Young Wives by Goldsmith Olivia Page B

pulling herself together. “I can do it,” she repeated, as if she were giving herself a pep talk, which Jada figured she was doing.
    Jada used an old joke they’d run through together during the trials of raising suburban kids. “Are you calm?” she asked.
    “Yes.”
    “If you’re calm, I’m the Dalai Lama,” Jada said.
    “If you’re the Dalai Lama, I’m Richard Gere,” Michelle answered weakly.
    “If you’re Richard Gere, I’m outta here,” Jada finished. “I’ll leave work real soon, pick up some pizzas, and we’ll have a pizza party at my house. If you want to sleep over with the kids, that’s just fine.”
    “Sleep?” Michelle asked. “Oh God, Jada. I’m never going to be able to sleep again.”
    “Just as well,” Jada said. “It’s overrated. A big time-waster, generally. And you got a lot of cleaning to do. You okay?” she asked, just to be sure.
    “Under the circumstances, yeah,” Michelle said. “Under the circumstances. And Jada?”
    “Yes,” Jada said.
    “Thank you. I won’t forget this.”
    “I hope you do. I hope you forget the whole thing once it all gets straightened out. Meanwhile, tell me what’s really important. I forget if the kids eat sausage on their pizza or not.”

10
During which Angela sleeps through a riot and is subsequently read the riot act twice
    “You’re going to have to do something , Angela,” Tony, her father, was saying from the doorway of the study. “It’s not healthy to just lie here. You don’t even look healthy.” He craned his neck forward. “You’re not taking an interest in anything. You didn’t even get up last night during that riot.”
    “What riot?” Angie asked dully.
    “You didn’t even hear the cop cars and the commotion down at the end of the street?” Angela just shook her head. She’d found the number of a pharmacy that delivered, and a combination of Nyquil and Tylenol PM had put her in something close to a coma. “Well, you saw the police tape around the house today, didn’t you?” her father was asking. “The bastids wrecked the joint.”
    Angie shook her head again. She didn’t have a clue about what he was talking about, and she didn’t care.
    “Angie, there was a huge drug bust round the corner, about ten houses down.” He looked at her appraisingly. “Hey, when’s the last time you went out?” he asked, suspicion in his deep voice.
    “I’m going out later,” Angie told him, avoiding the question. It had been a few days. She was still in the Ranger’s sweatshirt, still on the sofa.
    “Great! You gotta date?” He approached her and sat on the arm of the couch.
    “Yeah. With my mother,” Angie said grimly. He better not get too close. She hadn’t washed, brushed her teeth, or been out of her father’s house since she arrived, and even she was willing to admit she was getting a little strange.
    “Oh, she’s back?” her father asked. Angie couldn’t help but notice how he pretended to be totally casual, but she could sense his very real curiosity behind it. Desperation knew desperation. Angela was almost certain that her dad regretted the divorce. As far as she knew, her parents didn’t speak. Her father had simply disappeared from her mother’s conversation. But somehow Anthony Romazzano always knew Natalie Goldfarb’s whereabouts.
    “You’re not going to get involved working for those schnorers ?” he asked. “I didn’t pay for law school so that you could help out a bunch of freeloaders.”
    “You didn’t pay for my law school,” Angie reminded him. Her father was very odd about money; he’d been poor and then he’d been very rich. He tried never to let the women in his family know where he’d stood. But they’d ignored him, and he’d always been disturbed that neither Natalie nor Angie seemed influenced by his money. Though he’d suffered a few business reverses recently, he was still well off.
    “Please, Angie. You could get a job with a Park Avenue firm in a minute.