The Perfect Divorce!

by Leigh Michaels

  “Of course,” Conner said genially. “But if you were to allow us to manufacture them for you…”

  “That remains to be seen.” Luigi draped the gel envelope over Synnamon’s face. “Put your fingertips right here. Now press gently and draw them upward, like so.” He nodded. “That’s it.”

  The pressure of Conner’s hands against her face was almost nonexistent, but the silicone mask seemed to magnify the effect, sending tiny surges of energy through each muscle.

  “Have you already made arrangements with another manufacturer?” Conner asked.

  “Not just yet. But I must be honest. I don’t like what I see going on at Sherwood these days. The contamination in the manufacturing plant, for instance—”

  “That could have happened anywhere,” Synnamon tried to say. But the words came out garbled, and for a split-second Conner’s fingertips pressed against her jawline on both sides of her chin. Not a very subtle way to tell her to keep her mouth shut, Synnamon thought— but it was effective. She sank a little deeper into the lounge.

  “I understand your concern,” Conner said. “We knew we were taking a risk, Synnamon and I, by announcing what was going on. I think most of our competition would have tried to hide the fact—but we had faith in our customers. We knew they’d understand the situation and would appreciate our honesty.”

  Luigi sniffed. “That’s just a fancy-dress way of saying that you couldn’t keep it secret. In Silas’s day, things like that wouldn’t have happened.”

  “Oh, no—they happened. He just managed to keep the news away from the customers. You’re right about one thing, Luigi. I’m not Silas.”

  Conner’s fingers didn’t stop moving in soft patterns over Synnamon’s face, and despite her intense interest in the conversation going on over her head, she couldn’t stop herself from surrendering to the gentleness of his touch.

  It was odd, though. Her face was relaxing under the soft stroking pressure, the tenseness in her temples was gone, and her cheek muscles felt as soft as butter under a summer sun. But instead of vanishing altogether, the tension felt as if it had sunk deep inside her body. Far from the sensitive touch of his fingertips, there seemed to be a coiled spring, and it was winding tighter with every stroke of his hands.

  “I don’t have anything against you, exactly,” Luigi said. “But when an old family firm goes out of the family, something’s lost.”

  “But Sherwood hasn’t gone out of the family,” Conner pointed out.

  “Technically, no. But it’s not like you were Silas’s son. And with Synnamon leaving—”

  “Who said she’s leaving?” Conner’s voice held a note of mild curiosity.

  Synnamon almost sat up straight in shock, but his fingertips pressed her into the soft lounge.

  “She’s chosen for the moment to concentrate on a healthy baby,” Conner went on, “but that doesn’t mean she’s less interested in Sherwood just because she’s not holding down a day-to-day job there. In fact, she may take more real interest in policy-making now that she can focus on the big picture instead of the details of servicing customer accounts.”

  Very smooth, Synnamon thought. She almost believed him herself. Though maybe he was completely serious. He hadn’t said anything about taking her advice, just that she’d have more time to offer it.

  “Besides,” Conner mused, “who knows? Maybe once the baby’s born Synnamon will decide to run Sherwood all by herself, and I’ll stay home and raise him.”

  “Very funny,” Luigi said, grunting. “But of course we’ll have to wait and see what happens when the time comes, won’t we? For right now, I just want you to know I’m keeping a close eye on things. And if I see one more piece of evidence that Sherwood is falling short of Silas’s standards, you won’t get another chance to sweet-talk me—either one of you.”

  For a moment, Synnamon thought she could detect in the blunt tones the last traces of a Bronx accent. Then Luigi’s voice regained its usual oily charm. “And if Synnamon decides to throw you out altogether, Conner, I’d be happy to take you on.”

  Conner’s fingers slipped, and a corner of his fingernail jabbed Synnamon’s face under the edge of the mask. It wasn’t a scratch. If she hadn’t been so sensitized by the massage, she might not have felt it. And she understood why he’d slipped. She’d been a bit stunned herself by the idea that Luigi wanted to hire him.

  “I’d say you’re a natural at facial massage,” Luigi went on easily, “and I know a lot of ladies who’d be happy to let you practice on them.”

  As soon as she thought she could get by with it, Synnamon pleaded exhaustion. It wasn’t entirely a ploy, either—she was dead tired. But she was also horribly keyed up. Even after she’d sat up and taken the mask off, the effects of the massage lingered. She could still feel not only the soft stroking of Conner’s fingertips but the tension that had retreated inward, tension that refused to go away.

  Once safely out of Luigi’s driveway, she put her head back against the seat of the rental car and said, “That was pretty smooth, Conner.”

  “Likewise. I couldn’t have pulled it off without you.”

  She didn’t believe that for a moment, but she didn’t feel like arguing. “How long do you think you can keep him believing that I’ll be back to work before long?”

  “You might want to return.”

  “To what? Annie’s doing fine.”

  Conner shrugged. “There are other jobs.”

  “I don’t think so.” She sat up. “I’m starving. Do you think Mrs. Hartford would mind if we raided the refrigerator?”

  “Mind? I think she’d be more likely to empty it for you. But I thought you told Luigi you had a very small appetite these days.”

  “Only where unidentified food is concerned. What was that main dish, anyway?”

  “I don’t think you want to know.”

  “In that case, don’t tell me.”

  The corner of his mouth quirked. “What was that place you were telling me about? The dive with the great burgers?”

  “Emilio’s?”

  “That’s it. Let’s go there. I could stand a thick, hot, all-American cheeseburger right now.”

  Synnamon hesitated. Surely there wasn’t any reason not to go. Besides, the alternative was to return to the Contessa’s, invade the refrigerator and sooner or later retreat to that shared king-size bed. The longer she could put that off, the better she’d feel. “All right. Head toward downtown, and I’ll give you directions when we get close.”

  Emilio’s was even more of a dive than on her last visit. Though it was clean, the decor ran to vinyl, paper and sturdy glass, and there were even more neon signs in the windows and above the bar than Synnamon remembered. The jukebox was playing, and two couples occupied the tiny dance floor. But despite the hour, only one of the high-backed booths was empty, and without waiting to be noticed by the waitress, Synnamon led the way to it.

  Conner slid into the seat across from her and looked around. “The Contessa actually came here?”

  “Not only did she come, but Emilio would cook her hamburgers himself and keep her up to date on the doings of all his various nieces and nephews. I got the sweetest note from him after she died—complete with grease stains.”

  The waitress set a half-sheet of paper in front of each of them.

  Synnamon glanced at the smeared photocopy and looked up in surprise. “A menu? What’s Emilio’s coming to?”

  The waitress shrugged. “Some of the tourists get nervous without one. What can I get you?”

  “Hot tea, please. And I’ll have a medium burger with everything.”

  Conner didn’t even look at his menu. “I’ll take your word for it. The same for me, but with coffee.”

  “I don’t mind if you have a beer or something, Conner. Just because I’m being careful what I drink these days—”

  He shook his head. “No, that concoction at Luigi’s was enough to put me off alcohol for life. I don’t know what was in it, but it ta
sted like the inside of a bat cave.”

  The waitress returned with their drinks, and Synnamon toyed with her spoon while she waited for her tea to brew. It felt odd, being out with him like this. Almost as if it was a first date.

  In fact, she thought, she hadn’t been this anxious on their first date. Of course, that evening more than a year ago had been a company function, and they’d only gone together at Silas’s suggestion—so Synnamon hadn’t really looked at it as a date at all. It was only later that she realized the quiet young man in the long white lab coat was paying a great deal more attention to her than she had expected him to.

  She looked up from her tea and found his attention focused on her, his eyes intent and thoughtful. There were two tiny frown marks between his eyebrows, she noted. For the first time she realized that there were other lines in his face, as well. Were they new, or had she just never noticed them before?

  She was chastened by the knowledge that it had been a long time since she had really looked at him—at the chiseled face, the strong, lean body, the graceful hands. So long, in fact, that in a way he hardly looked familiar at all.

  And what was he thinking as he looked at her? There was an odd twinge in the pit of her stomach as she wondered what he was feeling. Curiosity, perhaps, at how they had come to this pass. Sadness, no doubt. And probably regret.

  Nervously, she raised a hand to brush her cheek. “I was so frazzled that I forgot to ask. Did Luigi’s mask make a mess of my makeup?”

  For a moment she thought he hadn’t heard. Then, slowly, he shook his head. “No, it performed as promised. You look fine.”

  “Good.” She folded her hands around her teacup. “It was quite a sensation. Are you serious about wanting to manufacture it?”

  He shrugged. “We’d have to look at the details, of course. Making a few for Luigi’s spas probably wouldn’t be profitable.”

  “He might consent to a home version.”

  “If you feel like trying to persuade him, go right ahead. Synnamon—”

  There was a firmness about his tone as he said her name that Synnamon hadn’t heard for a while—not since those first arguments about the baby—and a shiver ran through her at the reminder.

  Conner looked at the table while he drew a rectangle with the base of his coffee mug. “I know you want your privacy tomorrow when you go to scatter the Contessa’s ashes, and I respect that. I’ll stay as far away as you like—even if it’s here in Phoenix while you go out in the desert. But is there any chance you’d reconsider? I’d like to go with you.”

  She didn’t answer.

  A moment later, he said quietly, “You see, I lost my grandmother when I was a teenager. Nobody told me she was so very sick till she was gone, and then it was too late. I couldn’t even go to the funeral. She was very different from the Contessa, of course—and yet the way they loved was so terribly similar.”

  “And you need to say goodbye?”

  “I’d like to. It’s up to you, of course.”

  Synnamon hesitated. “All right. You can come with me, Conner.”

  Somehow, the simple phrase didn’t feel like an invitation. It felt more like a promise.

  Suddenly, a question seemed to echo in her mind. Why can’t we make it work? she asked herself.

  If the baby had come along earlier, before they had started the legal paperwork, they’d have tried to go on, and the idea of a divorce might never have come up at all.

  There was Nicole, of course. But perhaps that, too, was partly Synnamon’s own fault. In the months they’d lived together, she’d never been suspicious of Conner. He’d given her no reason to wonder if there were other women in his life. And even if that was largely because Sherwood itself seemed more attractive to him than any other woman could possibly be—well, that was a fact of life Synnamon had long ago accepted.

  Maybe Conner was right, after all, and they could make it work. He seemed willing enough to give Nicole up. That was clear from the way Nicole herself was acting. And once they’d adjusted to the new realities forced upon them by circumstances, they might rub along fairly comfortably together for the rest of their lives.

  There was an all-gone feeling in her chest at the idea. She didn’t know whether it came from the necessity of giving up the only bit of independence she’d ever experienced, or from uncertainty about the roles she would be called on to play over the years. The only thing she knew for sure was it would take time to truly get used to the idea of being Conner’s wife once more, and the mother of his child.

  And after all, she reminded herself, there was no rush. She needn’t decide anything right away, for time was the one thing they had in abundance.

  “You miss him, don’t you?” Morea challenged.

  Synnamon hardly heard her. She didn’t realize how far her thoughts had wandered while Morea studied the dessert tray. “What did you say?”

  Morea shook her head at the waiter, then snapped the last bread stick in two and brandished half of it at Synnamon. “Conner’s been gone not quite a week and you’re mooning around like a—”

  “Please,” Synnamon begged. “Spare me the comparisons.”

  “Then you admit that you miss him?”

  Synnamon hesitated. Three weeks ago, when she’d been trying to find an excuse to escape to Phoenix by herself for a couple of days, she’d have found the idea of missing Conner laughable. But now that he’d been in Asia for five days, trying to work out a sudden kink in the supply of product packaging…

  “Sort of,” Synnamon said.

  “And you actually think it’s going to be happily ever after?”

  “I wouldn’t go that far. But Conner’s right. We made a deal, and there’s no reason we can’t live with it. Of course we both wish things were different, but where there’s a child, sometimes people have to make sacrifices.”

  “All right, spare me the sermon. And pardon me if I don’t throw out your case file just yet.”

  “You never throw out case files.”

  “Of course not—but I’m not usually so certain that I’ll need them again.” She slipped the bill for their lunch from under Synnamon’s hand. “My treat. Consider it a good-luck gift.”

  “Thanks—I think.”

  Morea grinned. “But don’t lose my phone number. You’ll need it when Prince Charming makes you break out in warts after all. I have to go, darling. There are half a dozen clients on my calendar this afternoon.” She swirled off, and Synnamon finished her coffee in peace before she strolled to the Sherwood complex. The weather was pleasant for the end of January—in fact, it almost felt like spring—and it was nice not to feel rushed, as she had for so many years.

  Annie was doing just fine in her new job, and there was really nothing for Synnamon to do except provide moral support now and then. The only reason she had even come to work today was that Mrs. Ogden was spring-cleaning the apartment with a vengeance. With a baby on the way, she’d announced, there was serious work to be done.

  Though to be honest, it would be more accurate to say that was the main reason, not the only one. For Morea was right. She was missing Conner.

  The two weeks since their return from Phoenix hadn’t been exactly easy. There had been tense moments. She’d been snappish on occasion, and Conner had seemed moody now and then. But there was a growing peace within Synnamon, a sense that she was doing the right thing. It had started, she thought, out in the desert when she had scattered the Contessa’s ashes in the out-of-the-way spot she had loved, and Conner had not said a word to break the mood. She had felt closer to him in that moment than ever before.

  Just inside Sherwood’s lobby, she stopped in the main ladies’ room to repair her lipstick and was startled to catch a glimpse in the mirror of Nicole. Her face looked blotchy, her eyes were red-rimmed, and she was pressing two fingers to the center of her forehead as if she was in pain.

  Synnamon couldn’t help but feel sympathetic toward Nicole and a little annoyed with Conner. She’d known the job
wasn’t going to be an easy one for Nicole—or any outsider—to take on. And Synnamon knew that feeling of helpless inadequacy, too—the sense that the job was far too big and her talents far too small. But she’d really thought Nicole could handle it.

  She carefully outlined her lips, then said, without looking at the other woman, “Is there anything I can do to help?”

  Nicole shook her head. “No. Thanks anyway.”

  Synnamon twisted her lip brush in the tube and began to fill in the outline she’d made. “If you’re having trouble with your staff—”

  “No,” Nicole said drearily. “It’s not the job. Believe me, I wish it was.”

  “Then are you ill? There’s a lot of flu going around.” Nicole sighed. “It’s not flu.”

  “Overwork? You’ve been holding two jobs.”

  There was a half-hysterical catch in Nicole’s voice. “You, of all people, should understand what I’m feeling right now.”

  “Oh, no.” Synnamon’s voice was barely a breath.

  “Yes,” Nicole said flatly. “You see, I’m pregnant, too.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  The best measure of Synnamon’s shock, perhaps, was the fact that her first thought was to wonder how the Contessa would have advised handling a problem like this.

  It was a thorny etiquette problem, indeed, so ridiculous that it was almost laughable. But one more look at Nicole’s ravaged face removed the last hope that this was someone’s sick idea of a practical joke.

  As the truth sank in, Synnamon found herself clinging to the edge of the sink, trying to stop her knees from shaking.

  “How long?” she said. It was an idiotic question, of course—as if it mattered. As if it was any of her business, really.

  “A month. Maybe a little more.”

  “That’s so little time. Are you—” She stopped. Of course Nicole was certain. She was levelheaded and professional, not the sort to panic till the facts were in.