At a luxurious secret facility in the Hudson Valley of New York, women who need money bear children for wealthy would-be mothers with no time for pregnancy.Golden Oaks is a division of a high-end luxury services company that has found a new way to meet the needs of its customer base. The company recruits healthy young womenthe Hostsimplants them with fertilized eggs from the Clients, houses and feeds them, manages their pregnancies, and monitors their every move, breath, and heartbeat until delivery, at which point the Host receives a huge payout. The operation is run by Mae Yu, a Chinese-American Harvard Business School graduate whose insatiable ambition and moral turpitude conflict withand keep winning out overher sympathy for the women who work for her, mostly nonwhite immigrants. Central among them is Jane, a Filipina with a 6-month-old baby who is financially desperate after losing her job as a nanny. For Jane, Golden Oaks is a godsend, not to mention the nicest place she's ever lived, until she realizes that being separated from her daughter is unbearable. Even though there are many other Filipinas, she feels completely isolated until befriended by her roommate, Reagan McCarthy. Reagan is one of the few who represent "the holy trifecta of Premium Hosts": white, pretty, and cum laude from Duke. Reagan's anomie and desperate need to be of use motivate her as much as the need to be free of her financially controlling father. Lisa, the other white girl at Golden Oaks, is on her third assignment at what she calls "The Farm." She is the only one who sees the exploitative, Orwellian setup for what it is, and her ongoing efforts to game the system eventually lead to big trouble...for Jane. Perhaps the most powerful element of this debut novel by Ramos, who was born in Manila and moved to Wisconsin when she was 6, is its portrait of the world of Filipinas in New York. The three-page soliloquy of instructions for nannying delivered to Jane by her more experienced cousin is a work of art in itself.Excellent, both as a reproductive dystopian narrative and as a social novel about women and class. Copyright Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

Ramos's transfixing debut scrutinizes the world of high-end surrogacy with stinging critiques and sets up heartrending dilemmas. Timid Filipina immigrant Jane is persuaded by her much older cousin Evelyn to apply as a surrogate, known as a "host," for the ultrarich after she is fired from her lucrative nannying job. Jane passes the highly selective process, hesitantly leaves her own infant daughter with Evelyn, and, already pregnant, moves into Golden Oaks, a luxury resort-style center in the Hudson Valley where the surrogates live together. Assertive, smooth-talking Mae runs Golden Oaks with strict rules, very curtailed outside contact, and constant surveillance. Jane bonds quickly with her roommate, Reagan, an aspiring photographer and "premium host" (because she's white), who hopes the staggering bonuses for healthy delivery will allow her to escape her father's control. Lisa, another surrogate returning for her third pregnancy, disastrously pulls Jane and Reagan into her schemes to subvert rules. After Jane learns some secrets about Mae and Evelyn, her concern for her absent daughter propels her on a dangerous path that threatens Mae's ambitious plans and Jane's security. Ramos particularly shines at her nuanced, emotional depictions of these women's interior struggles. A surefire hit with book groups, this striking novel will also appeal strongly to readers who like dystopian touches and ethically complicated narratives. Agent: Jennifer Joel, ICM Partners. (May) © Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved.

When Jane Reyes loses her baby-nursing job, her older cousin Evelyn has a suggestion that will solve all of her money problems, even if it means months away from her baby daughter, Amalia. Mae Yu is delighted with Jane; she is sweet, compliant, and motivated by the promise of financial freedom, making her the perfect host at Golden Oaks, a gestational retreat for surrogates carrying the babies of the top tier of the one percent. Mae is less certain of Reagan, who is white and therefore earns Golden Oaks more money but muddled by a quarter-life crisis. Told from the perspectives of the four women, Ramos' debut is so engaging that the reader might not fully understand the depths she probes until the book is done. Throughout, questions of money, ethics, privilege, and ambition arise as each character makes compromises or straight-up lies to herself. Jane's sweetness gives the reader someone to root for, but each character's complexity will give book groups plenty to discuss. An alarmingly realistic look at the power of wealth and access buoyed by clear, compelling storytelling and appealing, if not always likable, characters.--Susan Maguire Copyright 2019 Booklist

DEBUT From the blurb, you might think that Ramos's debut novel is about a near-future dystopia with poor women serving as portable wombs for wealthy women. But no, our hosts, as they are known at Golden Oaks, aka the Farm, live in the present. Mae is the managing director of Golden Oaks and is breaking the glass ceiling at Holloway as the first and only woman at the director's table. She is also half Chinese and half white. Golden Oaks hosts are largely poor women of color like Jane, who is Filipina, but there are highly prized hosts as well. It costs significantly more to purchase a premium white host with a college degree like Reagan, Jane's sometime roommate at the Oaks. Race, ethnicity, money, and power fuel a narrative about family and parenthood triggered by Jane's cousin Ate, whose actions lead to a series of events that bring the four women together. VERDICT Traveling from the glitz of Manhattan to multiethnic, immigrant Queens and the isolation of the rural Hudson Valley, this is an exciting read about the politics of motherhood and female autonomy. Highly recommended for readers of both popular and literary fiction. [See Prepub Alert, 11/12/18.]-Pamela Mann, St. Mary's Coll. Lib., MD © Copyright 2019. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

COMMERCIAL SURROGACY - the birthing of another woman's baby in exchange for cash - is an act of benevolence, or of exploitation. It celebrates life. It commodifies life. It's a moral outrage. A blessing, a gift. It pays women fairly for their hard work and altruism. It reduces women to vessels, turning their bodies, and babies, into merchandise. So many factors - gender, race, religion, class - may determine where you come down on the surrogacy debate. So may your media diet. Perhaps you've heard disturbing tales about "baby factories" in India or Ukraine. Or maybe you've read uplifting profiles of women who call surrogacy the most meaningful job they've done. Joanne Ramos plays with many of these notions in her debut novel, "The Farm," which imagines what might happen were surrogacy taken to its high-capitalist extreme. The titular "farm" is Golden Oaks, a "gestational retreat" in upstate New York that caters to the ultrarich. The concept: Clients pay for Hosts to carry their children; those Hosts, selected via a rigorous vetting process, move into Golden Oaks for the duration of their pregnancies. There, they are surveilled - er, pampered - 24/7, to ensure that the (very expensive) unborn children they're incubating will reach maximum potential. In exchange for their service, Hosts receive a modest stipend and, upon successful delivery, a big ol' bonus. It's a win- win for everyone! What could go wrong? I'm reminded of the words a wise doula once spoke to me: "Bodies are chaos." And those bodies, containing as they do human minds with human will, are apt to foil even the most stringently regulated environment, to violate the terms of the most airtight, lawyered-up-the-wazoo birth contract. At the heart of "The Farm" are four women through whom Ramos creates a group portrait of female striving, for survival, for status, for purpose. Each has her own reasons for chasing the dollar, and each will sacrifice something vital - health, dignity, family, freedom - to obtain it. Jane, a half-Filipina, half-American single mother to an infant daughter, begins the novel living in a cramped Queens dorm with other Filipinas toiling to send remittances back home. Also sharing space there is Ate, Jane's industrious 67-year-old cousin, a "brown Mary Poppins" to the children of the 1 percent, who tips off Jane to the opportunity at Golden Oaks: "The work is easy and the money is big! " This is catnip to Jane, who above all yearns to provide a home for her daughter - to properly nest. Accepted into the Farm, where many Hosts are different shades of brown, Jane rooms with Reagan, the "holy trifecta of Premium Hosts": white, pretty, educated. Reagan, an artsy idealist with white-savior tendencies, grew up in Chicago's posh northern suburbs but needs money to win independence from her overbearing father. Prone to sentimentality and heavyhanded moralizing, and not a little naive, she is aggressively recruited by Mae, the Farm's director, who knows that Reagan - or, more precisely, her womb - could represent "a record-breaking year-end bonus." If the book has a villain, it's the ambitious, covetous Mae, a mercenary wolf in Yves Saint Laurent clothing. Mae, who has staked her future on the Farm, isn't yet hedge-fund wealthy, but as a high-end service provider to the filthy rich, she has eaten at their tables, flown in their jets and styled herself in their image (with help from the sales racks at Barneys and Bergdorf Goodman). In other words: She has sampled the goods, and most desperately wants in. Mae positions the Farm as a luxury haven (massages, fitness classes, cashmere loungewear), but the place also boasts rather sinister features. Cameras line the hallways. Hosts must relinquish their cellphones and forgo visits from friends or family. A media center offers contact with the outside world, but all calls, email and web browsing are monitored. Hosts wear wristbands tracking their every hop, skip and heartbeat, and are mostly forbidden from knowing anything about their employer-clients (in the name of "fetal security"). Take a human, isolate her, strip her of agency in the guise of "care": If that sounds like a recipe for abuse, well, it is. Soon Jane, Reagan and other Hosts begin defying the Farm's rigid system. Their insubordination threatens to sabotage Mae's ambitions, and to imperil their own bids for security and liberty. "The Farm" may be an "issue" book, but it wears the mantle lightly. It's a breezy novel full of types (the Shark, the Dreamer, the Rebel, the Saint), and veers, not always successfully, from earnestness into satire. That shift in voice can obscure the novel's intent - though to be fair, ambiguity may be the point. Ramos's characters articulate both sides of the surrogacy argument: "You're letting a rich stranger use you," one objects; it's "an incredible thing to give someone life," says another. Where "The Farm" stands on the wealth gap is also fuzzy. Some of its sharpest scenes are those skewering the rich: imperious Upper East Siders who utter racist, cringe-inducing microaggressions, or Mae's globe-trotting, surfer-bro boss, who in a single brainstorm evokes everything odious about a would-be pregnancy-commodification industry: "What if we began sourcing more of our Hosts from lowermiddle-class Caucasians?" he suggests. "They've been hammered for decades - no wage growth, unions emasculated.... I bet we don't have to pay them much more than we pay our immigrant-sourced Hosts, but - and here's the nub of it - we could charge a premium." The modern worker: Never mind laying her off from the factory; turn her into the factory. Yet Ramos also lingers indulgently over the trappings of the wealthy, to the point where reading this novel felt a bit like watching several hours of reality-TV luxury porn. So "The Farm" isn't not a critique, but it's also not an indictment. Is commercial surrogacy profiteering or opportunity? Is it inherently racist? Does it honor or degrade women? The novel's tooneat ending won't provide satisfying answers. But the stage is set for lively book chat, perhaps over a "gorgeous Armand de Brignac, the color of liquid gold" - or just a boxed chardonnay. Is surrogacy profiteering or opportunity? Is it inherently racist? Does it honor or degrade women? JEN MCDONALD, a former editor at the Book Review, is a writer and editor based in Chicago.