The Perfect Divorce!

by Leigh Michaels

  Annie tapped on her office door. “Mr. Welles is on the phone. Are you enough better to talk to him?”

  “Of course.” Synnamon glanced at her watch. Conner had been in Fargo for just a few hours. She pushed the damp washcloth off her forehead and sat up straight. After spending most of the day in the chair, she was a bit light-headed.

  Annie looked concerned. “Shall I bring another cool cloth?”

  Synnamon stood and had to reach for the corner of her desk to steady herself. “Not just now.” She took a deep breath and reached for the telephone. “Conner?”

  “There’s good news and bad news,” he said. “The contamination is bacterial.”

  And therefore it would be particularly nasty to combat, Synnamon deduced.

  “But we think we’ve already found the source, and if that’s confirmed, we can steam-clean the whole production line and start it up again. By the end of the week everything could be back to normal.”

  She was jotting notes. “And there’s enough product in the warehouses to take care of demand in the meantime, right?”

  “Yes—except we’ll have to test every batch in order to be certain the contamination didn’t sneak in earlier than we think.”

  “All right. I’ll tell everyone that there may be minor delays in shipment because we’re taking no chances with customer safety.”

  “That’s good. I’m going to stay here till it’s all cleaned up, just to be certain.”

  “That will look reassuring to some of our customers and suspicious to the rest, Conner.”

  He laughed, “Use your best judgment on who to tell.” Synnamon was startled by the genuine amusement in his voice. She hadn’t realized how long it had been since she’d heard anything of the sort.

  He sobered. “Are you feeling better?”

  “Some. Conner—”

  The word was out before she could stop herself, but immediately Synnamon thought better of it. To tell him like this, when he was two states away, would truly be the coward’s way out. Not that she was looking forward to telling him face-to-face, either—but she needed to be able to see him when he heard the news. Only then could she judge his reaction and respond appropriately, by reassuring him that she didn’t blame him at all and that she didn’t expect him to be bound by this mistake.

  “I’m fine,” she said. “I think I just got some bad paté at the deli. But everything’s smooth here.”

  She put down the telephone and dropped her face into her hands. Phoenix and the Contessa’s town house looked more inviting than ever.

  With the mess in Fargo finally under control, Conner was due back in Denver in the afternoon of New Year’s Eve.

  Synnamon couldn’t make up her mind whether she wanted him to come to the office or stay away till after the holiday. She was pleased to have the production problem solved, of course. She’d spent most of the week on the telephone, soothing nervous corporate accounts. But the closer she came to the time when she would have to confess her secret to Conner, the more jittery she grew.

  At least physically she was feeling better. The morning sickness still came and went, but at least—unlike the day after Christmas—it no longer persisted around the clock or kept her from working.

  The weather on the final day of December was almost as gloomy as Synnamon felt. The sky was so heavy and dark it was hard to tell where the clouds ended and the mountains began. If she was lucky, she thought, the predicted snow would materialize and the airport would close, stranding Conner in Fargo for the holiday.

  As each hour ticked by and she did a few more things for the last time, Synnamon’s sadness grew. From now on, when she spent time in the office it would be as Annie’s assistant and adviser. This would no longer be her private retreat.

  She had spent three full years within the four walls of this room—at least the most meaningful part of each day had found her there—and it wasn’t going to be easy to give it up.

  She’d had to fight for the opportunity to make a place for herself at Sherwood. It would have been far easier to go to work somewhere else, but deep inside, Synnamon had known that only if she could prove herself at Sherwood Cosmetics—in the family business—would she really believe in her own worth. And if along the way she could prove a thing or two to her father—well, that would be the icing on the gingerbread.

  That was why, on the day after she’d graduated from college, she’d appeared in the waiting room outside her father’s office, determined to sit there until Silas gave her a chance. Eventually, he’d grown tired of her persistence, and he’d assigned her a job.

  Customer service wouldn’t have been Synnamon’s first choice, for she felt that her talent lay in juggling numbers, not people. But she’d been in no position to quibble. In fact, Synnamon had always thought Silas had sent her to customer service because he believed she’d soon be so discouraged and stressed by handling questions and complaints that she’d quit altogether. But then, Silas Sherwood had never known his daughter very well.

  The first year had been especially tough, as she felt her way like a blind man through a mine field. Many of Sherwood’s clients had been reluctant to deal with her, convinced she was a dilettante daughter with a manufactured job. She’d worked ferociously to develop relationships with the clients, to carve out enough authority so she could actually handle their problems, to figure out when to be sympathetic and when to be assertive.

  Assertiveness still didn’t come naturally to her. The difficulty of her own struggle was one of the reasons she’d agreed to help Annie with her adjustment. If there was one thing Synnamon fully understood, it was the feeling of being inadequate for the job.

  Perhaps that was why, with Silas gone, the whole thing no longer seemed to matter. Though she felt sadness at the idea of leaving Sherwood and fear of the great unknowns that awaited her after she left the only job she’d ever held, there was also relief. She’d made a success of a difficult assignment and she no longer had anything to prove.

  Now she just had to pack up the trivia of her life.

  Synnamon picked up the silver-framed photograph of her mother from the credenza behind her desk and looked thoughtfully at the young, beautiful face of Rita Sherwood. By the time Synnamon had been old enough to recognize her mother’s beauty, it had been overlaid with a veneer of hardness. The bitter dregs of unhappiness had taken the lively glow out of Rita’s eyes and thinned the sensual lips to the sharp line Synnamon remembered.

  She understood now that Silas had been no happier than his wife. Theirs had been a marriage that would have been better dissolved, but Rita’s religious beliefs had not allowed divorce. So they had stayed together— not through thick and thin, Synnamon had heard her mother tell a friend once in an acid moment, but through thin, thinner and thinnest.

  Only now did Synnamon really understand what Rita had meant, and she thanked heaven that she and Conner had had the good sense to see what lay ahead and get out before the unhappiness marred them both for life, while they could still break up without battling. At least, she thought, they had the advantage of being civilized about it. They were splitting decently, without recriminations or resentment or hard feelings, without argument or sharp words or fights over bits of property. In short, theirs was the perfect divorce.

  Synnamon wrapped the frame in tissue paper and reached for the small Russian lacquer box that had stood next to the photograph. There were a thousand of her possessions in the office. She’d be the rest of the day packing them all up. She hadn’t realized how many of her personal things had crept into her work space— almost more, she thought, than her apartment held.

  Annie punched the button that turned off the speakerphone on Synnamon’s desk and swiveled her chair, “How did that sound?”

  “You did just fine,” Synnamon said, and tried to soothe her conscience. It was only a tiny white lie, after all, to imply that she’d been listening intently to every word of the conversation. It wasn’t the end of the world to have let her mind wa
nder. If Annie had stumbled, she’d have heard.

  “Thanks. You don’t know what that means to me— knowing that you’re there to back me up. Don’t worry about packing everything today. There will be plenty of time later.”

  “But as of Monday morning it will be your office. And you’ll want your own things around.”

  “Actually, I think I’d find it more comforting to have some of yours for a while.” Annie’s smile was wry. “That way I can pretend I’m only using your office temporarily while Sandra borrows mine. Do you think she’s going to work out?”

  “She has potential,” Synnamon said carefully. “But be careful to treat her as an employee, not a friend. Especially until you have a little more experience as a boss, it’s better for everyone not to get the two things confused.”

  Annie sighed. “I know. There’s so much to remember, and it’s so easy to slip up.”

  “You’ll get the hang of it. It just takes practice, and getting in the habit of thinking before you start talking.” Synnamon looked around. “I thought I had another box somewhere.”

  “No—that was the last of them. There’s a shopping bag in the bathroom, though, I just noticed it this morning.” Annie bounced out of her chair and went after it.

  Synnamon’s eyes widened in shock. How could she have forgotten to dispose of that damned bag and its telltale contents? But she knew how it had happened. Between juggling phone calls all week and feeling ill at the least convenient moments, she’d put the test kit out of her mind. Besides, she admitted, she’d wanted to forget the whole thing—to pretend that it wasn’t real.

  Annie was back in a moment, brandishing Synnamon’s Tyler-Royale bag. “I thought it was empty, but there’s something—” She dumped the bag’s contents onto the desk blotter.

  Synnamon knew the instant the brand name emblazoned on the box registered in Annie’s mind. The woman had two small children herself. There was no doubt she’d recognize a kit for a home pregnancy test when she saw one.

  “Oh, my,” Annie murmured. “I had no idea.”

  Synnamon braced herself. Would the reaction be delight? Congratulations? Shock? And did this mean she’d better rush to tell Conner, before the grapevine got hold of the news? She didn’t question Annie’s discretion— but if Annie had spotted that bag, the janitorial staff might have, too.

  Annie’s face was absolutely expressionless. She didn’t even look at Synnamon. “I noticed when I came back from lunch,” she said, “that Mr. Welles is in the building now.”

  She sounded as calm, Synnamon thought, as if she was really changing the subject. Which of course they both knew she wasn’t… not really.

  Synnamon’s heart was thumping. She hadn’t expected him back quite this early.

  Of course, she didn’t have to rush down to his office right this minute. She could wait till next week to tell him, and at least keep Sherwood Cosmetics out of it.

  Right, she told herself dryly. It’ll make everything so much easier if I just phone him up on Monday and ask him to lunch. And over the hors d’oeuvres I’ll just casually mention that we’re having a baby!

  “If you can take care of the rest of those calls,” Synnamon said, sounding much calmer than she felt, “I’ll go and check in with Mr. Welles.”

  There would never be a good time to tell him, she reminded herself as she walked down the hall. She’d have to be careful how she handled it, of course—but no matter what his reaction, at least that much of the difficulty would be behind her.

  But Conner couldn’t see her. “He’s tied up,” Carol said, “and I don’t even have a good idea when he’ll be free. I’ll call your office, if you like, as soon as he can fit you in.” She must have seen the strain in Synnamon’s face, for she added gently, “I’m sorry.”

  “That’s fine,” Synnamon said. “I’ll catch him later.” She supposed she should have expected it. After a week away, Conner’s in-basket was probably brimming with problems to handle and calls to return. That was exactly the reason she’d made the rule for herself to always phone for an appointment before going to his office. It was a rule she had broken today without even remembering it.

  She had worked up her nerve for nothing, and now she felt as if there was a rock lodged in her throat—a dry, crumbly, dusty piece of limestone that was likely to stay there until the deed was done.

  She didn’t want to face Annie just yet, so she wandered down to the staff dining room, got a bottle of orange juice and sat down to drink it. A caterer’s crew was working in the kitchen, putting the final touches on the office New Year’s party. The bustle made her nervous, and with the half-full bottle in her hand she started toward her office.

  As she passed the executive suite, the door of Conner’s office swung open, and she caught just a glimpse of him. She knew he couldn’t see her, standing in the hallway outside the waiting room, but the rock in her throat suddenly felt even larger. He seemed taller—or was it just her fear of facing him that made him seem more imposing?

  She heard him laugh, and then she saw the redhead who was standing beside him with her hand placed confidingly on the sleeve of his jacket. The rock suddenly grew into a boulder, almost choking off her air supply.

  “I’ll talk to you later, Nick,” he said. “Think it over, and let me know.”

  Nick. The name seemed to echo in Synnamon’s head, but why should it sound familiar?

  Finally she recalled his telephone conversation on the day she’d gone to tell him about the Contessa. Hadn’t he been talking to a Nick that day? It had been a business conversation, Synnamon was sure, and she’d assumed it was a man he was talking to—but it might have been this woman instead. She could be a supplier, a customer, an ad agency representative… any number of things.

  What was it Morea had said about Conner seeing someone? That she’d heard things, that was it. Maybe, Synnamon thought, I should have asked her exactly what it was she’d heard.

  On the other hand, she reminded herself, there was no point in acting like an idiot. It wasn’t as if she had any rights where Conner was concerned, or even any real interest.

  But she couldn’t help noticing that he looked more alive, somehow, right now—with the redhead’s hand on his sleeve—than Synnamon remembered seeing him in months.

  Before she could move, he’d closed the office door once more, and the redhead came across the waiting room. As if she had radar, her gaze focused on Synnamon.

  Almost as if she recognizes me, Synnamon thought. It made sense, of course, that a woman who was interested in Conner would have an idea of what his wife looked like and be curious about her. Conner might even have described her.

  Now there’s a comforting thought, she told herself wryly.

  She gave the redhead a cool, polite nod—the same as she would to any stranger she met in the halls—and went to her office.

  The shopping bag had disappeared, but Annie had come up with another box and was carefully packing the things Synnamon had already wrapped in tissue. “Carol called just a minute ago,” she said, “to say Mr. Welles was free now. But I didn’t know where you were, so—”

  “It doesn’t matter, Annie.” Synnamon’s lips felt stiff. “It’s not important any more. In fact, I think I’ll just go on home, since there’s really nothing left for me to do here.”

  Annie sounded shocked. “And miss the party? But—”

  “I’m not much in the mood for a party.” Synnamon forced herself to smile. “I wouldn’t want to keep everyone else from having fun by being a grump.”

  “But you can’t! I mean, you’re never a grump, and besides…” Annie drew a deep breath. “Carol will kill me for telling you this, I suppose. But you see, Mrs. Welles, it’s not just a New Year’s Eve celebration, it’s going to be a farewell party for you.”

  Synnamon’s heart sank. It was one thing to skip an ordinary office party, something else to miss one given in her honor. The questions her absence would raise didn’t bear thinking about. She was s
tuck.

  “That’s very thoughtful,” she managed to say. The Contessa, she thought, would have been proud of how calm she sounded.

  She stayed in her office as long as she conscientiously could, and by the time she arrived the party was already in full swing. Synnamon asked the bartender for ginger ale in a champagne flute, and she was just turning away from the bar when Conner—with the redhead beside him—came up and asked for two Scotches with water.

  How cozy, Synnamon thought, that they liked the same drink. But what in heaven’s name was the redhead doing there in the first place? She had to bite her tongue to keep from asking Conner just when he’d decided to open Sherwood parties to dates as well as employees.

  “Synnamon,” he said, “I’d like you to meet Nicole Fox. Nick helped sort out the problems in Fargo.” Fargo, Synnamon thought woodenly. Conner had sounded happy when he was in Fargo. She remembered thinking that she hadn’t heard that note in his voice in months. Was this woman the reason?

  “Is that where you’re from, Nicole?” she asked, politely holding out a hand.

  “No, I’m based here in Denver.” Nicole’s handshake was warm and firm. “Conner and I are old friends.” She smiled at him.

  A meaningful smile, Synnamon thought. One that contained all sorts of hidden messages.

  “When he called to ask my opinion of the contamination, I happened to be free,” Nicole went on, without taking her eyes off Conner’s face. “So I flew up.”

  “Nick was a tremendous help.” Conner handed Nicole her cocktail glass and raised his own in a casual salute. “In fact, I’ve offered her the position as head of research and development.”

  Synnamon was stunned.

  Think it over and let me know, Conner had told the woman at his office door just a couple of hours ago. Obviously this was what they’d been discussing.

  She told herself it could be worse. She just didn’t quite, at the moment, see how.

  She swallowed hard and made some feeble comment. Conner’s eyebrows went up, but before he could comment Annie called Synnamon over to present a gift from all the employees.