“I never liked having to share her with her schoolkids,” says Natalie. “I always wanted more of her.” Jordan studies her sister. She remembers this about Natalie. The chaos of the house bothered her in a way it never bothered Jordan and Mae. She wanted quiet time, orderly meals, organized cabinets. “I think it’s because I never got her all to myself. You had her when you were a baby, and Mae when we both left the house. But I never did.”
Jordan doesn’t know what to say to this, because it’s true. Sheconcentrates on a collection of plastic cups from Water Country, where they used to go once every summer, climbing the high ladders and skimming down the flumes.
Natalie stacks the cups into a tower and says, “What if we bought it?”
Jordan stops and stares at her. “What? No. With what money?”
“You make a ton of money.”
“I make a good living,” corrects Jordan. “But I live in an expensive city. I work long hours, every day. I wouldn’t have time to come up here much.” She pauses. “And maybe I’m saving for something.”
“For what?” challenges Natalie.
“I’m not ready to talk about it. Why don’tyoubuy it? With Austin’s money.”
“We don’t live off Austin’s money.”
“I thought his parents were loaded.”
“They are. But they’re also big believers in self-sufficiency. They helped us buy the farm, but they don’t give us regular money or anything. We live off what we make from the farm, which honestly is minimal, and the social media accounts.”
“Wow,” says Jordan. “I thought they were helping you. I didn’t realize your accounts make that much.”
“All of this stuff that never even got used,” says Natalie, changing the subject. She holds up a metal rake–looking thing. “I mean, what even is this?”
Jordan examines the item, turning it this way and that. “Sand flea shovel,” she says finally.
“I’m not sure I ever met a sand flea!” says Natalie. Then, quick as a wink, quicker even, she turns away from Jordan, and her shoulders begin to heave. She’s crying.
“Nat! What is it? The sand fleas?”
Natalie shakes her head.
“Natalie.” Jordan feels herself growing stern. “You can tell me.” Asthe older sister, Jordan has seen Natalie through some sketchy times. Sophomore year of high school breakup with that kid Michael. The drunken prom night incident of junior year, 2009. The pregnancy scare freshman year of college.Innumerablefriend dramas.
Natalie turns and wipes her nose. “Okay,” she says. “Hold on. I’ll pull it up.” Natalie sits on a meditation cushion in the middle of the donate pile, scrolls through her phone, and holds the screen up to Jordan. Jordan sees an article on theNew YorkMagazinewebsite, with a photo of Natalie wearing a long flowered dress and holding a loaf of homemade bread. “Trad Dad wants her barefoot and pregnant,” says the caption.
Jordan shoots her eyebrows up.
Natalie thought again of the Sisterhood Napa trip and how much the exclusion had smarted. She’d eased the sting by telling herself how busy she was, how fulfilled. If the Sisterhood wanted to exclude her, let them. She had Austin and the kids and the farm. She had nearly a million and a half followers. In April she caught the big kahuna.New YorkMagazinewas going to write an article featuring five tradwives, and Natalie was one. In late May they sent a reporter and a photographer. The reporter was a sardonic twentysomething with a Brooklyn address, baggy jeans, and vintage brown boots she didn’t want to get dirty. (Natalie offered her muck boots.) The photographer took pictures at milking time, pictures of the baby-blue stove, pictures of Evangeline and Scarlett doing schoolwork at the farmhouse table.
The reporter wanted to see Natalie’s closet, which was not as strange a request as it might seem because Natalie often posted photos of her closet. It was full of flowered material and linens, and, yes, gingham. (She’d bought the gingham as a lark but it turned out she actually looked pretty good in it: #goodingingham.)
“When did you decide to become a tradwife?” the reporter askedher, when they sat at the farmhouse table with cups of tea and Natalie’s famous peanut butter cookies.
“I didn’t decide to be,” Natalie corrected. “It’s a hashtag, yes, but this is who I am. It’s my most authentic self.” She smiled a soft, feminine smile, like a woman in a vintage Summer’s Eve commercial she had once seen on YouTube. She spread her arms wide to include the whole of the valley, and the mountains beyond.
Then Austin came in from the barn. Natalie hadn’t planned on Austin being part of the interview; the photographer had gotten a photo of him and Natalie and the kids. He’d played his part. But Austin loved those peanut butter cookies. He sat down.
“What doyouthink of all of this?” the reporter asked Austin. “This tradwife empire.”
Natalie saw Austin look uncertain, the half-bitten cookie in his hand. Austin has many, many positive qualities, but “polished” isn’t one of them. Austin said, “I like...” He paused, and Natalie’s palms started to sweat. Truth be told, Austindoesn’tlove the social media empire. He accepts it because it’s important to Natalie, and because he loves his family, and because it provides income that feeds his true love: the farm. “I like all the things that Natalie does for me,” he said, smiling his big, goofy, sunny smile. “Ilovethese cookies.”
Natalie tried to kick him under the table; his leg was too far away. “All of the things I do for the family, you mean,” corrected Natalie.
“Sure,” said Austin affably. “Same thing. I love being together in our lives. I love the family we’ve created. We’re still creating. If I could have Natalie barefoot and pregnant forever, I would.” He winked.
“He’s kidding, obviously,” said Natalie. She sent Austin a murderous glance.Sheknew this was an example of Austin’s offbeat sense of humor, but how was anybody else going to know that if the reporterdidn’t understand it? Then she saw the gleam in the reporter’s eyes. The damage was done.
