Morea’s secretary sounded doubtful. “She’s due in court this morning, Mrs. Welles, and she may not even come to the office first. But the moment she arrives I’ll tell her you called.”
“Tell her,” Synnamon said firmly, “that it’s urgent.” She felt a little better knowing she’d done everything she could for the moment. And her morning sickness seemed to have taken the day off, she discovered when she cautiously stood up.
She rummaged through her closet for jeans and a sweater. It felt strange to dress so informally on a weekday morning, when her normal attire would be a tailored suit and heels and panty hose. In fact, she was tempted to stick to her terry robe and scuffed slippers, just to make the point to Conner that she wasn’t going out of her way to look her best for him. Except, she thought, he probably wouldn’t notice.
He was still in the apartment, Synnamon had no doubt of that. She could feel his presence, even though it was past the time he usually arrived at the office.
Mrs. Ogden was back from her holiday, and when Synnamon reached the kitchen the housekeeper was just setting a plate of waffles and sausage on the breakfast bar in front of Conner.
“That looks wonderful, Mrs. O,” he said, and the housekeeper beamed.
“Don’t let him fool you into waiting on him,” Synnamon murmured. “He’s perfectly capable of taking care of himself.”
Mrs. Ogden clicked her tongue in reproof. “But where’s the fun in that, Mrs. Welles? And what would you like for breakfast this morning?”
“Just fruit and coffee. I’ll get it myself.”
Mrs. Ogden poured Synnamon’s coffee, however, and set it on the breakfast bar directly across from Conner’s plate. She took the opportunity to top off Conner’s cup, as well. “Yes,” she said with a broad smile as if picking up a conversation where Synnamon had interrupted it. “It certainly is nice to see you back where you belong, Mr. Welles. Such a nice young couple you two make.” Behind the open refrigerator door, Synnamon rolled her eyes heavenward. She was selecting a grapefruit when the telephone rang, and Mrs. Ogden reached it first. “One moment, please,” she said disapprovingly, and held it out to Synnamon. “It’s that Ms. Landon, for you.”
Conner’s eyebrows lifted, but he didn’t comment, just cut another bite of waffle.
Synnamon seized the phone. “Morea, I’m on the cordless phone, but let me run to another room, all right?”
“Only if you hurry,” Morea said. “I’m sorry, but I’ve got just two minutes before I have to leave for court. I would have put you off till afternoon if Cindy hadn’t said it was urgent, because the unbearable Ridge Coltrain is waiting for me.”
Synnamon let the kitchen door swing shut behind her, but she still wasn’t far enough from Conner and Mrs. Ogden to feel safe. “Did you put garlic in your scrambled eggs this morning just for him?”
Morea sniffed. “Why bother? I had heartburn for a day and a half after that episode, and he didn’t even turn a hair. Then just as our conference was ending he complimented me on my new perfume. Can you imagine? Why do you have to leave the room to talk on your own phone, anyway? Is Mrs. Ogden spying for the opposition? What’s wrong, darling?”
Synnamon had reached the relative safety of the big living room. “I’m pregnant, Morea.”
Fifteen seconds of dead silence ticked by before Morea said, “That’s urgent, all right. I’m afraid I can’t speed up the divorce, though, if that’s what you’re calling about. We’re locked into that timetable unless everybody agrees to move things up, and I can’t just go to Conner’s attorney without giving a reason for the hurry, so—”
Synnamon took a deep breath and interrupted. “It’s not that at all, Morea.”
“Oh? I assumed you’d want to marry the father as soon as possible.”
“Not exactly,” Synnamon said dryly.
“Surely you aren’t asking me to tell Conner? As a matter of fact, there’s no reason for him even to know—”
“I’ve already told him. And there was every reason.”
There was another brief silence. “Oh, no,” Morea said wearily. “I don’t think I want to hear this.”
“It… just sort of happened. When we were in Phoenix.”
Morea sighed. “Have I ever told you you’re the single most difficult client I’ve ever dealt with, Synnamon Welles? No, I take that back—not because it isn’t true, but because that sort of comment is unethical and unprofessional and could get me censured if you complained to the bar association.”
“I wouldn’t.”
“Now that’s an isolated example of good judgment. Nobody else would take you on. Dammit, Synnamon, if you’d been scheming to take a simple divorce and mess it up, you couldn’t have done a better job!”
“Believe me, this wasn’t my idea.” A vague doubt flickered momentarily through Synnamon’s mind, but she promptly dismissed it. She was being silly—far too suspicious for her own good. Conner couldn’t have planned this set of circumstances any more than she could have, and if anything he would have had less reason.
Morea had regained her self-control. “All right. I really have to go to court this instant, but I’ll meet you for lunch at the Pinnacle and we’ll talk it over.”
“Not the Pinnacle,” Synnamon pleaded. “Somewhere I can keep both feet firmly on the ground. Can we make it Maxie’s instead?”
“All right. One o’clock.”
“Thanks, Morea.”
“And Synnamon—don’t do anything idiotic between now and then, all right?”
“Like what?”
“I couldn’t possibly recite a full list,” Morea said Wryly. “So let’s just say, don’t do anything.”
The phone clicked in Synnamon’s ear. She turned the receiver off.
“How’s Morea?” Conner asked pleasantly.
Synnamon jumped a foot. She wheeled toward the foyer to see him leaning against the French door. “How long have you been standing there?”
“Long enough. But don’t worry, you didn’t say anything incriminating, or even suggestive. Actually, I was just waiting till you got off the phone to tell you goodbye, as any good husband would.”
“Oh, cut out the role-playing,” Synnamon said crossly. “Or get some acting lessons, if you want to be credible as a loving spouse.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” His voice was calm. “So what did your attorney advise?”
“Do you think I’m going to tell you?”
“Of course not. But you might think about it long and hard before you talk to her again, Synnamon. This isn’t a rag doll we’re talking about, you know—it’s a real little human being who deserves the best start in life we can give him.”
“Or her,” she said sweetly.
Conner didn’t comment. “I happen to believe that includes two full-time parents. And I also suspect that if you’ll let yourself simmer down long enough to really think about it, you’ll admit I’m right.” Conner reached into the closet for his trench coat.
“Two full-time antagonistic parents, you mean? At each others’ throats all the time, and wretchedly miserable?”
“Of course not. I’m not expecting us to act like lovebirds, any more than we ever did. But look at it this way, Synnamon. If we could agree so easily to a cool and civilized divorce, surely we can agree to resume a cool and civilized marriage.”
“It is not the same thing,” Synnamon argued.
He raised his eyebrows a trifle. “Is there someone in your life that I should know about?”
“I don’t have to have another man on the string in order to want a divorce, Conner.”
He smiled. “I didn’t think there was.”
Synnamon didn’t know if she was more annoyed at herself for taking the bait or at him for the implication that she couldn’t possibly attract another man. And before she could decide, Conner was gone.
She swore under her breath and went to the kitchen for her grapefruit and coffee.
Mrs. Ogden was cleaning the breakfast b
ar. “It does my heart good to see that man back where he belongs,” she said once more. “I suspected you were regretting the decision you’d made, the way you’ve moped around the place for the last month or so.”
“Moped?” Synnamon said coolly.
Mrs. Ogden nodded. “Ever since the Contessa died, I’ve wondered if you weren’t having second thoughts about asking Mr. Welles to leave. That’s the kind of thing that certainly makes one think, a loss like that. And then when you told me you were quitting your job, I said to myself this was in the wind, that you’d finally seen how much more important your husband is than that work of yours.”
Synnamon stared at her, bemused. She’d always known Mrs. Ogden was a romantic, but she’d never realized how rosily unrealistic the woman could be. Had she honestly been unaware of the tension in the kitchen this morning?
“What shall I make for dinner, do you think?” Mrs. Ogden rinsed out her dishcloth and started to work on the range. “Oh, I know—my beef bourguignonne is Mr. Welles’s favorite, and I can leave it to simmer when I go home, so all you’ll have to do is dish it up.” She gave Synnamon a conspiratorial smile. “And don’t worry about cleaning up the mess afterward. Shall I put candles on the dining room table, or would you rather eat by the fireplace?”
Synnamon pushed her coffee away. It had gotten cold, and she’d lost her taste for it, anyway. “Whatever you like. If you’ll excuse me, Mrs. Ogden, I have to go change my clothes.”
“For what? You look fine to me.”
Synnamon paused in the doorway. “Because I’m going to work after all, that’s why.”
Mrs. Ogden’s mouth fell open, and instantly Synnamon regretted her sharpness. Being annoyed with Conner was one thing. Taking it out on the good-hearted Mrs. Ogden was something else.
Then the housekeeper smiled. “I think it’s cute,” she said, “that you just can’t stand the idea of not seeing him till dinnertime.”
Morea Landon was already at Maxie’s Bar, stirring a glass of tomato juice with a celery stick, when Synnamon dropped into the chair across from her.
“Sorry I’m late,” Synnamon said. “An impossible client.”
“Now why does that problem sound familiar?” Morea murmured. “I thought you were finished with impossible clients. Don’t tell me Conner still hasn’t hired anyone to fill your job.”
Synnamon waved a hand. “As a matter of fact, he has, but I’ll tell you all about that later. Am I the reason you’re scowling at that poor glass of tomato juice?”
“Aren’t you enough cause? I come back from a wonderful week on the ski slopes to find my only straightforward case has suddenly taken on as many twists as a plate of noodles. To tell you the truth, I’m wishing the tomato juice was Ridge Coltrain’s blood, but we can save that story for later, too. Tell me what on earth made you lose your mind.”
Synnamon sighed. “I was upset about the Contessa, of course. It was the night before she died, and Conner was right there, and I just wanted to—”
“I didn’t mean I wanted the details about that bit of insanity,” Morea said hastily. “I have an imagination, after all. But why didn’t you tell me before you went blabbing the news to Conner?”
Synnamon shrugged. “It just seemed the fair thing to do.”
“I’m your attorney, Synnamon. How can I advise you if—”
“And he’s the baby’s father, Morea. Doesn’t that give him some rights?”
Morea looked a bit abashed.
More gently, Synnamon went on, “Besides, you were in Telluride—and I thought Conner would be reasonable.”
“But he wasn’t, of course. What did he say?”
“It wasn’t what he said,” Synnamon said carefully, “so much as what he did. He moved in.”
Morea dropped her celery stick into her glass, and tomato juice splashed across her cream-colored sweater. She didn’t seem to notice. “Into the apartment, you mean? And you let him? Synnamon—”
“A lot I had to say about it,” Synnamon said acidly. “I just blinked and there he was. Now I want to know how—”
Morea shook her head and stared over Synnamon’s shoulder, her wide, dark eyes intent.
There was no missing the message. Synnamon bit off the rest of her sentence and turned to look over her shoulder.
The maitre d’ was seating a solitary guest at the next table. Synnamon sighed. “Fancy meeting you here, Conner.”
“Hello, Synnamon—and Morea, too.”
He was trying, she thought, to look just a trifle worried. Synnamon wasn’t convinced for a moment. There was no doubt in her mind he’d overheard her this morning arranging to meet Morea at Maxie’s. The only question she had was how he’d been so certain of the time.
“I hope my presence doesn’t blight your conversation,” he said. “I could ask for a different table, I suppose, but as busy as the restaurant is today…”
“Oh, come on over and join us,” Morea said. “Let’s take care of this right now.”
Conner moved without apparent haste, but so smoothly that before Synnamon could gather the words to protest he’d taken the chair next to hers and was signaling the waiter to bring him a glass of water. “You don’t know how happy this makes me, Morea,” he said earnestly.
Synnamon’s inner alarm system was shrieking warnings. What did he have to be happy about?
Morea said dryly, “I’m sure you’re going to tell me why, Conner.”
“I know, you see, that last week the three of us couldn’t have had any sort of formal conference. We’d have needed my attorney present to protect my rights.”
“True enough,” Morea said. “And furthermore, we still—”
“So, since you invited me over to chat, that must mean that you’re no longer Synnamon’s attorney.” He smiled. “And since I fired my lawyer this morning, too—” He reached for Synnamon’s hand.
She moved it just in time. He was a better actor, she thought, than she’d given him credit for being.
“The least I can do to celebrate,” he went on, “is to buy you both lunch. Oh, and send your bill to me, Morea—I’ll settle it up immediately, and then we can simply be friends again.”
Morea stared at him for a few seconds, then turned to Synnamon. “I apologize,” she murmured. “Now I see what you meant about letting him move in. Stopping him is like arguing with an influenza germ.”
“I’m glad you realize it,” Conner said. He turned to Synnamon. His eyes were dark and intense. “So the divorce is off, then?”
Synnamon closed her menu with a snap. “You can’t force me to stay married to you, Conner.”
“I can certainly make it costly for you to divorce me.”
Morea frowned. “No more than it already has been, I’d say.”
“Perhaps not, if all you’re talking about is money. But since that’s not the only question now…”
Synnamon’s heart twisted. “You told me you wouldn’t ask for custody. Fool that I was, I believed you!”
“I said it wouldn’t be my first choice,” he corrected. “But if you force me, Synnamon, I will do whatever is necessary. I will not be reduced to a footnote in my child’s life.” He shook his napkin out with a snap and draped it across the edge of the table. “It’s your choice, Synnamon. Let me know what you decide. I don’t think, however, that I’ll stay for lunch after all.”
He left behind a silence thicker than Maxie’s famous cream of mushroom soup.
Finally, Synnamon asked, “He can’t get custody, can he?”
For a moment, she thought Morea wasn’t going to answer. Then the attorney sighed. “It’s hard to tell. The fascination of the law, of course, is that there are two sides to every question, and you never know what a judge will decide in a particular case. Even when there’s clear precedent for a mother’s request—”
“Thanks for the encouragement,” Synnamon said wryly.
“Sorry, darling, but I’m just doing my job. If I guaranteed results, I’d be crazy.” Mor
ea added thoughtfully, “And probably disbarred, too.”
“If you’d tell a judge the things Conner said just now, the threats he made…”
“What threats? All I heard him say is that he intends to be involved in his child’s life, and I can’t think of a single divorce-court judge who wouldn’t burst into applause at that announcement. Besides, I can’t exactly testify to anything, because I’m not only your attorney but a prejudiced witness. It would be pretty easy for the court to dismiss my opinion.”
“Then what do I do? Just go on with it and take my chances?”
Morea’s eyes narrowed. “There is one possibility.”
“I’m willing to try anything.”
“It might not solve the problem entirely, of course. But if Conner were to change his mind—”
Synnamon started to laugh. “Oh, please. That’s what you call a possibility? If Conner set out to empty the Pacific Ocean with a soup ladle, I wouldn’t bet against him. Morea, if that’s the best you can do—”
Morea shrugged. “It’s the only thing I can think of. The whole idea of divorce makes people do strange things. I’ve known couples who hated each other, but they simply couldn’t keep their distance because the joy each of them got from annoying their partner was more satisfying than having a scrap of peace for themselves.”
“I don’t see Conner being that sort.”
“No, but the principle still applies. You want him to move out of your apartment but also to give up the idea of custody, right? Well, arguing about either matter is only going to make him more determined about both. I’ve seen it happen in a hundred cases, with men a lot less stubborn than Conner is. But if he’s the one who gives up the idea of staying married, if he’s forced to admit that this grand idea of his simply won’t work…”
The silence drew out into forever while Synnamon thought about it. “And just what do you think I can do to make that happen?”
“At the moment,” Morea admitted, “I haven’t a clue.”
Annie looked pathetically glad to see Synnamon. “I’m glad you’re back,” she said. “This afternoon there have already been half a dozen people who wanted to talk to you. And one of them—”
The Perfect Divorce! Page 8