Whose Angel Keyring (4 page)

Clearing his throat, James elicited a thanks from their feline guest.

“Brunch was marvelous, James.” Her accent, when speaking to him, seemed to migrate toward his own English tonalities. “Absolutely purrfect.”

“You’re quite welcome, Madame,” he said quietly. As she planted another kiss on the master, James averted his gaze, in the process catching sight of Miss Cynthia’s envelope. Still unopened, it stood upright on the mantel, resting against the chiming family clock.

Zack had endured enough of the unctuous Zelda McIntyre. He knew better than to object to her presence. For the most part, he and his father kept their boundaries intact when it came to the women in their lives. But the contrast of their contented cooing to his own disgruntled solitude wasn’t making for a jolly time. He glanced at Cynthia’s envelope on the mantel. But as he was edging toward a foul mood, he decided not to push his luck by reading her note. If it was petulant, he’d get angry; if it was sad, he’d plunge into depression. So he left it where it was.

He threw himself lengthwise onto the sofa and grabbed the TV remote. The Raiders were trouncing the Dolphins, but it wasn’t the results he found calming. It was the predictable football-announcer-voice, reminding him there was a world where things made sense: the team with the better strategy and superior strength won. Simple.

Why couldn’t women understand that?
What the hell happened
? How had he managed to lose both the women he cared for just in time for the holidays? Briefly, he cast about for some female he could talk to. He laughed when the only one who came to mind was Mary—the aging secretary at Calvin Oil—who for so many years had been managing to keep both Calvin men turning up on time at the right appointments. Though she could handle just about anything corporate, as far as Zack knew she had no personal life of her own and would be mortified to discover a chink in the Calvin armor.

He couldn’t talk to Miranda—not now, at least. And Cynthia would probably slam down the phone in his ear.

The images of his boat being bashed against a treacherous rock suddenly washed over him again. But now he felt imperiled— not so much by the possibility of collision—as by the sense that, as his own dark fears swirled, he might be sucked down into the depths. To the drone of the television announcer’s play-by-play, Zack slipped into a fitful sleep.

The muscles of his upper back and shoulders burned, but he had to keep rowing. The sense of urgency was overwhelming, and Zack pulled hard on the oars in a smooth, repetitive motion. He had to get there in time—otherwise he’d miss her. That’s all he knew.

In the fog, it was hard to get his bearings. On the boat’s extra seat in front of him, a huge compass held steady at 270 degrees —due west. And then, as he watched, the compass began to spin.

What in the world? A spinning compass could only mean he was near a powerful magnetic field. But his charts had indicated no such anomaly. My charts, he thought, where are they?

Suddenly his oars disappeared, and he was trimming sail. His hand was at the familiar till of the family sailboat, the Kipling; he felt the craft gather speed. Despite a blustery wind, the fog dispersed only intermittently. In brief glimpses he saw the glassy sea lift into waves that rolled away into endless ocean.

The urgency was even greater now. The wind seemed to have arisen as an ally, and Zack spoke to it. “Help me get to her in time,” he implored. In reply, he heard the distant sound of a high, clear female voice singing. Relief flooded his mind—if she was singing, she was still all right. He still had time. The Fates were with him.

Then he heard another voice—a male voice, deep and resonant. “Be careful, Zack!” it called. Intermingled with the wind, another sound reached him—a swirling of waters that first crashed into rocks, then sucked at them as it drained away.

The sea continued to rise, the fog to lower. His ship was drawing dangerously near rocks on some unknown shore. Where was he? He needed his charts! They were in the locked box in the wheelhouse. He had to open the box! Now, where was the key?

Waking with a start, Zack flashed his eyes toward the door, flung off the throw James had placed over his legs, stood and stretched. Running fingers through his disheveled hair, he wandered into the living room, where his father was enjoying a cup of tea.

“Want some?” Joseph asked. “Plenty more in the pot.”

“What? Oh,” Zack replied. “No, thanks.”

“Have a good rest?”

“Yeah, I guess. Weird dream, though.”

“A little snooze in the afternoon is just the thing.” Joseph poured himself some more tea. “What was your dream about?”

“Can’t remember much,” Zack said, yawning. “Maybe I will have some tea.” His father poured him a cup. “Something about a small key.”

Joseph’s hand wavered, and tea splashed onto Zack’s saucer. “Sorry,” he said, reaching for a napkin.

“No problem.” Zack poured the saucer-spill into his cup. “I don’t know . . . a key, a boat... Didn’t we used to have a key to the
Kipling
? The old boat, I mean, not
Kipling II
.”

Joseph looked closely at his son. “We did.” He consulted his watch. “Zelda should be back in about two hours. Think I’ll shave again. We should dress for dinner.”

Zack groaned. “We’re having more food?”

“The best it yet to come—roast beef, Yorkshire pudding and mincemeat pie!” Joseph smiled, patted his belly and headed upstairs.

The living room seemed too large a space for Zack to enjoy on his own, and with no Christmas tree here it looked forlorn. The spiced tea tasted good so, thinking he might like more, he lifted the tea tray and returned to the den. Looking for another ninety minutes of distraction before changing for dinner, he put wood on the fire, sank into the couch and grabbed the television remote.

But from the mantel, Cynthia’s envelope drew his attention. Unable to resist its patient presence any longer, he pushed himself up from the deep cushions and walked to the fireplace to retrieve it. He felt something small and heavy slide along its interior, surprised it contained more than just a note. He ripped the envelope open to discover a gold key ring folded in Cynthia’s stationery.

A key! Oh, no
, he said to himself.
A ploy to initiate reconciliation
? He might entertain the idea. But he did not want the commitment that receiving someone’s key implied. He opened her note. It was brief—thank goodness. He sat down to read it.

Dear Zackery,

I apologize for not joining you and your family today. I think it’s best this way. A new year is about to begin, and it seems like a good time for each of us to make a new start. To keep things simple, I’ll just say I am grateful for all our good times, and I’m sorry for our bad times.

As to the enclosed—I found it in one of the boxes I used to pack my belongings at your house. I’ve never seen it before and can’t imagine how it got mixed up with my things. I’m very sorry if it’s something you’ve been looking for.

Merry Christmas, Zackery. Take good care ,

Cynthia

Zack sat in morose silence. In the more than two years he’d known her, he’d never sensed the self-possessed calm and aloof independence permeating her letter. Swamped with shame that he’d assumed her note would be some sort of plea to win him back, he tried his best to let it become a window into a more sparkling Cynthia than the one he thought he knew.

James bustled into the den to stoke the fire and clear dishes. After adding a log and stirring the embers back to life, he gathered cups and saucers. As he lifted the heavy silver tray, he brought his eyes to bear on Zackery, who seemed transfixed by Miss Cynthia’s letter. “Shall I bring some more tea, Mr—” James broke off in mid-sentence, his eyes fastened on the key ring dangling from Zackery’s finger.

Balancing the tray before the china went shattering to the floor, James excused himself and rushed back to the kitchen. As the tray clattered to the kitchen counter, he exhaled and clutched the butcher-block edge for support.

The key! his mind shouted. In Miss Cynthia’s letter!

Wildly casting about for theories, James leapt at the idea that he himself must have dropped it in Master Zackery’s cottage. But that didn’t make sense. It wasn’t as though he carried the key around with him. It had a permanent home in the miniature chest of drawers on his own desk.

What the key opened was, of course, hidden in plain sight. That had been Mrs. C.’s idea. She wanted to write her son a letter, something special to be read years later. She’d suggested placing it in the base of the family clock.

A handsome piece carved from mahogany, the large mantel clock rested on a base that disguised a locking compartment. Two keyholes adorned the front of the clock: into the top hole,
 
the winding key was inserted once a week; the bottom keyhole was never used. Since James was the keeper of all the keys—and the winder of the clock—it made sense he’d been given the second key as well, the one that sealed the secret compartment.

But how did the key ever leave my desk?

Of course
! James pinched the bridge of his nose. When the photographers from
Architectural Digest
had visited the estate last year, they’d moved things around. It had taken him weeks to replace chairs in their proper rooms, paperweights on the correct
desks
. . . . That had to be it. They’d wanted to move his miniature chest to Mr. Zackery’s cottage. They’d completed their photography sessions and brought it back. But somewhere during the process, the key ring must have fallen out. Then last month, when Miss Cynthia cleared out her belongings, she’d swept it up un-aware.

“
Sometime it will show itself
.” Mrs. C.’s words came back to him as though she were speaking them now. “
When it does, that’ll be the time
.”

Perhaps she’d been right all those years ago.

Image

When Zackery walked into the kitchen, James wasn’t surprised. Meeting his eyes with an even gaze, he waited for the question, knowing it would come.