“The Contessa would never go along with such a cruel practical joke, much less plan it. Besides, why would she have Hartford tell me she’s dying if she’s not?” Synnamon handed her half-full wineglass to the flight attendant and returned her seat to the upright position.
“Because that announcement got us both down here. And if my suspicions are right and she wants to have a little talk about our marriage—”
“Our marriage—our former marriage—is none of the Contessa’s business.”
“You can try that line on her. As the former advice queen of the nation, she might see things differently.”
“Etiquette was her specialty, not straightening out the lovelorn. Has anyone ever told you you’re a cynic, Conner?” Below the plane, the city of Phoenix spread out almost to the mountain ranges that surrounded the flat valley. The minutes were ticking by, and Synnamon’s heart began to pound. “What if I don’t know what to say to her?” She wasn’t talking to him so much as to herself. “I’ve never seen anybody who was dying… except for my father, of course. But he went so suddenly that there wasn’t time to think about it.”
“Silas never did have any patience with being kept waiting,” Conner said.
Synnamon bit her lip. That was typical, she thought. It wasn’t often she forgot herself enough to confide her fears, but when she did, the answer was glib. Just as it would have been if it had been Silas instead of Conner beside her—except, she thought, she’d never seen any indication that Silas possessed a sense of humor.
She turned toward the window once more. The pitch of the engines changed as the runway rose to meet them, and the slight vertigo she always experienced on landings rocked her stomach.
“Synnamon.”
She didn’t look at him. “What?”
“Follow her lead.” His voice was almost somber. “If she wants to talk about dying, let her. If she doesn’t, tell her what you remember most—remind her of the good times you had together.”
Synnamon hesitated, then nodded. But she didn’t turn away from the window, and a moment later the plane’s tires screeched against the runway.
A uniformed chauffeur was waiting at the gate with a sign that said Welles. Synnamon handed him her overnight case, and he led the way across the terminal to a white Cadillac limousine.
Conner raised an eyebrow. “Do you ever consider taking the middle-class way, Synnamon? Like a taxi?”
“What good would that do?”
“A rhetorical question if I ever heard one.” He handed his bag to the chauffeur and opened the back door of the car for Synnamon.
As the chauffeur slid behind the wheel, she leaned forward to make sure he had the Contessa’s address. She braced her left hand on the jump seat and swore under her breath when she realized that her finger was still bare. “My rings,” she said. “I forgot all about the rings, and no matter how sick she is, that’s exactly the kind of little touch the Contessa is bound to notice. I suppose I can tell her they’re at the jewelers being cleaned, but—”
Conner reached into the inside breast pocket of his blazer and dropped a small black velvet bag into her palm. “I wondered when you’d remember.”
Synnamon tipped the contents into her hand. Even in the subdued light that passed through the limousine’s tinted windows, the full-carat diamond solitaire flashed fire, and the matching wedding band, crusted with tiny stones, sparkled like a fresh snowfall. Almost reluctantly, she slid them onto her finger, the wedding band first, closest to her heart as tradition dictated, and then the solitaire to stand guard.
“I wouldn’t have thought you’d have time to get them,” she said. “But of course if you went home to pack—”
Or perhaps he’d kept them closer at hand.
But why would he? The rings were no more pleasant a memory to Conner than they were to Synnamon. It was a foolish idea, probably born of the fact that the platinum bands were warm from his body—as if that meant he’d carried them for the past month. The truth was, until this instant she wouldn’t even have bet that he’d kept them.
Almost as if he’d read her mind, Conner said, “They were in the office safe. It’s a whole lot more secure than leaving them in a hotel room. And I didn’t have to go back to the hotel to pack. I’ve gotten in the habit of keeping some clothes in the office.”
“That’s certainly handy,” Synnamon said crisply.
Conner shot a sideways look at her. “What does that mean?”
“Nothing. My father obviously thought it was a good idea, or he wouldn’t have built a closet and a dressing room into his executive bath. That’s all.”
“Well, it’s one thing Silas was right about. How did you manage to pack, anyway?”
“I didn’t. Mrs. Ogden threw some things together, and one of the couriers made a detour and picked my bag up.”
“What will you do after the end of the year, Synnamon, when you don’t have all of Sherwood’s resources to draw on any more?”
She looked at him levelly. “Are you afraid I’ll still demand perks after I leave the company? Don’t worry about me, Conner. Even after our division of property, I won’t exactly be poverty-stricken.” Deliberately, she changed the subject. “Mrs. Ogden asked about you just this morning, by the way. I think she misses you.”
“How kind of her. Perhaps when I get an apartment she’ll come to take care of me on the days she’s not working for you.”
Was he serious? But why shouldn’t he be? “That would be tidy,” she agreed. “Of course, I have her come in most days, so she doesn’t have much time left for anyone else. Why are you still living in the hotel, anyway?”
Conner shrugged. “When you’re starting from scratch, it takes time to find an apartment and furniture and appliances.”
And he’d given up most of his things when they’d married. Not that he’d had much, Synnamon thought, so if he was suggesting it was her fault he had nothing in the way of household goods…
But of course he wasn’t. She’d asked him, over the appetizers the night they’d agreed to terms, if he wanted anything in their apartment, and he’d made it clear he didn’t.
The limousine purred through traffic, smoothly negotiating the beginnings of rush hour, and pulled up at a wrought-iron gate. Beyond it lay a long, curving row of elegant town houses, set at angles that increased the sense of privacy, each surrounded by a lawn so plush and unusually green—given the desert surroundings—that the grass looked artificial.
The guard at the gate checked his list and passed them through, and the limousine pulled up smoothly in front of the Contessa’s home.
Thought it was technically a town house, Synnamon had always thought it was more like a villa. This was no mere two-level apartment, as most town houses were. It spread out lavishly at the end of the complex, and the front door, behind a colonnaded entrance, silently invited them to approach.
After the gray day they’d left in Denver and the tinted windows of the limousine, the Phoenix sunshine was harsh and brilliant. Synnamon stood for a moment outside the car, blinking, not quite sure if it was sunlight or tears that made her eyes hurt.
Conner signed the limousine bill and joined her on the sidewalk. “You know,” he said, “you never have told me how the Contessa got her name.”
He was trying to distract her, Synnamon knew. It was kind of him to bother. “It started as a joke when she was a child,” she said. “She was the elegant one in a big and rowdy Italian family. Some of her brothers and sisters called her prissy. Then when she grew up and became the arbiter of proper behavior—not quite as famous as Emily Post, of course, but just as respected and obeyed—she cultivated the image of the Contessa. Now hardly anyone remembers her real name.” Synnamon took a deep breath and braced herself as the front door opened, revealing a woman in her sixties wearing a black dress and a crisp white apron.
The woman’s eyes were swollen and red, and her lower lip trembled. “Oh, Mrs. Welles,” she said, her voice shaking. “I’m so glad y
ou’re here!” She held out her arms, and Synnamon took a step forward and gathered the woman close.
Over her shoulder, she cast a glance at Conner, who looked a bit subdued. So much for his expectations that the Contessa herself would greet them, in perfect health and high spirits at having pulled off a prank.
But Synnamon had to admit that despite her knowledge of the Contessa she’d been hoping against hope Conner might be right. Now that last flicker of wishful thinking faded into darkness, and a chill settled deep in her heart.
She patted Mrs. Hartford on the shoulder and looked over the woman’s head toward the butler, hovering in the hallway. “Take us to her, please, Hartford,” she said. “We’ve left it too long as it is.”
Midnight found her beside the Contessa’s bed. A favorite book from her childhood lay open on her lap, but it had been long minutes since Synnamon had looked at the pages. She was watching the Contessa instead, searching the dear and familiar face, studying each line, each shadow and trying to figure out which ones were new. The Contessa’s skin had always been luminous. Now it was almost translucent. Her eyelids, closed in a shallow sleep, seemed paper-thin. Her breath was faint. Her thin body seemed so fragile that Synnamon feared even the weight of the blanket might crush her.
As if there had been no interruption in the conversation, the Contessa sighed and said, “I’m so sorry, my darling. You came for a weekend getaway, and I’m ruining it. I can’t help being glad to have you here, but it’s terribly rude of me to spoil your holiday.”
Synnamon couldn’t keep herself from smiling at the slightly querulous tone. The voice of conscience, Synnamon had called it in her youth.
Mrs. Hartford came in with a medicine cup and a glass of water, and the Contessa waved a fragile hand toward the door. “Don’t let me be so selfish, Synnamon. Go to your husband now. That’s where you belong.” Her hand dropped as if the effort had exhausted her.
Mrs. Hartford nodded. “She’ll sleep for a while,” she said softly. “And I’ll sit with her.”
Synnamon knew better than to argue. Perhaps the Contessa would rest more easily if she wasn’t trying to talk. “You’ll call me if she wants me.” It wasn’t a question.
“Of course. Or Hartford will—he’s sleeping now, but he’ll take over in a few hours.”
Synnamon walked slowly across the balcony that divided the Contessa’s bedroom from the guest quarters, pausing to look down into the enormous living room below. The scent of roses, freshly arranged in a crystal vase on the baby grand piano, tugged at her senses. She wondered when Mrs. Hartford had found the time for flowers, but she knew why she’d managed it. The Contessa loved roses—and if she gathered enough strength to walk out of her room again, there would be roses waiting for her.
Synnamon was still holding the book she’d been reading to the Contessa. She looked at the intricately drawn leaves on the cover and remembered what the Contessa had said when Synnamon had opened it to the first chapter.
“The Secret Garden,” she’d murmured. “I feel somehow that I’ll see that garden very soon.”
Synnamon closed her eyes for a moment and swallowed hard, and then walked deliberately across to the guest suite. She did her best to be quiet, in case Conner was already asleep.
But the lights were on, and he was lying atop one of the twin beds, reading the Wall Street Journal. The spread had been turned back, but he hadn’t bothered to get between the sheets. He’d simply stretched out across the blankets.
Perhaps, Synnamon thought, that was because he wasn’t exactly dressed for bed. He was wearing jogging shorts and a T-shirt, as if he’d expected to be summoned to the Contessa’s room. Or maybe it was all he had. No doubt Conner didn’t keep pajamas in his office closet any more than Silas had. Though there had been talk about Silas sleeping in his office…
She noted and tried to ignore Conner’s long, strong legs, the powerful breadth of his chest, the muscular arms under the short sleeves of the tight shirt, and turned toward the rack at the foot of the other bed, where Hartford had placed her overnight bag.
Twin beds. She almost hadn’t noticed.
Well, that was a benefit she hadn’t counted on. The last time they’d visited the Contessa—the only time the two of them had shared this room, shortly after their wedding—the beds had been pushed together and made up as a single king-size unit.
“How is she?” Conner asked.
“Worn out—and fading, I’m afraid, even since you saw her. I think Hartford was optimistic when he said it might be a week.”
“I’m sorry,” he said gently.
Synnamon nodded. She couldn’t say anything. She was afraid if she tried she’d break down.
The only nightgown she could find in her bag was the flimsiest and laciest she owned. Mrs. Ogden’s doing, of course—the woman loved lacy lingerie. That, Synnamon thought, would teach her to be catty about Conner’s lack of pajamas!
By the time she came out of the bathroom, he’d turned off the light above his bed, leaving only the small lamp near hers, and the moonlight that filtered through the sheer curtains, to illuminate the room.
Synnamon slid between the sheets and turned off the lamp.
It was almost worse than being alone, to know that he was across the room. In the dark, the demons seemed to grow and taunt her, and she couldn’t even cry, or he would know.
She was losing the most precious person in her world, the one who had always understood and loved her no matter what. The Contessa hadn’t been required by the bonds of family to love Synnamon. She’d chosen to care about her—and that made her more valuable than anyone else had ever been.
Now—in a day, maybe two, but certainly not much longer—Synnamon would be entirely alone in the world.
The tears started as a silent trickle and grew into a flood. And though she tried fiercely to be quiet, the sobs could not be smothered. They wrenched at her chest, at her throat, at her heart.
“Synnamon,” he said, and she heard his footsteps, soft as they were on the deep carpet. His hand passed over her hair, so tentatively that she could barely feel his touch—but it seemed as if his gentle gesture had reached deep inside her and flipped a switch.
She reached for him, tugging him down to her, as if by holding onto Conner she could cling to all that was sweet and precious in her life and keep it from slipping away.
“Hold me,” she whispered. “Help me forget.”
“Are you sure you know what you’re asking, Synnamon?”
“I’m sure.”
Slowly, his palm cupped her chin and turned her face, and he bent his head as if to kiss her temple. A kiss of pity, she thought—not at all what she needed just now. She twisted frantically in his arms till his lips, instead of brushing the corner of her eye, met hers like sparks striking gunpowder.
She could taste his strength, his warmth, his desire. He couldn’t hide the truth, that in this instant he wanted her—only her—and the knowledge fed her longing.
“Make me forget it all, Conner,” she said against his mouth. “Everything.”
He didn’t make her forget… at least, not quite. Perhaps nothing could have done that. But by the time the world exploded around her, the pain of impending loss had receded to a thin shadow at the corners of her mind, overwhelmed by the pure sensuality of his touch, the fire of his fingertips against her skin, the velvet of his lips against hers, the whisper of two bodies communicating in the wordless language men and women created long before the dawn of time.
He held her, afterward, the two of them curled together on the single narrow bed. Neither of them spoke.
With her body still throbbing, Synnamon forced herself to lie still, to breathe normally, to stay quiet, to pretend to sleep.
But deep inside her mind, as the shadows crept back, she was shrieking, What have I done?
CHAPTER TWO
The sky was starting to lighten when Hartford knocked on the door of the guest suite to summon them, and before full daylig
ht the Contessa had gone into the secret garden she had talked of, where her beloved roses would never fade or lose their scent.
Synnamon stayed beside the bed for a long time, hands folded, watching the still, peaceful face. When she finally came downstairs, Conner was sitting at the grand piano, picking out a melancholy one-fingered melody. Without a word, he moved across the room to a silver tray on a low table and poured her a cup of coffee.
She held it, hardly feeling the heat radiating through the china and sinking into her fingers. “Perhaps you’d call the airline,” she said finally. “I can be ready to go in an hour or so.”
Conner frowned. “Go where?”
“Denver. Home. Where else?”
“But what about the arrangements?” he asked quietly.
“The Contessa took care of that long ago.” Synnamon smiled a little, but it took all the strength she had. “She had definite views on the rudeness of leaving that sort of job for someone else to do. And since she didn’t want any sort of funeral service, just cremation with her ashes scattered in…” Her voice began to tremble as the reality once more hit home.
She half-expected Conner to reach for her, or at least to extend a hand. Her body tightened, and embarrassment flooded over her at the memory of her uninhibited behavior last night. The way she had responded to him, demanded, pleaded, begged…
But Conner didn’t move. He simply stood quietly in the center of the Contessa’s elegant living room, looking at her.
Thank heaven, Synnamon thought, he’s sensitive enough to understand that last night was an aberration.
“Are you certain you want to go home just now?” Conner asked. “I should get back, I suppose, but there’s really no reason for you to rush.”
Synnamon shook her head quickly. “Oh, no. I’ll be better if I’m busy.” Too late, she realized that meant she’d be flying back with him. How easy it would have been to wait till tomorrow, or even to take a later plane today.
The Perfect Divorce! Page 2