Conner nodded. “That’s what makes it perfect. Luigi’s spending the winter in his house in Scottsdale—right next door to Phoenix.” He cut another bite of chicken Angelique. “Which means we have a wonderful excuse to be in his neighborhood—and also that you can help convince him Sherwood is in good hands.”
The Contessa’s villa looked just the same. Synnamon got out of the rental car and stood for a moment staring at the quiet facade of the house. It took no imagination at all to picture the Contessa at ease on the chaise longue in her morning room, basking in the soft, filtered sunshine she favored and waiting for them to arrive. There would be hugs and happy greetings, followed by excellent coffee—or more probably sherry, since it was already cocktail hour—and some of Mrs. Hartford’s gourmet snacks, and delightful conversation…
Synnamon sighed and let her shoulders slump. Conner, who was lifting luggage from the trunk of the car, turned his head quickly to look at her. She said quietly, “The Contessa always called this the city of new beginnings— but I had no idea how difficult this would be.”
The front door opened and Hartford bustled out to help with the luggage. Over Conner’s protests, he gathered up the two largest pieces and smiled tentatively at Synnamon. “Welcome home, Mrs. Welles.”
She closed her eyes in pain. She didn’t want to think of this as her home instead of the Contessa’s. Then she squared her shoulders and picked up a flight bag.
Conner took it out of her hand. “I told you not to carry things.”
“I’m only trying to make myself useful,” she muttered.
“So you don’t have to think about the Contessa? This is the hardest part, Synnamon—going in the first time without her being there. Get that behind you and you’ll be all right. Remember going into your father’s penthouse right after he died?”
She nodded. “It’s different, though,” she said, almost under her breath.
“A little, perhaps. But after this first time, it will never be quite as difficult again.”
It was a lot different, she wanted to say. She had mourned Silas Sherwood, of course, but even more she had grieved the father she’d have liked to have—a father who thought she was special, who wanted to spend time with her. And because Silas hadn’t been the sort of father she’d longed for, she had to admit—even though she was a bit ashamed of the fact—that there had been a little relief mixed in with her shock and sadness. Relief that the lifelong effort to please him was over at last.
The villa smelled of something spicy. But there was another scent, too—the almost-stale aroma of a room that had been closed up too long. It seemed more like a photograph than a real room, Synnamon thought, as if the image of a single instant had been captured and frozen, never to recur. There was no dust, of course, but there was also no air of human occupation. Each dainty pillow sat squarely in place as if a body had never leaned against it. The piano’s music rack was empty, the strings silent. And for the first time in all the years she had known this room, there were no fresh flowers anywhere.
The lack of roses brought home the Contessa’s absence as nothing else could have. Tears welled in Synnamon’s eyes and overflowed. She tried to control them, turning her back in the hope that Conner wouldn’t see, but the effort was futile.
He said something under his breath that she didn’t quite catch and came across the room to her.
Synnamon willed herself not to tense, but he didn’t touch her, just pulled a white handkerchief from his pocket and put it in her hand.
“I apologize for offending you with my expressions of grief,” she said. She knew her tone was just short of nasty, and at the moment she didn’t care.
Conner’s voice was calm. “Feeling sorry about the Contessa is one thing. Feeling sorry for yourself is another. Which is this?”
I hate it, Synnamon thought, when he’s so logical— and so right. “The least you could do is let me take it out on you,” she grumbled. “I’d feel ever so much better.”
The corner of his mouth turned up slightly. “No doubt. What did it, anyway? I can’t see anything different.”
“The roses,” she said. “The Contessa always had roses.” She mopped at her eyes.
“Don’t—you’ll smear your mascara.” Conner took the handkerchief out of her hand.
“No, I won’t. It’s your new nonstreaking kind.”
“Well, nothing’s guaranteed if you scrub at it like that.” He touched the folded edge of the handkerchief gently to her swollen eyelids. “Would you feel better if there were roses?”
Synnamon considered. “I don’t think so. That would just be pretending.”
“Then we won’t have roses. Perhaps— Oh, here comes Hartford, and I smell coffee.”
Coffee, she thought. Not sherry. “Did you tell him I’m not drinking alcohol these days?”
Conner looked thoughtful. “No. I thought you might have. Or perhaps he’s a mind reader. Are you, Hartford?”
“A mind reader, sir? Not at all. But Mrs. Hartford made gingersnaps this afternoon, and she thought coffee would go better. But if you’d prefer a Scotch and water—”
“No. The coffee will be fine. We’ve made a dinner date for tomorrow, by the way, so would you tell Mrs. Hartford she doesn’t need to worry about feeding us?”
“With Luigi?” Synnamon asked.
Conner nodded. “At his estate, no less.” He poured cream into his cup and added, “You look disappointed, Hartford.”
“My wife will be, sir. She’s been looking forward to a couple of healthy appetites. I must say I sympathize. Life is a bit dull now.”
“I’d think you’d enjoy the peace and quiet,” Conner said.
“But we feel so unnecessary, sir. In fact, we’d hoped to talk to you both about that very thing.”
“Sit down,” Conner said.
Hartford didn’t seem to hear the invitation. “We thought, perhaps, if you could use us in Denver…”
Conner looked thoughtful.
The silence drew out uncomfortably till Synnamon could stand it no longer. “I’m sorry, but you know it’s not a terribly large apartment, and Mrs. Ogden is already in place. I’m afraid no one would be very happy, all tripping over one another. And there is only a single room and bath, not even a butler’s suite—”
Conner interrupted. “However, we may buy a house before long. With the baby coming, we could really use the space. And once we make the move—”
“A baby? What wonderful news! Wait till I tell Mrs. Hartford. She’ll be thrilled.” Hartford’s smile faded. “I only wish the Contessa could have known.”
After he had hurried toward the kitchen, Synnamon eyed Conner with distaste. “You had to tell him, didn’t you?”
“About the baby? That isn’t the sort of secret one can keep indefinitely. And we could use more space than we have in the apartment.”
“Well, that’s certainly true enough. We could use the entire planet of Mars. You can have the top hemisphere, I’ll take the bottom.” She saw the quizzical quirk of his eyebrows and thought better of the outburst. “You must admit, Conner, that it would be polite to tell me these things before you start making announcements to the butler.”
“You’re right, of course, though the notion actually hadn’t occurred to me till right at that moment. But since you think it’s a good idea, too—”
Mrs. Hartford bustled in. “How delightful! A baby… And Hartford tells me we’re coming to Denver, too.” Synnamon gave up and sipped her coffee. She couldn’t possibly fight them all—at least, not just now, when the only thing she felt was overwhelmingly tired.
“I think,” she said, “I’ll go up for a nap.” She pushed her cup away.
“You must take care of yourself,” Mrs. Hartford said. As Synnamon left the living room, she heard the housekeeper exclaiming, “Of course you’ll want a boy first, Mr. Welles. Every man thinks in terms of a son first, I think.”
“Perhaps you’re right,” Conner said. His voice was slow, lazy
, almost dreamy. “A son.”
Of course, Synnamon thought. First, last and always, no doubt. And if the baby was a girl instead, just how disappointed would he be?
The guest room had been rearranged since their last visit, and instead of the primly separated twin beds it was once more a king-size rectangle. Synnamon shook her head and considered calling Hartford upstairs and asking him to change it. But it seemed like far too much effort—not only for him to do the work, but even for her to make the request.
Besides, if she asked to have the beds rearranged—or if she used the Contessa’s boudoir instead and left Conner in the guest room—she might as well announce that the supposedly fairy-tale marriage had hit the shoals some time ago. That was hardly something she wanted to do now that the Hartfords knew about the baby.
And what was the point, after all? Two months ago, the beds had been separated by the width of the room, but it hadn’t prevented her from making a mistake that would resonate through the rest of her days.
The biggest mistake, she told herself grimly, of a lifetime.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“There’s Luigi’s house,” Synnamon said. “At least, the number on the gatepost matches what’s written in your notebook.”
The rental car pulled slowly between the gates and paused at the end of the drive as if Conner was hesitant to go any closer. “That’s what you call a house?”
“In polite company, yes.”
He cast a curious glance at her. “The Contessa’s philosophy sank in deep, didn’t it?”
“You’re surprised?”
“By you, no. By the house—yes, a bit. I expected grandiosity from Luigi. A Roman style villa, perhaps. But I must say the minaret atop the chalet roof is just a little more than I was prepared for.”
Synnamon glanced at his notebook, still open in her lap, and said hopefully, “I don’t suppose Luigi could have given you the wrong house number?”
“No. And I’m afraid I didn’t turn the digits around when I wrote them down, either.” The car edged forward.
“I didn’t think so. Actually, I’m not at all surprised. It’s exactly the sort of thing Harold Henderson would think up.”
“Who’s Harold Henderson?”
“Luigi.” She looked at him in surprise. Conner was still staring at the house, his hands lying loose on the steering wheel. The shadowed light cast by the gatepost lamps cut his face into sharp angles. “Didn’t my father ever tell you about him? He’s about as Italian as pizza.”
Conner frowned. “Wasn’t pizza invented in Chicago?”
“Or New York City, at the moment I can’t remember which. But it surely wasn’t Rome, and that’s my point. Luigi was invented—for lack of a better term—in the south Bronx. I can’t believe my father never told you.”
“Perhaps Silas was keeping a few secrets back to maintain his value to the company,” Conner mused.
“I wouldn’t put it past him.”
“Do you realize,” Conner went on, “that you never refer to Silas as anything but ‘my father’?”
She shot a sideways look at him, but he was staring straight ahead. “Really?” Synnamon kept her tone polite but flat.
“It’s very interesting. Even to his face, I never heard you say ‘Dad’ or ‘Papa’ or even ‘Father’.”
She deliberately widened her eyes, feigning shock. “How about ‘Daddy, darling’?”
“Don’t try to be flippant. You know perfectly well you’ve never—at least in my hearing—called him anything of the sort.”
“Well, you knew my father. It shouldn’t be too hard to figure out.” She closed his pocket notebook and held it out. “Here—you’d no doubt be lost without this.”
“Possibly. And Carol would be devastated if she had to start from scratch.” His palm brushed the back of her hand as he took the small leather book. The contact sent a shiver up Synnamon’s arm, but Conner didn’t seem to notice. He tucked the book into his breast pocket, parked the car in the enormous concrete circle in front of the house and reached for the door handle. Then he settled into his seat with a frown.
“On second thought,” he said, “is this a parking lot or a sculpture garden? I don’t see any evidence of cars, and there’s the strangest piece of metal I’ve ever seen planted right in the middle.”
“I’m willing to take my chances. If Luigi gets offended and throws us out, we can go to Emilio’s for a hamburger.”
Conner came around the car. “Where’s that?”
“It’s a little dive in a very bad neighborhood—but the food is ambrosia. The Contessa used to take me there.”
“The Contessa was quite the woman, wasn’t she?” His tone was admiring.
Synnamon had to clear her throat. “I always thought so. You know, a lot of people expected her to be a snob, but she was a genuine lady. She probably wouldn’t even have winced at Luigi’s minarets.”
“Now that,” Conner muttered, “would be a challenge.” He tucked her hand into the bend of his elbow. Luigi himself came to greet them in the entrance hall. Synnamon could feel Conner’s muscles trembling under her fingertips. Not from nervousness, though, she was positive of that. She wouldn’t be surprised if it was repressed laughter that was causing those tremors. And she had to admit that Luigi was a sight to behold.
The shiny wallpaper—pure gold leaf, Synnamon was sure—reflected the light from the dozen torch-shaped sconces and made his hair look like polished amber. The shiny gold tunic he wore was a cross between a toga and Hollywood’s idea of an Arab chieftain’s robe, and he bowed ceremonially from the waist as he greeted them.
Black, beady eyes flickered over Conner and came to rest approvingly on Synnamon. “My dear,” he said. “You’re as sinfully lovely as ever. Silas was right—he told me once that you’d mature beautifully.”
“No doubt he added that it would be entirely due to constant use of Sherwood cosmetics,” Synnamon said.
“But of course—our Silas was a man who was proud of his product. Conner, I don’t believe we’ve met except over the telephone, have we? What a happy occasion this is, then. I’m glad you made the effort to come all this way just to see me.”
The small black eyes had sharpened, Synnamon saw, as if he was calculating his worth to the Sherwood corporation. If two senior officers and shareholders gave up an entire weekend to placate him…
She gave a tiny shake of her head. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, Luigi, but we had some family business here, as well.”
“Of course,” he murmured. “But I shouldn’t keep you standing here. Come in, come in.”
The lounge to which he led them managed to make the front entrance look underdecorated. Every wall was draped with rich brocade, and the folds of heavy fabric stirred uneasily with every movement. The room, Synnamon thought, was positively creepy—as if there were secret listeners behind every panel.
She turned down a poisonous-looking cocktail offered by a young woman wearing a skimpy uniform, which looked more like a costume, and asked for club soda with a twist of lime.
Luigi frowned. “Just club soda? I’m sure my staff could find anything you’d like.”
“Not right now, thanks.”
Conner looked up from a dubious appraisal of his glass. “We’re expecting a child later in the year, so of course Synnamon is watching very carefully what she eats and drinks.”
“I see,” Luigi said. “So the Sherwood empire will be in safe hands for another generation? A fine, strong boy to fill Silas’s shoes?”
“We certainly hope so,” Conner agreed. “Don’t we, darling?”
Synnamon forced herself to nod and look as enthusiastic as she could manage.
Luigi monopolized the conversation all the way through dinner, talking of his chain of spas and the new beauty treatments he was introducing. Synnamon listened with half an ear. She was trying to figure out the contents of her entree and wishing she could send it to Sherwood’s lab for analysis before she risked another bite.
She didn’t realize how far her mind had wandered until Luigi said, “Perhaps after dinner I can show you, Synnamon.”
Her gaze flew from her plate to Conner’s face, trying to telegraph her panic. Surely he wouldn’t ignore her plight. He simply had to rescue her or risk the outcome of the entire evening. But his expression was smoothly noncommittal—or was that the most infinitesimal nod she’d ever seen? She hated to bet on it, but she had no other choice.
“That would be lovely, Luigi,” she managed. “And Conner, too, of course?”
“Of course,” Luigi said smoothly. “Are you finished, my dear? Didn’t you like my chef’s creation?”
“It was excellent. But I have a very small appetite these days.”
“Then let’s go back to the lounge for our coffee and dessert.” Luigi tossed down his napkin and led the way. “Take this chair, my dear,” he told Synnamon, indicating a long chaise. “It’ll make your massage easier.”
He strolled across to a drapery panel, which looked no different than the others, pulled it aside and pressed a button on a huge control panel.
“Massage?” Synnamon asked under her breath.
Conner shrugged. “You agreed to it.”
Synnamon had to take a deep breath, count to a hundred and remind herself that kicking was forbidden—no matter how much he deserved it.
The same scantily clad young woman who had served drinks came in with a silver tray that contained something that would have looked more at home in an emergency room. Luigi intercepted Synnamon’s look and said, as he picked it up, “A wonderful new development, I think. This is the only silicone gel face mask that exists. It allows us to do facial massage without disturbing the client’s makeup. Fingers alone are so untidy, don’t you think?” He advanced on her. “If you’ll just lean back and let me drape this over your face—”
She shot a look at Conner.
With deceptive ease, he moved into position at the head of her chaise. “Why don’t you show me the techniques, Luigi?”
Luigi smiled. “Very well. But without the mask, you can’t reproduce the results. And the mask is going to be exclusively available at Luigi Salons.”
The Perfect Divorce! Page 12