Whose Angel Keyring (3 page)

Keep them for a rainy day
, she thought, laughing bitterly at the memory. They’d been in his hot tub when it started to rain. They grabbed for their robes but still got soaked, the heavy terrycloth dragging them back into the deep water, where they laughed and smothered each other in kisses. Quickly she folded the huge, white robes, then carried them to her linen closet. Standing on tiptoe, she stuffed them onto the top shelf, then slammed the door.

Grabbing a kitchen knife, she returned to the boxes and began cutting the packing tape that held them together, then breaking them down to lie flat. Slicing into the tape on the last box, she heard something fall to the living room carpet with a soft, metallic sound. Dismissing it at first, she flattened the box, but then a glint of metal caught her eye.

On her floor lay a key ring she didn’t recognize. Lifting it, she examined it more closely. An expensive gold ring lay in her hand—fourteen carat at least. A little angel was attached, and a small key. The workmanship was excellent—Tiffany or Cartier, she’d guess, but no name was stamped into the metal. If she’d seen the key or its holder before, she’d have remembered. And how it got into one of her boxes, she didn’t know. But in the tearful chaos of clearing out Zackery’s house, she must have grabbed it inadvertently, swept up with some clothing.

An angel . . . this is a feminine thing, she flashed. A gift from another woman?

She fingered the burnished gold, jealousy clutching at her innards. But this was old. The delicate work, the archaic style —they signaled not a new gift, but the probability of a family heirloom.

Cynthia plunked down on her sofa to think.
Now what do I do?
she wondered. The last thing she wanted was to see Zackery, or even call him. But clearly, this was his property. And for all she knew, he might have been desperate to find it, never thinking to ask her. Not that she’d have known about it herself, but for the odd chance of breaking down her cardboard boxes.

Dangling the key ring, she studied the childlike angel—a cherub whose round belly and pudgy cheeks made it seem ready to burst with the promise of things to come.

It was strange—something so beautiful and mysterious showing up today. Somehow it took the sting out of unpacking the boxes. It swept away the anger that had puffed her sails, leaving her becalmed in her living room.

Suddenly the energy Cynthia’d turned outward and tried to spend in blame, now turned inward, and, as the tears came, she began spending it in self-examination.

She’d wanted the relationship with Zackery so badly, she’d made assumptions. When she might have waited with some sense of trust, she’d pushed with a sense of urgency; where she might have listened, she’d filled every moment with words; and she’d indulged every pang of emotional and physical hunger, putting her own needs before anyone else’s. And now, she’d scraped his home so bare, she’d come away with a precious object that did not belong to her.

After a long, tearful think, a simple solution came to her.

James struggled to gain control over the kitchen at Calma’s main house. The dining room was already arranged. The newly

polished brass candelabras held red candles, bright ribbons circled all the napkins, and place cards printed in calligraphy completed settings for seven: the Calvins, their two lady friends and the three neighbors who had been invited to join them.

But in the kitchen, on one counter an electric mixer whirred in a bowl of fresh, heavy cream, with no result: the white liquid remained flat as the blank stare of a child on his first day of mathematics. On another counter, the crook arm of a bread- beater punished heavy waffle batter like a naughty boy told to beat the folds of a blanket in the wind.

On the stove, water bubbled in a poacher, while eggs— liberated from their shells—quivered in their unfamiliar metal cups, as though they were nursery-schoolers quaking anxiously off-stage waiting for their entrance. Two burners away, in a huge, stainless pan, bacon hissed and spat like adolescents taunting the younger kids next door. James rummaged through lids in a cupboard, then dashed to cover the unruly meats before their sputtering oil damaged the delicate eggs.

He knew why he felt like an incompetent Headmaster today, unable to govern his disobedient charges. The real source of today’s apparent disorder had nothing to do with ingredients, recipes or devices. It was the women. Trying to resign himself to the attendant chaos the female sex brought to Calma, James sighed and inspected the still-flat cream. Removing the bowl from the electric contraption, he began with vigor to whip the cream by hand.

All this chaos started with Miss Cynthia and her rampage through Master Zackery’s cottage
, James complained to himself.
 

Well, no
, he thought. In fairness, that’s not where it actually

began. He traced it back to Zackery’s break-up with Miss Miranda, followed by yet another reconciliation with Cynthia, Zackery’s previous lady friend.

James liked Miss Miranda exceedingly well—a young woman whose kindness and artistic sensibility were matched by her excellent breeding. But, for all that, James had observed she brought at least as much consternation to Mr. Zackery as she brought joy. Loving the young master as he did—and having virtually raised him from a pup—James had to admit Miss Miranda might not make the most felicitous match for his charge.

That left the matter of Miss Cynthia. Equal in beauty to Miranda, she was by far the more exuberant match. Yet she often seemed out of her depth socially, and he sensed Mr. Zackery secretly yearned to do better.

Mr. Joseph was in an altogether different situation, having at last met a worthy partner. Last year, James had thought the journalist was a good choice, but she’d disappeared and later met an untimely end. So much tragedy in Mr. Joseph’s life. When Ms. Zelda McIntyre came along, James at first had his doubts. She was nothing if not formidable. But James had observed she seemed to sharpen Mr. Joseph’s wits far more than the usual sycophants who desired the master’s company.

It was almost time to serve Christmas brunch, and James had to force order from chaos. Pans were everywhere—Teresa was lagging seriously behind in her sous-chef duties. As if this weren’t enough, now Ms. Zelda strode into his kitchen bearing gifts. Stiffening at the uninvited guest, James did his best to keep an edge out of his voice as he bid her good morning.

“Merry Christmas, James,” she said brightly. “Something to add to the brunch selection.”

“I see,” James replied. “Thank you,” he added with difficulty.

“My pleasure.” Zelda peeled the plastic lid from a huge salad bowl and cast an eye around the kitchen shelves.

James gave up on hand-whipping the cream, placed the bowl back under the electric beaters and switched it on.

Raising her voice to be heard, Zelda asked, “You do have something more attractive I can use for this, I’m sure.”

James clenched his jaw against the high, irritating sound of the mixer’s motor. “Pardon?” he yelled over the noise.

“An attractive bowl?” she shouted, pointing to her salad.

Pressing his lips together, James nodded and left the mixer to continue spinning. Zelda followed him to a second pantry where he flung open a cabinet.

“Divine,” Zelda said, reaching for a huge crystal bowl.

“Allow me!” James grasped the bowl carefully.

A few moments later, Ms. Zelda hummed as she transferred the contents of her plastic container to the crystal one: a salad of crisp field greens, Gorgonzola, candied walnuts, and seared ahi tuna. James was forced to admit that, although he seldom approved of her aggressive manner, Ms. Zelda was possessed of excellent culinary skills, and the salad, he thought grudgingly, was sure to be a success. He also noted that, despite her intrusion, she was quite self-sufficient, considering this wasn’t her kitchen. Noting the cream had at last risen into peaks, he switched off the mixer and began grating fresh Parmesan atop halved beefsteak tomatoes.

Zelda drizzled homemade dressing over her salad, then went in search of serving utensils. Following another nod of James’s head, she opened a drawer and withdrew a set of teak salad servers with silver handles. “Perfect,” she said, thrusting them into the crystal bowl. As James looked up, she added, “There is one other thing.”

James steeled himself. “Yes, Madame?”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to make an adjustment to your table.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. Cynthia called me this morning—she’s not coming.” James again pursed his lips.

“If you like, I can take care of it.”

“That’s very kind, but it is rather more difficult than it may seem—”

“Remove place card, flatware, goblets, china; put one chair in the corner by the large window; reposition the existing chairs and settings.”

His eyes widened. “Indeed.”

“Consider it done.”

“I shall be indebted,” James said with some discomfort.

“Oh, no, James. It’s Cynthia who owes me.”

All James could think to say was again, “Indeed.”

By the time brunch was scheduled to begin, the three neighbors had joined the hosts, chattering in the sunroom. By the time brunch was scheduled to begin, the three

neighbors had joined the hosts, chattering in the sunroom.

Jolly voices and clattering flatware trailed after James and filtered through the edges of the kitchen door. As he gentled the naked eggs in their holders down into the boiling water, he delighted in the dining room sounds, and in knowing they signified family and friends alike were enjoying themselves. But a few minutes later, as he served the eggs on homemade English muffins, he couldn’t help but notice Mr. Zackery’s somber face.

Sadder than I thought over Miss Cynthia’s absence,
James observed.
The next course will cheer him
. Returning to the kitchen, James poured thick batter and listened as it sizzled in the waffle iron; the delicate, bready aroma rose with the steam escaping its edges. Twenty minutes later, James pushed backward through the kitchen door and spun a silver tray into the dining room laden with fresh Belgian waffles topped with strawberries and whipped cream to finish off the meal.

“Oh, James,” groaned Mr. Joseph as he touched both hands to his nearly flat belly. “You’re doing us in!” But the wide grin confirmed the master’s pleasure.

After brunch, the neighbors departed for their own homes, leaving the two men and Ms. Zelda to tackle Christmas stockings —the larger gifts they’d save till this evening. Judging by the oohs and aahs, everyone in the party was pleased to prove the old adage—good things come in small packages. Pouring coffee from a newly polished silver service, James noticed two open boxes with shiny new cufflinks, and was just in time to see Ms. Zelda open a pair of garnet earrings—fifteen- carat stones surrounded by tiny diamonds, if he was any judge of gems. It seemed to James that against Ms. Zelda’s dark hair they shone like tail lights on a black Jaguar. Certainly their recipient seemed dazzled by the gift. As she began kissing the master full on the mouth, Zack looked away, and James left the room quietly as he’d entered.

By the time James returned with freshly baked cheese cookies, it was clear Master Zackery had quite finished with gift-giving, and was growing embarrassed at the affectionate turn of events in his father’s life. And then James noticed Zackery staring at the small envelope on the mantel.

Zelda was watching Zackery as well. “She did apologize.” Zelda took a sip of vanilla decaf. “And she did ask me to bring the envelope.”

“You mentioned that. I’ll get to it later,” Zack said somewhat dismissively.

Zelda raised her eyebrows and took another sip of coffee.

Not wishing to pry—and noting that Zackery already had quite an audience—James withdrew to the kitchen. Teresa had finally appeared in the kitchen and was scouring pans.

“No, no,” he scolded. “For the heavy work, we use the pantry sinks, remember? Because they’re much deeper.”

“But the pens, Sen ̃ or.” After all these years, James still had trouble with her heavy Hispanic accent. “Jou put t’em inna t’is sink!”

Pursing his lips, James walked over to her, lifted several dirty pans, and, holding them away from his body, deposited them in the pantry sink. “There,” he said with finality. “That should remove all obstacles.”

Scowling at her back, he resisted the temptation to reprimand her any further. He couldn’t imagine running the house without her. Yet she would persist in these petty annoyances. She knew perfectly well James like to keep the main sink free for food preparation, reserving the pantry sink for clean-up. The two of them had been doing this dance for years, and it was not likely to change.

She was close to retirement, and only worked part time now. Better there’s someone else to do the dishes, he reminded himself. Perhaps her predilection for using the shallow sink had mostly to do with her height—he no longer noticed how short she truly was. So, without a word, he brought her the stepstool and, as she made room, placed it at her feet.

An hour later, back in the den to clear coffee cups, James overheard Zelda’s plans for the day. She’d be going to her own home for a nap and to change into something that would complement her new jewels. She’d be back later wearing something burgundy and silk, she promised. She seemed to purr as she said this, so perhaps James’s allusion to the Jaguar wasn’t inappropriate. When she returned, she said, Mr. Joseph had best be
ready
for her.