The Perfect Divorce! Page 3

  Had he meant that he didn’t want her to come along? Surely not, she told herself. The flight would be so brief it couldn’t matter, and then they would both be free to plunge into their jobs, into real life. “Besides,” she went on firmly, “the Hartfords need a rest, not someone else to take care of.”

  “I’m not sure they’d agree with you. They might even like the distraction. I think I actually hurt Hartford’s feelings this morning by telling him not to bother with breakfast.” Conner pointed at the cup in her hand. “Drinking that, instead of only holding it, might do you good, Synnamon.”

  “And if I don’t drink my coffee, Hartford will really be hurt?” Obediently she raised the cup to her lips. He’d put in half a spoon of sugar, exactly the way she liked it. She was vaguely surprised, until she realized that if the roles had been reversed she’d have remembered how to fix his, too—with just a touch of cream.

  “Well, I wouldn’t be surprised if they both feel a bit threatened just now.”

  Synnamon shook her head. “The Contessa arranged a pension plan. And I’ve already told them they can stay here as long as they like.”

  “You’ll keep the town house, then?”

  “Oh, yes. I can’t imagine dividing up her things—” Her voice began to shake again, despite her best efforts, and she had to take a couple of deep breaths before she could say, “I just want to go home.”

  “Synnamon…” He paused. “I’ll call the airline.”

  She set her cup on the silver tray and tugged the rings from her finger. “Here,” she said as she held them out to him. “So I don’t forget them later.”

  Slowly, Conner raised a hand to take the gleaming bands from her. “Are you sure this is a good idea?”

  She frowned. “Why not? I doubt the Hartfords will notice. And they’ll have to know about the divorce sometime, anyway. Now that the Contessa’s gone…” She drew her elbows close against her body. “Conner, I want to thank you for—” she hesitated “—for consoling me last night. I’ll be fine, really.”

  He said levelly, “I’m sure you will.” He looked at the rings, the stones sparkling against his palm. “I always thought diamonds were perfect for you, Synnamon, but I wasn’t quite sure why. Now I know. They’re every bit as brilliant and hard as you are.”

  Synnamon toyed with a bread stick and tried not to look out the window. A mid-December snowstorm was venting its fury on Denver, and from twenty stories above the street, atop one of the city’s premier hotels, all she could see was a gray-white cloud that shifted and rolled and twisted till her stomach threatened to rebel. To make it worse, the Pinnacle was a revolving restaurant, and though the constant and slightly jerky motion normally didn’t bother her, today she felt like she’d been stranded on a carnival ride.

  But the restaurant was her attorney’s favorite, and when Morea had called yesterday to set up a lunch date so they could talk about the progress of the divorce, Synnamon hadn’t hesitated to accept the invitation. Of course yesterday she hadn’t been thinking about the predicted snow.

  Morosely, she snapped another bread stick in two and played with it. The wind seemed to whistle around the glass and steel tower.

  The maitre d’ swept across the room and with a flourish pulled out the chair opposite Synnamon’s. Morea Landon settled into place with a sigh, tossed the end of a fringed red silk scarf over her shoulder with an elegant flourish and leaned forward to touch Synnamon’s hand. “Darling, how are you?” Her voice was low and husky. “I haven’t seen you in two weeks, at least.”

  “I’d be better if it wasn’t snowing horizontally.”

  Morea smiled sympathetically and glanced at her menu for all of three seconds before tossing it aside. “It does look a bit like a Rorschach test out there, doesn’t it? Want to split a bottle of wine?”

  “No, thanks. I’m dizzy enough with the rotation and the snow.”

  “Club soda, then. And turn your back to the window. Or else watch the snow more closely—that might help. I remember my dad got me used to thunderstorms by treating them like a video game and making me tell him what I thought the lightning looked like.”

  “Sort of like searching out pictures in the clouds?”

  “Exactly. See that little eddy right there? It resembles the governor on a bad hair day, don’t you think?” She sobered. “I’m dreadfully sorry about the Contessa, Synnamon.”

  “Thanks for the note you sent.”

  “You were planning to go down for Christmas, weren’t you?”

  “Actually, I’d planned to be there about now. I didn’t want to break bad news to her on the holiday.” Synnamon glanced at her menu, more for the sake of a moment to reassert her self-control than because she needed to refresh her memory, and looked at the waiter. “I’ll have the seafood salad, with house dressing.”

  “And I’ll have the scampi with a double order of garlic toast.” Morea smiled sweetly. “I’m spending the afternoon in conference with my opponent in a divorce case that is not likely to be as easily settled as yours. I figure he might be more willing to negotiate if it’s the only way he can escape the garlic.”

  “Is that what they teach you in law school?”

  “Oh, no. In law school I only learned which books to look things up in.” Morea raised her glass of club soda. “I have a date for you, finally. Here’s to your divorce, which will be final in the middle of February. On the fourteenth, to be precise.”

  Synnamon almost dropped her glass. “Valentine’s Day? But that’s—”

  “Your wedding anniversary, I know. At least it’s tidy,” Morea pointed out. “You’ll never have any trouble remembering the date of your freedom. And you can go to the Valentine’s Have a Heart Ball as a single woman with an absolutely clear conscience.”

  “I doubt I’ll be celebrating,” Synnamon murmured.

  Morea set her glass down. Her voice was suddenly serious. “Look, darling, if you have any doubts about whether this divorce is what you want—”

  “Of course I don’t have doubts. It’s the only answer. This marriage was a big mistake for both of us.”

  “Well, you’re probably half right.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Conner’s come out of the whole thing rather well, hasn’t he? You know, Synnamon, you don’t have to give him the earth wrapped in gold tissue paper in order to get out of this marriage. If you want to fight to keep what’s yours—”

  “All I want is a clean, fair finish.”

  “That,” Morea murmured, “is exactly what I’m talking about. Especially the fair part.”

  Synnamon ignored the comment. “It’s not as if Conner doesn’t have any right to Sherwood Cosmetics. My father made him president of the company and a full partner.”

  “Silas was an idiot. Besides, that doesn’t mean you have to meekly hand over the rest.”

  “I’m not. I’ll still have a good share of Sherwood when it’s done, as well as the apartment and everything in it. Morea, whose side are you on, anyway?”

  “Yours, darling—and the little oath I swore when I passed the bar was to give you, my client, my very best advice.”

  “Consider it done, all right? My mind’s made up.” The waiter brought their food. Synnamon picked up her fork, but somehow the salad—as delightful as it had sounded—wasn’t inviting any more. The scallops piled atop the bed of lettuce seemed to quiver with the motion of the restaurant. They almost looked alive, Synnamon thought.

  Morea crunched a crisp bit of garlic toast with evident delight. “I can’t wait to see Ridge Coltrain’s face when he gets a load of this,” she murmured. “Best garlic toast in the world. So, if we’re finished talking about the divorce, what are we to discuss? Oh, I know—what are you doing for Christmas? If you’re not going to Phoenix, why not come and celebrate with us?”

  “I didn’t say I wasn’t going to Phoenix,” Synnamon said.

  Morea frowned. “You didn’t? I’d have sworn—”

  Synnamon r
elented. “Actually, I’m not. But I’ve already made plans for Christmas Day.”

  The fact that her plans included staying quietly at home alone, sleeping late and watching old movies was really none of Morea’s business. As the Contessa would have said, as long as one didn’t actually lie, there was no need to tell the entire truth on every occasion. And in a case like this, Synnamon would much rather be alone than at the fringes of Morea’s crowd, where everyone seemed to be half of a twosome.

  “With somebody interesting, I hope? Maybe it’s a good thing after all that you and Conner are being so decent about the whole thing. If one of you wanted to make a fuss about who the other one’s seeing, it could get rather unpleasant.”

  “Why? Who’s Conner seeing?” The words were out before Synnamon could stop herself.

  Morea wagged a gentle index finger at her.

  “Not that I care, you understand,” Synnamon said.

  “Of course not. In any case, how should I know? I hear things now and then, but I haven’t seen Conner since the night we all had dinner together and you practically shoved money at him. Not that I’m trying to reargue the case now,” Morea added hastily. “It’s just been a long time since I’ve had a client who was more interested in giving property away than in keeping it.”

  “Morea—”

  “Bear with me, darling. In another eight weeks the divorce will be final, and I promise I’ll shut up about it forever after. But in the meantime, just in case you change your mind, I want you to know where I stand. Just don’t wait too long, all right?” She stabbed a shrimp. “Now then. If you won’t come for turkey, how about later? A bunch of us are going up to Telluride the week after Christmas. If you don’t feel like skiing, you can always sit in the whirlpool and flirt with all the hunks who get hurt on the slopes.”

  “Thanks, but that’s the last week I’ll be working, so I think I’d better stick around the office. Conner still hasn’t hired anybody to take over my job, so—”

  “Does he run the rest of the business with the same degree of foresight and care? No wonder Silas thought he was perfect.”

  Synnamon couldn’t help but bristle a bit. “Don’t be sarcastic, Morea. It’s not Conner’s fault the job hasn’t been filled.”

  “I’m charmed to hear you defending him.”

  “He turned the interviews and the decision over to me, and I haven’t found anybody who’s really qualified.” She pushed her salad away. “In fact, I have an appointment to talk to him this afternoon about that.”

  “Are you sure you want to give up your job?” Morea asked idly.

  “Oh, yes. I’ve been in customer relations since I joined Sherwood three years ago, and I’m a little tired of it.”

  “No doubt. Who wouldn’t be, dealing with complaints all day? What I really meant was that perhaps you just want a change. You should have had the top job, you know, instead of Conner.”

  “Me? Why?”

  “Well, you are the only remaining Sherwood.”

  “You think that mattered to my father? He never thought I could do anything.” Synnamon regretted letting the bitter tone ooze into her voice, and she masked it as quickly as she could. “That’s partly why I didn’t mind giving so much of my share of the company to Conner. If he’s going to have all the responsibility—”

  “I still think it was foolish of you. Conner’s got a majority interest in a very profitable cosmetics firm. And you’ve got—”

  “A nice guaranteed income, without working another day in my life.”

  “So what are you going to do instead?”

  “I’m not sure. Maybe I’ll grow poinsettias.”

  Morea sighed. “Well, at least make it pink ones, darling. Red’s the wrong color for you. Or won’t you take my advice on that, either?”

  At one minute to three, Synnamon took a seat in the waiting room outside Conner’s office. “It’s going to be a while,” Carol warned. “He’s pretty thoroughly tied up.”

  “I’ll wait.” Synnamon opened her portfolio and started through the stack of applications again.

  It was a full twenty minutes before the office door opened and the head of the research and development division came out, stopped to shake Conner’s hand, nodded to Synnamon and went off down the hall.

  Conner leaned against the doorjamb and sighed. Then he said, “Sorry I’m running late, Synnamon. Come on in. Carol, I could use a cup of coffee, after that.”

  Synnamon pushed the applications into her portfolio. “Problems with research and development?”

  “You might say.” He closed the office door behind her and gestured toward the couch in the corner. “Anderson just announced his intention of retiring at the end of the year.”

  “You mean this year? That’s a bit abrupt—it’s only two weeks off.” Taking a seat on the couch could be interpreted as issuing an invitation. Synnamon chose the love seat instead. She sat in the precise center and put her portfolio on the low glass table.

  “It does add a little extra spice to the holidays, having to decide who gets the job. Oh, well, I wasn’t planning to go anywhere for Christmas, anyway.”

  “I suppose you’ll be promoting one of the senior people?”

  “They’re all well-qualified.”

  “I know.”

  Conner settled onto the end of the couch and stretched one arm across the back. “But you sound a bit doubtful.”

  “Not really. It’s just that some of those people have been with the company for twenty years—almost as long as Anderson has. Perhaps some new blood would be a good idea.”

  Conner frowned, but just as he started to answer, Carol knocked and wheeled in a small cart. By the time she’d poured the coffee and gone out, Synnamon had thought better of the impulse to express her opinion. In two more weeks, she, too, would be leaving Sherwood Cosmetics. After that she’d be no more than a silent partner, so she’d better get used to keeping her ideas to herself.

  Not that it would be a difficult change, she thought. Silas Sherwood had certainly never solicited her opinion. In fact, the main difference between Conner and her father was that Silas wouldn’t have bothered to listen before doing exactly as he pleased.

  She stirred sugar into her coffee and leaned forward to open her portfolio. “But of course you’re the boss. As you requested, I’ve brought a list of the best applicants for my job.” She frowned at the neatly typed page atop the stack of applications. “The trouble is, none of them are all that good. The top candidate was so busy assuring me of his qualifications that he never let me tell him about the job. I suspect he’d be like that with our clients, too, not even listening to their needs.”

  “Not the kind of customer service we want to provide,” Conner agreed. “I see your point. What do you want to do? Run the ad again?”

  “No.” Synnamon took a deep breath. “You may think this is shortsighted—”

  Conner shook his head. “No—Anderson giving me two weeks’ notice is shortsighted. Knowing you, Synnamon, I can’t imagine you’d make a proposition without having figured out every possible consequence.”

  She wasn’t quite sure if she’d been complimented or insulted, but she decided not to test the question. “I want to hire Annie.”

  Conner’s eyebrows flew up. “Your secretary?”

  The incredulity in his voice reminded her painfully of Silas, and she had to fight the urge to duck her head and apologize for having wasted his time. “She’s already half-trained for the job,” she pointed out.

  “That’s quite a promotion, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, and I think she could handle it beautifully. But of course the decision is yours.”

  He leaned back against the cushions, long fingers stroking the strong line of his jaw, watching her thoughtfully.

  Synnamon waited patiently for rejection, wondering what reason—if any—he would give. Why had she even bothered? Secretaries didn’t get promoted to department head status in one leap.

  Abruptly C
onner rose, walked across the room to his desk and keyed the intercom. “Carol, ask Mrs. Welles’s secretary to come to my office immediately.”

  Synnamon blinked in surprise. “You mean—”

  “Let’s wait till Annie gets here, shall we?”

  Chastened, Synnamon sipped her coffee. The silence lengthened uncomfortably, and finally she said, “Morea told me the divorce will be final in about eight weeks.”

  Conner looked thoughtful. “Valentine’s Day,” he said. It hadn’t taken him long to calculate that. Synnamon wondered if Morea was right and he was seeing someone already.

  I don’t care if he is, she told herself. It’s curiosity, that’s all.

  There was a tentative tap on the door and Annie came in. She looked, Synnamon thought, like a kid who’d been summoned to the principal’s office and didn’t have the slightest idea why. “You wanted to see me, Mr. Welles?”

  “Have a seat, Annie. How do you like your coffee?”

  Annie perched on the edge of the love seat next to Synnamon. “Just black, thanks.”

  He handed her a cup and saucer. It rattled a little as she took it, and she didn’t even pretend to drink.

  Conner settled back on the couch. “Mrs. Welles has found the person she feels is just right to take over her job.”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “You.”

  The saucer tipped alarmingly. “I— Me, sir?” Annie cleared her throat. “Sir, I know I should jump at the chance. But I’m not sure—”

  “Exactly,” Conner said. “I’m not sure, either. Annie, I have a proposition for you, if Mrs. Welles will go along with it.”

  Warning bells went off in Synnamon’s head, but before she could argue, he’d gone on, He wasn’t even looking at her, but directly at Annie.

  “I’m offering you the job as head of customer relations on a trial basis for a ninety-day period. During that time, Mrs. Welles will make herself available to you for advice and consultation.”

  Synnamon gave him a stony stare.

  “At the end of the trial period,” Conner went on, “the three of us will sit down again and decide if the plan is working. If it is, we’ll make the promotion permanent.”