Whose Angel Keyring Read Online Free Page B

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