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Judith and placed my hand atop theirs.
Harmston did the honors. This was only the clan’s third plural marriage. The
first one led to a rift in the cult on the issue of threesomes—more on
that in Chapter Eight—and the second one was on the occasion of
Harmston’s taking a plural wife of his own.
    I was calm during the ceremony. But during the big wedding
reception we threw at our house—hors d’oeuvres, punch, cake, 200 guests,
the works—I began the process of inwardly freaking. This wasn’t just talk
any more. This was real. My husband was about to leave on a honeymoon with
another, younger—way younger—woman with to-die-for boobs. And have
sex with her.
    SEX.
    My brave front melted away. I felt as if someone had
died—perhaps a part of me did indeed die at that moment—and I
grieved. I told myself we were doing the right thing, that this was my
Gethsemane, or my moment on the cross where God was forsaking me and leaving me
to my inner strength. The self-talk didn’t help.
    On the bright side, I was left with the remains of a wedding
bash to clean up and three little kids to care for while Jeff and Judith ran
off on their honeymoon.
    Jeff called me the next morning. With no regard for privacy
or decorum, I asked if they had consummated. No. Judith was tired and reticent,
so Jeff backed off. I relived my anxiety as the next evening approached. Jeff
called again the next morning. Did they consummate? Yes. My stomach leapt to my
throat.
    Yet—somehow—I felt relief. Knowing it was over
was easier than knowing it was going to happen. Much the way a bowel movement
feels better than constipation.
    It was finally over. It was legit. And, as my friend pointed
out, Jeff wasn’t sneaking around. I was in control.
    I was the First Wife.
    It was time to get on with being a helpmeet. Which meant
finding more wives.

Chapter 6: And Ginger Makes Three
    You better shop around.
    —William “Smokey” Robinson & Berry Gordy
     
    We needed to attend to one small matter of business before
resuming our search for sister-wives. The Mormon Church had invited us to
attend a church court, sometimes called a “court of love,” convened in our
honor.
Booted by the Mormons
    Mormons call their geographic equivalent of a parish and the
congregation living within its boundaries a ward .
A cluster of five or more wards makes a stake .
I figured we’d be hauled before a ward or stake court sooner or later.
Harmston’s followers reported seeing local Mormon leaders drive by his home and
take down license plate numbers of cars parked outside. Fact or paranoia? It
wouldn’t have been without precedent. It wasn’t many years earlier that
Mormon-owned Brigham Young University campus police made a practice of running
license plate numbers of cars parked outside gay establishments and furnishing
to school administration the names of students whose records matched.
    We hadn’t officially resigned from our Orem ward, so I
expected the summons to come from there. Nope. It came from a council of Manti
stake leaders, men we had never met. We were charged with the sin of apostasy.
But why only that charge? We had indeed apostatized, but we were also openly
practicing polygamy. Mormons consider polygamy far more serious, far worthier
of excommunication. Why didn’t they mention that?
    Since we no longer recognized the mainstream church, you
might wonder why we even dignified their court with an appearance at all. Two
reasons. We were eager to bear witness of The Truth to them. And there was
something invigorating in defying the authority we once revered. We felt
deliciously bratty.
    We drove to the local Mormon stake building where we were
greeted by a dozen men freshly plucked from tractors and stuffed into
ill-fitting polyester suits. The kind that come with two pairs of pants.
Strangers though they were, they assured us that they loved us and had our best
interests at heart.
    Once the perfunctory assurances that they loved us and had
our