Young Wives (69 page)
Authors: Olivia Goldsmith
Michelle had the Volvo back in Westchester in less than an hour. The road was open and the driving was fine. She didn’t miss the Lexus or anything it represented. In fact, getting her old station wagon back felt good. She thought that Frankie and Jenna liked it, too. In fact, after about half an hour, they seemed to have fallen asleep.
Michelle thought about the jobs that were waiting for her. She had found a place to rent—just a plain little modular ranch on half an acre, but she was renting it furnished, so it was a simple and affordable decision. She couldn’t put the house up for sale, because if Frank was found guilty it might all be claimed by the state. It wouldn’t bother her. The Volvo had the basics, and though she knew now that life wasn’t easy, she was determined to keep it simple.
She didn’t know when she had begun, but as she turned off the highway she realized that she was singing. How long had it been since she’d sung? She smiled and sang a little louder. It was an old thing, something her grandmother used to belt out about a syncopated clock: “‘There was a man like you and me, as simple as a man could ever be…’” In the backseat, Frankie, who loved the song, chimed in. A moment later Jenna’s voice joined them. “‘From far and wide the people flocked, to hear the syncopated clock,’” they all sang, and glancing into the rearview mirror, Michelle smiled at her smiling children.
On the plane, Jada looked down. Samuel had insisted that she take the window seat. They’d been served champagne, with orange juice for the children. Then they’d had a delicious meal, and now ice cream with hot fudge sauce and cookies, warm out of the oven, were about to be served. It was the first, and possibly the last, time Jada would fly deluxe, but she had to admit it was very enjoyable. She looked out the window again, and for the first time she could see down to the ocean. They were flying over an island, although she didn’t know which one it was.
She wondered what the Caymans would be like. Samuel had told her about his discussion with Michelle, and what preparatory work he had done. Now Jada bent forward and took the black canvas bag from under her feet. Slowly she opened it, but she didn’t remove the wrapped money. Instead she simply opened the paper.
They were hundred-dollar bills and it looked as if there were dozens—no, hundreds, maybe even a thousand of them! For a moment Jada thought her heart might stop. She tore all the rest of the paper off, put both of her hands into the sack, and started to riffle through one of the stacks of money. She noticed each was carefully wrapped in the middle with a colored band; they’d used the same things at her bank. Each small bunch was a hundred bills—ten thousand dollars. She began to count the bunches. After she had counted past thirty—more than three hundred thousand dollars—she was having so much trouble breathing that she simply stopped, folded up the bag, and stowed it at her feet again. Meanwhile, Samuel was smiling at her.
“Four hundred and eighty-two thousand dollars,” he said. “She gave the rest to the police.”
Jada blinked, tried to speak, couldn’t, and cleared her throat. “And it’s mine?” she asked.
“Absolutely. Michelle told me she wants nothing to do with it. She wants it to go to a good cause and we both agree you are one.”
Jada shook her head. She was still having difficulty taking this in. “So the money is mine?”
“Yes,” Samuel said. “And you’ll need it to establish yourself on the Caymans. They’re very prejudiced there, but only against poor people. With this capital, any interest you draw from it, and your new job, you’ll do fine.”
“What new job?” Jada asked.
“Well, there are a lot of banks on the island, as I told you. I think you have your choice, but of the three interviews I’ve set up, I would say that Island Bank will offer you not only the more interesting job, but also better pay.”
Jada leaned back into the comfort of the plush first class seat. How had all of this come about? Should a girl simply listen to her mother and her girlfriends to be sure everything worked out perfectly? In her case, it had certainly helped. For the first time, she had the courage to look directly at Samuel Dumfries. “I want to thank you for your help, too,” she said.
He smiled. “My pleasure.”
Angie didn’t know how she would feel going back to the empty apartment. Lonely, she guessed, so she pumped up the sound system in the Lexus and enjoyed the drive. But when she got there, the apartment wasn’t empty.
“We thought you might want some company,” her mother said as Angie walked in. Her father was there, too, sitting on the sofa reading a folded up
Wall Street Journal
in that mysterious way he had, turning pages in portions so the paper was no longer than his hand. That it was almost unreadable didn’t seem to bother him.
“Well. What a nice surprise,” Angie said.
“And nice or not, I’m here and I brought dinner,” Bill added. “Lucky thing, too, because as they say in the ads on TV, some assembly required.”
Angie was grateful to see them all. Walking into an empty, echoing apartment probably would have been more than she could have tolerated at that moment. But that wasn’t all. Natalie moved her toward the door of her spare room, so recently filled with Jenna, Frankie, and Michelle. Now it wasn’t empty—it was filled with a crib, a changing table, a rocking chair, a pile of stuffed animals, and boxes and boxes of wrapped gifts. “From Jada and Michelle,” her mother told her.
“No, the rocking chair’s from me,” someone said, and she turned to see Michael behind her, a pair of pliers in his hand. She was very glad to see him. “And they left this,” he said, handing her an envelope.
Dear Angie,
You’ll only get this letter if we’re not in jail. That means that our plan worked, and that we won’t be wearing matching jumpsuits for the next twenty years.
We never could have done it without you (but you couldn’t have done it without us, either). We both agree that we’ve never had a friend like each other, or a friend like you. We love you.
And don’t think you’ll be alone. Michelle promises free baby-sitting services, plus she’ll attend all of your prenatal classes with you and be your coach (unless Michael wants to do it. Somehow we think he will). Jada guarantees you Christmas and summer vacations in the Caribbean every year until the baby is twenty-one. And, as if that wasn’t enough, we enclose this special gift that we saved for you. In return, Jada would like a photo of the smoking ruins of her house.
We love you, but we already said that, didn’t we?
Jada & Michelle
Angie smiled and then looked into the envelope. There, almost stuck to the backing on the envelope’s fold, was another Polaroid. She pulled it out. There was Michelle smiling up at her, with Reid’s face beside her, but Reid wasn’t smiling at all. Instead he was looking down at his crotch, where it was clear that Mr. Happy was not living up to his name.
Well
, Angie thought,
now I’ll have a picture of Daddy to show to the baby. But maybe I’ll wait until the baby is twenty-one. And I’ll let Jada and Michelle explain exactly how it all happened
.
Having written seven novels, I’m beginning to find writing the acknowledgments the most difficult part of the entire process. As you can imagine, there is the chance that I may forget to mention someone important to me. Regretfully, I considered dropping acknowledgments altogether, but it seemed so ungracious. Plus, I’ve been told over and over that readers actually pore over these pages. Every steady reader of my work apparently expects to find pages of “thank yous” even though most of them don’t know any of the people mentioned. Readers, voilà!
Come to find out, Nan Robinson is no longer a Robinson but a Delano and still must be thanked not only for her wonderful help but also the fabulous epigraph. Only note Carl and Rita at Green Tree Nursery make me as happy (keep that sod coming). Like most writers, I am fairly solitary during the day except for my two new loves: Spice Girl and New Baby, brought to me through the careful ministrations of Harold Sokol. Likewise, I need to thank my Line Dogs, Tom and Tony, for giving me my wall and stairway to heaven and Jeff for making the earth move. In addition, I need to correct an error in my last two books. Not since
The Bestseller
have I thanked those unsung heroes of the publishing world—the sales reps at HarperCollins—for getting my work into bookstores all over the country. Special thanks to Marjorie Braman, Joseph Montebello, Jeffery McGraw, Jane Friedman, and Leonida Karpik for all their endless support.
Construction has played a large part in my life this year—not only in my work but in my living space—so a huge thank you to the Chelsea Hotel for making room for me when I didn’t have one of my own. Also, thank you to Jay and Lewis Allen for sharing Tody and Villa Allen with me—and for introducing me to Ed Harte, who shares my love of architecture. Nieces and nephews must always be mentioned or they expect bigger gifts on birthdays, so kisses and hugs to Rachel, Ben, Ali, and Michael. There are also some dearest girlfriends who continue to put up with me, even when I disappear into my writing mode: Susan Jedren, Jane Sheridan, Sara Pearson, Linda Gray, Karin Levitas, Lisa Welti, Lynn Phillips, Dale Burg, Rosie Sisto.
Serious thanks for legal (and philosophical) help from: Paul Mahon, Cliff Gilbert-Lurie, Skip “Bait and Switch” Brittenham, and Bert Fields. Even though agents have always been a difficult area for me, I want to thank Nick Ellison for changing my mind about agents and for straightening out all of my publishing issues and to the lovely Alicka Pistek, Jennifer Edwards, and Whitney Lee from Nicholas Ellison, Inc., for their tremendous responsiveness. Likewise, I would like to praise my foreign rights co-agents: Eliane Benisti of France, Ann-Christine Danielsson of Scandinavia, Roberto Santachiara of Italy, Isabel Monteagudo of Spain, Sabine Ibach of Germany, Marijke Lijnkamp of the Netherlands, Jovan Milenkovic and Ana Milenkovic of Eastern Europe. Literary Guild president Roger Cooper was one of the first to believe in me and I’m grateful for his response to this book as well as the care and enthusiasm shown by Marcus Wilhelm, Susan Musman, John Bloom, and the other delightful staff.
Finally, there are the legendary people in the movie industry who are working hard to turn this novel into a great film. Ivan Reitman, Tom Pollack, Dan Goldberg, Joe Medjik, and especially Michael Chinich of Montecito Pictures are brilliant, funny, and understand my purpose with this book. Candy and flowers should also go to Laurie Sheldon for her female input. Totally male as Montecito is, I think you Lost Boys are going to do something great. ICM and particularly Jeff Berg, Barbara Dreyfus, Nancy Josephson, and my cutie Bob Levinson are my Hollywood supporters and all have my gratitude. Oh, and I never leave out Sherry Lansing, my touchstone and friend along with other Paramount people including Alan Ladd, Jr., Jon Goldwyn and Deedee Myers, David Madden, and Robert Cort. Nunzio Nappi, the Bitch of Perkinsville, Carol Sylvia, Robinette Bell, Lenny Bigelow, Debbie, Katie, and Nina LaPoint, Ann Foley, Jerry Offsay, Jacki Judd, Barbara Howard, David Gurenvich, Louise, both Margarets, Michael Kohlmann, Dwight Currie, Charlie Crowley, Lenny Gartner, Pat Rhule, Judy Aqui-Rahim, Barbara Turner, Lexie, Max, and Freeway.
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