Whose Angel Keyring (2 page)

Christmas morning was supposed to be a time of magical anticipation. Zack yanked the covers over his head and plunged himself back into the oblivion of sleep.

Cynthia Radcliffe awakened Christmas morning determined to make a new start. Her eyes red from having cried herself to sleep, she started a pot of dark roast with cinnamon. After standing in a hot shower, she pulled on her cheeriest red sweatshirt and pants, then added a pair of Santa socks to keep her feet cozy in the chilly air.

Better I’m alone today,
she thought,
no need to act the bright, Christmas nymph
. But almost immediately, second thoughts swirled through her brain like the cream she stirred into her coffee. She could still go. She could be dressing now for brunch with Zackery. But the smart thing was still to turn him down. A woman had to have her pride.

Thanksgiving two years ago
. The uninvited images began surfacing again—their first meeting, their instant attraction, their outrageous flirtations. And then a wildly erotic romance that almost overspilled the boundaries of decency. Just before they’d have celebrated their second Thanksgiving together, he seemed mysteriously to fall off the edge of the world. Whether there was someone else, or whether this was just typical Zackery cowardice, she didn’t really know. The call had come not from him, but from James. In the most
polite
language, she’d been invited to retrieve her belongings.

Fine. She’d made a clean sweep of his rooms a month ago. She’d packed everything she’d taken there and every single thing she’d added to his cottage at Calma. Not that she’d
needed
all of it—the boxes were still in her closet, unopened.

When the Christmas brunch invitation came a week ago—left as a message on her answering machine, no less!—it had seemed perfunctory, as though Zackery didn’t have anything
better
to do, and as though he took it for granted she’d be there. The tone in his voice wasn’t nearly contrite enough. If he wanted to apologize and make amends, he’d have to be enthusiastic about it. But he didn’t suggest a romantic reconciliation. Instead, he asked her to “join the family at Calma.”
The family
? That could only mean the two Calvin men, junior and senior—brooding pouts from one, small talk from the other.

Then Zelda called, wondering what Cynthia would be wearing.
So Zelda was invited. How did she know I was?
She answered her own question.
She’s certainly wormed her way into the good graces of Zackery’s father in short order
. But that might not be a bad thing. Zelda was at least a
sometime
ally—and not someone Cynthia wanted as an enemy.

At first, Zelda even talked her into accepting. “Far better to look gorgeous, tantalize him for two hours, then leave for ‘another engagement.’” Zelda’s counsel had always been sound before. Cynthia just didn’t have the energy to pull it off. And a personal appearance with tear-puffed eyes would only make her look pathetic.

Pouring more hot coffee into her cup, she walked to the storage closet and flung open the door. Yanking boxes from their hiding places, she dragged them all to the middle of her living room floor and opened their folded lids. It was time to rout the dark corners of her affair with Zackery Calvin. She’d start with these boxes.

Peering into the first one, she couldn’t seem to make sense of its contents. A small bottle of tarragon with some rolled-up stockings; aspirin and cough medicine with books; make-up with a pair of running shoes; her scarves with a bottle of Chinese plum sauce. The matching bathrobes were in one box, but their ties were in another.

The extent of the disorder surprised even her.
What was I thinking
? Cynthia asked herself. At the time, she’d been so overwrought she simply hurled things into whatever was handy.
Best not to remember
.

Image

Zack gave up his attempt to sleep in and tossed back his covers. He looked around his cottage, emptied of every trace of Cynthia. Though he hated to admit it, he missed her. Exhausting as she could be—and exasperating—she
was
a live wire. Into the murky pools of his self-absorption, she zapped the sparks of their mutual attraction. And her raw needs penetrated his smug solitude like arcs of high-voltage electricity cutting through insulation.

Reaching for the hook on the back of his bathroom door, he pulled on the new robe he’d bought. It wasn’t nearly as thick and fluffy as the one Cynthia’d given him—and taken away. But he’d have to make do. He did owe her—he knew that. She’d put up with his shifting moods for two years. And then he’d hurt her by ignoring their relationship.

Maybe jealousy had caused the real problem. His other relationship—the one with Miranda—
No
, he stopped himself.
Don’t think about her now
.

Unexpectedly free for the holidays, he’d called Cynthia. Forced to leave a message on her machine, he’d taken her silence for a “Yes.” After all, he hadn’t really broken up with her. She’d always been there for him in the past. Maybe he’d just wanted to use her to escape more than his usual share of demons.

To his right lay his shame about Miranda; to his left, his guilt about Cynthia. Somewhere there was a woman who’d be both friend and lover, advocate and challenger. Suddenly Meredith sprang to mind, Miranda’s wickedly saucy older sister. But he didn’t dare think about her, not while so much in his life was unresolved.

Women
! He thought.
Can’t live with them, can’t live. . . .
Maybe the only melody a woman could sing was a siren-song, and men were destined for certain shipwreck if they ventured too close to shore. But even at sea, he no longer felt safe.

As sunlight struggled vainly to penetrate a heavy marine layer, Zack began to feel marooned in his own cottage, a bleak island in the sea of the Calvin property. Within the hour he’d be required to make an appearance at the main house for Christmas brunch.

He pictured himself a small boy with his childhood dingy, grasping the tiller to negotiate a treacherous sea. On one side, lurked a slippery rock he’d be smashed against if he got too close; on the other, a whirlpool threatened to suck him down into the depths. Something about the double bind felt disturbingly familiar. No matter how he tried, he couldn’t overcome the image of his little boat being smashed between Scylla and Charybdis.

When the memory came, he could almost touch it.
 

Mommy’s voice sounded loud on the other side of the door. “When shall we tell him?” she asked again. Daddy made his voice low, and Zack couldn’t hear what he said.

His blanket had that nice smell after Mommy washed it. Tucked into his bed for the night, Zack listened to the ocean waves outside and wondered if frogs had wings when they grew up and whether or not they liked looking at stars.

Something was wrong with Mommy. He wasn’t supposed to know she was sick, but he couldn’t help it. They argued about it sometimes, his parents. Zack didn’t want them to argue. He liked it better when they were nice to each other.

Wind blew outside his window, and Zack pulled his favorite bear under the covers with him. Daddy said Santa would be coming tonight, and that if he heard any funny noises, he should close his eyes extra-tight and pretend he didn’t hear. If anyone saw Santa, he and his elves wouldn’t be able to leave presents.

“He has to know!” Mommy’s voice was loud again. “And not just about me. He’s got to be told about himself!”

For a while, Zack decided it wasn’t just Mommy who was sick. He must be sick too. If his parents were so scared to tell him, he knew someone who would. He’d ask James. He asked James about everything, and James never let him down.

“All is well with you, Master Zackery,” James had assured him. “You’re healthy as the day you were born. Your dear parents only want what’s best for you. And if there’s something for you to know, they’ll tell you when the time is right.”

Mommy always said “Love heals.” But he was loving her as much as he could. Why wasn’t she getting better? What worried him was, if Mommy stayed sick, was it because he didn’t love her enough?

Image

It was Mrs. C. who’d first taken James into her confidence about the hidden compartment. With her husband, she had discussed her plan to leave a special letter, and they’d agreed. They’d lock it away. They charged James to be the keeper of the letter —and of the key.

James adored Mrs. C. Her illness was intolerable to him, as intolerable as the end of the British Empire. Certain things were meant to last forever. But he kept his grief under wraps. It wouldn’t do for the family butler to go around blowing his nose. It wouldn’t do to affront the master with open sentimentality. It wouldn’t do to frighten the boy. So James added a little more starch to his collars and pretended allergies had irritated his eyes.

But Mrs. C. knew. Maddeningly, it was she who comforted everyone else. That was her way. Elegant and thoughtful to the last. She’d even written a letter to young Master Zackery. A letter he’d be ready to read as a young man.

“When, Madame?” James asked.

She grew pensive. “I don’t exactly know, James. I think we should trust to Providence on this one.” That was one of her favorite expressions. Mentally, he always tried to remember the word wasn’t necessarily synonymous with Fate. Two sisters, they were, Fate and Providence: the shadow and the light; the devious and the revelatory.

Mrs. C. continued. “If he’s turning forty, and he still hasn’t read it, you better dig it out.”

They had a good laugh, then. Laughed so hard they had cried. “Sorry,” they’d both said, drying their eyes and recovering their composure. Then she returned to answering his question. “But I think the key will tell you.”

“The key, Madame?”

“Sounds absurd, I know. But I found this beautiful angel key ring at one of the antique shows. I knew it would fit perfectly with the little key to the compartment. There’s something special about it, I think, because I dreamt about it. Put it away someplace, James.” She handed him the gold key with its angel fob, pressing it into his palm. “Put it away and forget about it. Sometime it will show itself. When it does, that’ll be the time.”

Not quite understanding, he took her instructions on faith. Things always worked out when he did.

Cynthia tossed items from her boxes with abandon. Not in this lifetime would she need those silver sandals again. The heels were too high anyway—she was lucky she hadn’t broken her ankle wearing them. So what if they made Zackery give her a hungry look. She didn’t want any more of

those either. The jeans she’d forgotten about and replaced. The

hairbrush had lost too many of its bristles. She never wanted to see the books again, with her personalized messages inscribed to him. She was glad to find the Lauder compact—it was fairly new. And she hadn’t decided what to do, yet, about their matching bathrobes.