as a little girl. I had found them tucked on a low shelf in my father’s massive library. He told me they were my mother’s, which made me leaf through the chapters with care. I would inhale the fragile pages, well worn and clearly loved, and think about the life I would never have.

For me, the love of a mother would only be found in treasures of hers that I found over the years. A jewelry box in an attic holding her necklaces. A photograph in a dusty album. I made up a story about a life with my mother that would never be.

But here, it’s like the pages of those old chapter books have come to life. I can picture Ma, Pa, and Laura having dinner at a large handcrafted table like the one I’d seen in the dining room. I can imagine sitting around this fire and listening to someone play the fiddle while someone else knit a sweater. At every meal, there would be a place for me at the table.

I swallow hard, not wanting to reveal my emotions to strangers.

The truth is, the real feeling I’m facing is jealousy. Of course, Emerson is so wonderful, so kind and gentle. He came from this place, these people. A family who ushers me into their home, takes my coat, offers me warm tea and tells me to put up my feet.

They hardly know me, yet I am already a cherished member of their family.

“You okay, Tia?” Emerson asks, coming up behind me and wrapping his arm around my waist.

“Oh, yeah, I’m great,” I tell him, flashing a smile that isn’t real. Hating that I’m pulling back from the man who always gives.

“Mom said dinner will be ready any minute. Want me to show you my old bedroom first?”

I nod, then follow him down the hall. Bedroom doors are open and I turn to look inside, seeing quickly that this is a house of men. it’s similar to our compound in that, but none of my husbands have piles of dirty clothes on their floors, muddy boots kicked off, rumpled bedding.

I follow Emerson into his old room, immediately realizing why this place feels so different. I’ve only ever lived in a dormitory or a compound. Never, ever a house made into a home.

“What is it?” he asks, setting down our bags. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“You believe in ghosts?” I ask, diverting his attention, not wanting him to feel my unease.

“Coming back here, I don’t know.” He runs a hand through his long hair, his eyes far away. “Part of me feels like this whole farm is filled with the ghosts of my past. Things I haven’t quite buried.”

I look up at him, once again shocked by my husband. It’s times like these that I realize there’s still a lot I don’t know about him. Running my palm across his cheek, I feel his skin go clammy.

“Maybe I should be asking if you’re the one who has seen a ghost. What’s wrong?”

He exhales, and then takes my hand, pulls me to his bed. Lying on top of him, I wonder what Emerson meant by things he hadn’t quite buried. He kisses my head, his strong arms holding me close, and I want to sink into this moment, not wanting my jealousy or insecurities to take away from the reason I came here in the first place: to clear my head and to calm my anxiety.

I close my eyes, letting Emerson’s firm chest anchor me to the moment.

“Dinner is ready!” A voice yells from the first floor, but I’m in no hurry to go.

“I don’t want to move,” I moan. My cheek rests against his chest and I look around the room. Posters are tacked to the wall, an old acoustic guitar is propped in the corner, and there’s a single photograph on the bedside table.

It’s a family photo, all of the people I met on the dock earlier are in the image. But my gaze catches on the face of a beautiful woman holding a swaddled infant in her arms, Emerson has his hand on the woman’s back.

“Who’s that?” I ask.

Silence meets me and I feel him tense.

When he answers, his voice is soft, barely a whisper. “That’s Helene.”

I rest my hands under my chin, looking at him more closely. Knowing there is more to this story. Before I can ask more, the bedroom door flings open.

“Hey, lovebirds,” Will shouts. “Didn’t you hear me? Dinner’s ready!”

Em pulls me up to stand.“You ready for this?”

“You told me they would be nice,” I say lightly.

“Sure, they’ll be nice. But my family, they’re not what you’re used to. Overly polite and well mannered,” Emerson teases. “Here, anything is fair game. We’re farmers, not fancy scholars like Banks.”

“I don’t need more than one fancy scholar,” I say taking his hand.

“Good.”

“So, any advice?” I ask as we leave his room.

“Just be yourself. I think you’re pretty perfect.”

“Perfect? Now you’re making me nervous,” I laugh as he drags me down the hall.

“Don’t be.” Emerson stops, leans down and kisses me.

“Ewww,” Mason groans, coming around the corner. “Kissing is gross.”

Emerson smiles and then tousles his brother’s hair. We all walk toward the dining room together, and I inhale the delicious scents. The table is filled with dishes of food and bowls of bread and my stomach gurgles in anticipation.

“You’ve been good?” Em asks Mason when we’re seated.

“Yeah,” he says with a grin. “I’ve been helping Dad with the sheep. I take care of them all on my own now.”

“You must be pretty responsible.”

“Well with you being gone, we all have to pitch in more. That’s what Dad says at least.”

Emerson laces our fingers together under the table. “And Will and Jack, they holding up okay with me gone?”

Jack, Will, and Emerson’s father all sit down just as Emerson asks the question.

His mom follows closely behind with a big serving platter of roasted meat. My stomach growls again, and I relish the fact that I have an appetite for once. Missing out on this meal would be a disappointment.

“You think we miss you?” Jack asks with a grin.

Will laughs. “Awww, you’ve been crying yourself to sleep missing your baby brothers?” he teases.

“Shush, you two,” their mom admonishes, a small smile playing on her lips. “Of course, we’ve missed you, Emerson.” She sets down the platter and leans down to kiss Emerson on the cheek. “We thought we lost you, out at sea, and as much as these boys of mine might tease you, it was a somber time while we waited for word about your ship.”

I share a look with his mom, remembering the day I called her with the tragic news that Emerson was missing. Thank God he was found, that we are here at all, sharing this meal.

So often, I think that life and death only revolve around pregnancy and childbirth. But the truth is, none of us know what tomorrow might bring. Emerson could have been swept away to sea, Giles could have died when the wolves attacked him, a mercenary could have killed me the way I killed one myself.

I swallow, collecting myself as everyone is seated for dinner. Emerson’s dad raises a pint of beer and offers a toast, and I lift my water glass in solidarity.

“To Tia,” he says. “The future of our family.”

“To Tia,” the family calls out, clinking glasses and exchanging warm smiles.

As I raise my glass, pressure grows in my belly, hating the idea of letting all of these people who are welcoming me into their home.

Here, I’m a fish out of water and I feel lost at sea myself. But as the night progresses, I’m pulled into the warmth and security that fills the home and quickly realize that laughter is like a second language among them.

These people are sturdy, steady, just like Emerson, and I find myself longing for more time here. The only thing that would make it more perfect, would be to have all of my husbands with us.

Small laughter escapes my lips as I think about Banks or Huxley as farmers.

“What?” Em asks, nuzzling his nose against my neck as we sit in front of the roaring fireplace, his arms wrapped protectively around me. The rest of his family have drifted off to their own rooms, and now it is just him and me alone in the living room.

“I like it here,” I say, leaning back against him, taking the strength he provides, soaking in this alone time with him. “It’s just so... you.”

He chuckles. “Are you saying I don’t fit in at the compound?”

“No. You do. But I see the way you are here. Relaxed, confident... happy.”

“I’m happy when I’m with you.”

“I know.” I twine my fingers with his and stare into the fire. Emerson has always been easy to be around, but being here I realize that there’s still a lot I don’t know about him. “Tell me what it was like, growing up here. Are there many other families around?”

He tenses. It’s just a slight movement, but I feel it. “Not anymore.”

I shift so I can see his face, but his expression seems guarded, so unlike him.

“What happened to them?”

“Most moved away. And the rest are planning on leaving as soon as they can.” He shakes his head and his throat bobs as he swallows. “There isn’t much to keep people here, not with the women being sent to the Wife Lottery. Men here have two choices. Stay and never marry, or enter their name and hope that they get as lucky as me.”

“It doesn’t seem fair.”

“No,” he agrees. “But what else can we do?”

I feel like there’s something he’s holding back.

“Did you ever think about staying here and not marrying?”

He doesn’t answer right away. “Yes. But not because I didn’t want to share my life with someone. I’ve always wanted to be a husband. To be a father.”

There’s something in his words, a secret that I can hear but not decode.

“And you couldn’t have that here.”

“I thought I could.”

“Was there someone you loved?” I think back to the pretty brunette in the photo. It’s not jealousy that spurs my question, just curiosity. I can’t begrudge my husbands for their pasts. I hope in time they will all feel safe enough in our love to be open with me about everything.

“Loved?” He shakes his head, but I know he is thinking about his ghosts. Maybe they’re still haunting him. “What does a fourteen-year-old know about love?”

I run my thumb over his hand, my voice soft. “Who was she?”

“Helene.”

“What happened?” I ask softly.

His jaw clenches. “She wasn’t from here. My father found her drifting in a small boat just off the coast. She’d run away from the mainland when she found out that she was to be forced into the lottery. My parents took her in. Let her work on the farm, and kept her identity a secret.”

I frown, a pressure at the back of my skull warning me that the story doesn’t have a happy ending.

“She was older than me. Nineteen when she arrived. But I was...” His lips tug up. “I didn’t look my age.”

“You were fourteen?”

He nods. “Didn’t have a fucking clue what I was doing, but I learned quickly. When my parents found out that we were... intimate, they threatened to send her away. But it was already too late.”

“Too late?” I place my hand on his chest. “Because you were in love with her?”

“No. Sure, I lusted after her. But love wasn’t part of it. I didn’t know what love between a man and woman was until I met you, Tia.”

“Then what?”

He glances over his shoulder, brows drawn, and I can tell he’s debating whether to open up. Finally, he lets out a long uneven sigh.

“She got pregnant.”

“Oh.” Of all the things I expect him to say, that wasn’t one of them.

“Did she... did she survive?”

“Yes. And so did the child.”

He has a kid. I remember the baby in the photo. He’s a father.

My throat constricts.

“What happened to them?”

He runs a palm over his face then pinches the bridge of his nose. “I haven’t shared this with anyone. Only my family knows. There are things...”

I grip his hand tight. “Whatever it is, you can trust me. I love you.”

“I know.” He rests his forehead against mine and his eyes close. “I helped deliver the baby here, in this room. The day was hot as hell, middle of August, and yet when Helene went into labor it was chillingly cold in here. We were all so scared, we were bracing ourselves for the worst, for the ice that would surely cover us when we lost them.

“But they didn’t die. And our hearts all melted when we laid eyes on the baby. He was beautiful and healthy, and I loved him the second I looked into his eyes, kissed his chubby cheeks, counted his ten fingers and ten toes. But...” He mutters a curse under his breath. “I was fifteen when he was born. I didn’t know a thing about being a father. And Helene knew even less about being a mother. And then there was the law and the fines. We couldn’t pay them and keep the farm. My parents did what they thought best at the time.”

Anxiety twists in my chest. “What did they do?”

“They sent me away to the Navy. Again, I was big for my age, so no one questioned me when I said I was eighteen.”

“And the baby?”

“Helene wasn’t ready to be a mother. She was terrified of the idea. She wanted... freedom. And the last thing she wanted was the burden of a son. Honestly, I couldn’t fault her for it, for wanting to leave him behind. Helene was always wild… lost… the idea of her staying put in one place, year after year… impossible.” Emerson shakes his head. “So, my parents took him and raised him as their own.”

It takes me a few seconds to understand what he’s saying. “Mason is your son?”

“Yes.”

Oh, my God.

I pull back, trying to grasp this new piece of himself that he’s revealed.

“Does he know?”

“No.” Emerson’s eyes meet mine, blazing with determination. “And he can’t. At least not until he’s older.”

“And the woman. Helene?”

“She left soon after Mason was born. I only received one letter from her a few years back. After everything she went through to be free, she entered the lottery after all. Married. Had two other children. But she passed away from complications with the last one. At least that’s what the report said. I don’t believe it though.”

“Why not?”

“Because she knew how to protect herself. She had my mother’s recipe.”

“Recipe?”

“It’s one of the reasons I wanted to bring you here. There’s a flower that grows only on the west side of the island. When mixed with white willow bark, and honey, and taken orally daily, it reduces the risks--”

“An old wives’ tale isn’t going to save me, Em.”

“It helped Helene. And my mom has--”

“A flower isn’t going to help me,” I insist.

But my husband is just as insistent when he says, “You’re wrong. I’d bet my life on it.”