The Christmas Kite

by Gail Gaymer Martin

  Mac followed but Meara remained behind until Jordan’s voice reached her ears. “Come up to the house, Mac, and I’ll show you what I’m working on now.”

  The child glanced over his shoulder, beckoning her to follow. Wisdom told her to hightail it back to the safety of the cabin. In Jordan’s company, life brightened as brilliantly as his kites. But she saw no future in it, only a deeper loneliness for having known him. Yet Mac’s eager face loomed before her, and she pushed back her fears and hurried up the path.

  With Mac manning the door, Jordan wrestled the large, jointed kite onto the porch. Managing his heart was as difficult. Each time he saw the boy he ached and yearned to be the father he could never be. And when he gazed at the delicate, fiery-haired woman, he felt a longing he couldn’t explain. If he had a brain, he would discourage their entrance into his house and into his life.

  Hearing the ruckus, Dooley bounded to the porch from inside the house. In a flash of fear, Mac stepped backward as Meara drifted through the doorway. In a heartbeat, Mac’s chin jutted forward, and with renewed courage, he stood his ground while Dooley’s wet tongue drenched his cheek.

  “More kisses,” Mac said, his voice a mixture of fear and laughter.

  “Dooley, down,” Jordan commanded. “Let the boy be.” He grasped the dog’s collar and pulled him away as the setter strained to give Mac one final slurp.

  Jordan gave a decisive tug on his collar, and Dooley obeyed, coiling himself on the porch rug and panting as his eyes focused on Mac.

  The boy kept himself aimed at the dog. “Good dog,” Mac said with a noticeable lack of confidence.

  With amusement brightening her face, Meara covered her curving mouth, obviously hiding a chuckle, and wrapped a protective arm around Mac’s shoulder. “Dooley likes you, Mac. He thinks you’re pretty special.”

  “Yeah,” Mac said. But his positive comment didn’t disguise his real attitude as he backed against Meara’s leg.

  Jordan’s mind and emotions raced as he watched them. “Have a seat.” He motioned to the cushioned wicker furniture. “How about something cold to drink? I have lemonade. Anyone interested?”

  “Me,” Mac said. “I like…lemonade.”

  “And how about you?” His gaze drifted to Meara, who sank into the wicker seat with his question.

  “Lemonade’s fine, if it’s not too much trouble.”

  “No trouble,” he said, turning away and heading into the house. The lemonade was no trouble, but she was. She tugged at his emotions as powerfully as a kite on an escalating wind. The truth rose in his thoughts. He had to reel in his heartstrings before they broke or knotted in his rising panic. He’d had too much heartache. He couldn’t bear any more. And love? It had been buried with his family. He had no more to give. Jordan knotted his heart to stop his thoughts, poured glasses of the tangy liquid and carried them back to the porch.

  Dooley had edged forward, but now, relaxed and smiling, Mac leaned forward and petted the dog’s back. Jordan shook his head. The dog didn’t mind him any better than he minded his cautious inner voice.

  “Here you go,” Jordan said, handing a glass to Meara and one to Mac. He settled into a wicker chair and stared out through the rust-pocked screen to gain control of himself. Meara’s musical voice wrenched him back.

  “I came down for a reason, by the way. I wanted to thank you for letting us rent the apartment. It’s perfect for now, until we decide what we’re going to do. But I wonder if…”

  Her eyes widened, and she seemed to struggle for the right words. “If Otis didn’t make a mistake. I don’t think he quoted me the correct rent, and I wondered…what you had in mind.”

  Jordan dragged his index finger through the condensation that had formed on his glass. With control, he lifted his gaze to hers. “What did Otis tell you?”

  “But…I want you to tell me.”

  “You can’t remember?”

  She blinked. “No, I remember. He said two hundred dollars, but I don’t think—”

  “Yes, two hundred. That’s what I told him. Is that too much?” He kept his voice steady to cover his falsehood.

  A flush rose on her fair skin. “Too much? No, it’s not enough.”

  Jordan studied the pinkish blush that colored her cheeks. The summer sun had tugged a smattering of freckles from hiding and the faint brown flecks spattered her nose and forehead. He studied the pattern, thinking of the dot-to-dot pictures he had drawn as a child.

  Meara nailed him with her steady gaze. “Why are you smiling?” Her soft lilt sharpened as her shoulders tensed, and she pulled them erect. “You think I’m foolish for asking. I don’t want charity. I can pay my own way.”

  Her words jolted him from his reverie.

  “Charity has nothing to do with it! That apartment has been sitting empty since I bought the shop. The rent is pure profit.”

  “But you have to consider the utilities—the electricity and water and gas.”

  He ran his fingers through his hair. “I suppose, then, I’m only making one hundred and fifty a month profit. Really, don’t worry about it. You’re doing me a favor.” His mouth tugged toward a grin. He focused on Mac, who had shifted his petting to the dog’s head. “I have someone else to pet Dooley instead of me all the time. Mac’s a great dog-sitter.”

  Mac let out a widemouthed laugh. “Dog-sitter,” he repeated.

  Dooley rose and plopped his head in Mac’s lap, and the child leaned down and pressed a loud smacking kiss on his brow.

  Meara opened her mouth to speak, then closed it. She shifted her gaze and stared through the screen. “Well, thanks, then, if you’re sure.” She heaved a great sigh. “I have so much to do. Nettie told me about a church sale tomorrow, and what I can’t pick up there, I’ll have to buy in Cheboygan, I suppose.”

  “That’s probably the best place to shop,” Jordan agreed, thinking of the stores in Mackinaw. “Most stores in town are for tourists. But if you’re looking for a seashell ashtray, you can probably get one next door to the kite shop.”

  Meara’s tense face shifted to a smile. “I’ll keep that in mind, though I have little use for an ashtray.”

  Feeling more relaxed, he grinned back. Thinking about her lone car and no trailer full of furnishings, his curiosity was aroused. “You don’t have anything from your old home?”

  “No, nothing except our clothing. And a couple of Mac’s toys. The furniture wasn’t mine.”

  Nothing was hers? She rented, then? Maybe those two husbands Mac had mentioned were wastrels or gamblers. Sadness caught in his chest. What a depressing life she and Mac must have had.

  Her face brightened. “Otis said they had a few pieces of furniture stored in their basement. He’ll let me know tomorrow what he has that I can use.”

  “So tomorrow begins your furniture hunt. What will you do with Mac?” His stomach churned. Why had he asked?

  Her gaze drifted toward the child, then to him. “He’ll have to go with me, I suppose. I dragged him around today and he did okay. He’ll manage.”

  “A boy needs to play. Bring him down in the morning and I’ll keep an eye on him.” He swallowed the knot that rose to his throat. Why couldn’t he control his mouth? “Would you like to help me build a kite tomorrow, Mac?”

  “Sure. Build a kite.” With enthusiasm, Mac flung his head forward and back.

  “Don’t knock yourself out, Mac,” Meara said, shifting her gaze to Jordan. “Are you sure? He’ll be fine with me.”

  “I’m sure.” Fool. “Mac’ll have more fun making a kite than shopping. Trust me.”

  “I do trust you. And thanks. To be honest, I hated to make him spend the day in captivity again.”

  She set her empty glass on the nicked side table, and before he could offer her a refill, she glanced at her wristwatch and stood.

  “I’d better get back. It’s getting late, and I’m sure you have lots to do.”

  He rose and looked at Mac. “I’ll show you the new kite tomorrow. Okay, Mac?�
��

  “Okay. Tomorrow,” the boy said, slipping from the chair.

  Dooley rose and stretched his legs, the muzzle of his nose pressing against Mac’s leg. The boy eyed the dog and wiped the damp spot with his hand. “Down, Dooley,” he said in a commanding voice that mimicked Jordan’s. The dog peered at him and, in slow motion, lowered himself to the floor.

  “Good job, Mac,” Jordan said. “First time I’ve known Dooley to listen to anyone but me.”

  Mac grinned. “I’m a dog-sitter.”

  “And I’m a Mac-sitter.” Strangely warmed, he tousled the child’s hair and followed them to the door. “See you in the morning, then.”

  “Thanks,” Meara repeated, and taking Mac’s hand, she headed down the path to the beach. With a final wave, she turned toward the cabin.

  Jordan watched them until they rounded the bend, still wondering why he’d agreed to watch Mac. “Just curiosity,” he said aloud. He wanted to know more about them. Where had they lived? What kind of men were Mac’s two fathers? Tomorrow he could garner some information from the child.

  Chapter Five

  Meara surveyed the cozy apartment. In only a week, she’d gathered bits and pieces of other people’s lives and now called it “home.” The Mannings surprised her with much of what she needed, and the church rummage sale filled in the rest. In Cheboygan, she bought bedding and bath linens, a few odds and ends, and that was it.

  Footsteps sounded on the outside landing, and Nettie called out a greeting. Meara swung the door open wide, pleased to see the elderly woman who had become, in the past days, an important figure in her life.

  Nettie, her plump cheeks glowing from her climb up the stairs, beamed at Meara. Her generous arms were burdened with a large cardboard box.

  “My word, Nettie, what do you have there?” Meara reached out and lifted the cumbersome carton from her grasp.

  “Another little treasure I found in the basement. Just look.”

  Meara eased the carton onto the table and pulled open the lid. Inside, special protective wrapping hid the contents. With care, she lifted an item and pulled off the thin foam covering. Her breath caught in her throat. “China cups,” she whispered, eyeing Nettie’s instigating grin. She picked up the translucent cup spattered with delicate shamrocks and turned it over. “Real Belleek. From Ireland. Oh, Nettie, you shouldn’t.”

  “Don’t ‘you shouldn’t’ me. I should and I want to. Keep looking, dear.” The older woman pulled the box lid back as Meara laid the lovely pieces on the table.

  “And the matching teapot,” Meara cried as she lifted it from the box. “But don’t you want to keep this yourself?”

  “I have an old teapot I’ve used for years. This one seemed too lovely for just Otis and me. You have years of entertaining ahead of you.”

  “But—”

  Nettie shushed her. “And since I’ve been listening to that Irish brogue of yours, I knew the charming set belonged to you. No one would love it more.”

  Meara cradled the pot against her chest. “I do, Nettie. It takes me back home. Thank you.” She lifted a finger and wiped away the pooling tears that escaped her lashes. “Sit, please. I’ll make us a pot of tea.”

  Meara turned on the burner and rinsed the kettle with hot water. “Is Mac behaving himself downstairs?” she asked over her shoulder.

  “He’s as good as gold. Don’t you worry about him.”

  “I don’t want him to drive Otis crazy, that’s all.” She filled a tea ball with leaves.

  Nettie chuckled. “Too late for that. Otis has been crazy for years.”

  Her description of Otis caused Meara to smile. She had grown to love the man.

  “Really, Otis loves children,” Nettie said. “He’ll find all kinds of ways to keep the boy busy.”

  “You’re both so kind.” The kettle whistled, and Meara poured the hot water into the pot. “I have so many things on my mind, sometimes I don’t know which way to turn.”

  “Something bothering you?”

  “Not really.” The truth prodded her. “Yes, I suppose it has. I’ve been thinking about work. Finding a job.”

  “You’d like a job?”

  “Need a job,” Meara responded as she carried a small tray into the living room and set it on a side table. She sank into an overstuffed flower-print chair. “I’m trying to get by on a small inheritance.” She cringed when the words left her mouth. A payoff is what it was. She could hear them. “We’ll pay you to leave our home and our lives.” She had rights as Dunstan’s wife, but she could no longer bring herself to live under their scornful eye. She accepted the money, but heated shame shot through her. She’d cheated Mac of his rightful legacy. How could she explain it to anyone? She couldn’t.

  “A job,” Nettie repeated. “That shouldn’t be too hard. What about the kite shop? Otis needs another clerk. The woman he has now is leaving. And soon. Look how handy it would be for you.”

  “I saw the sign in the window, but I wasn’t sure what I would do with Mac.” A sinking sensation weighted her. “And I’m scared, Nettie. To tell the truth, I haven’t worked since I left County Kerry.” Images of the small shop floated through her mind, its shelves filled with souvenirs and gift items covered with symbols of Ireland: shamrocks, claddagh, Celtic knots and crosses, leprechauns, and rainbows. “I worked in a small gift emporium.”

  “Well, a kite shop can’t be much different. The hardest work is the tourist season, but you’d be surprised how many interior decorators drop by to look at the kites, even in winter.”

  “Interior decorators? You mean they use kites in their decor?”

  “Surprised me, too. They buy them for business offices and lobbies, restaurants, and even some private homes.”

  “I’d never have thought of that.”

  “No. But they do. So how about getting downstairs and talking to Otis. I’m sure he’d be relieved to know he has a good worker. Especially someone he can count on.”

  Nettie’s words marched through her head. Someone he can count on. That’s what she needed. She hadn’t really had a cherished friend, someone to depend on, since she’d left her homeland. She’d been so naive. So hopeful. Yet what a horrible mistake she had made in marrying Dunstan. A mistake…except for Mac.

  “And a pound of lean beef,” Jordan said, watching the man wrap his ground round in white butcher paper.

  A shopping basket jostled him, and he pulled his cart closer to the counter. The aisles were narrow, and it being Friday, all the campers and tourists had crowded into the small IGA store for their groceries. Next time he’d go to Food Town in Cheboygan. Today he’d manage, since his list was short. Dog food, mainly.

  “Anything else?”

  His mind adrift, he lifted his eyes to the butcher.

  “Will this be all?” the man asked again.

  “Yes, thanks.” He dropped the wrapped beef into the basket and maneuvered down the next aisle. Dog food. He stacked the cans beside the carton of orange juice and six-pack of soda. A loaf of bread and that was it.

  The checkout line wound down the aisle and around the magazine rack. He eyed the only other register, but that line was as long. He settled back to wait. Nearing the periodicals, he passed a candy display and, instinctively, grabbed a package of suckers. For Mac. The boy entered his mind too often.

  His thoughts drifted back to the day Mac had stayed with him while Meara shopped. His reasoned incentive had been as successful as Meara’s first attempts at kite-flying. He’d learned little about them—only that Mac and Meara had lived in a big house with his grandparents. He grimaced inwardly, recalling his attempt to pry information from the child.

  The customers inched forward, and finally, he paid for the items and pushed his empty cart against the wall. When he veered toward the doorway, his stomach dipped to his shoes. “Hello,” he said, gazing into Meara’s surprised eyes. “Terrible day to shop.”

  “I was thinking the same thing.” She stepped away from the other checkout
counter with two large, unwieldy bags clutched in her arms. One appeared to be escaping her grasp, inching downward toward her legs.

  “Let me help you,” he said. He slid his arm around the bulkiest sack of groceries, then opened the door and held it with his back.

  Meara wrapped both arms around her lone paper bag and stepped outside, her hair ablaze in the sunshine. “Thanks, but I could have managed.”

  “I know you could have, but why should you, when I can help?”

  The tiny freckles on her nose had darkened in the past week, and he fought the desire to linger on her lovely face, clean and natural without makeup, as always.

  She gestured toward her car, and he followed, his pulse skipping as he viewed her trim figure from behind. Petite. Delicate.

  When she opened her trunk, she tucked the bag into a corner. He followed her example and propped the larger paper sack beside it. “There you go.”

  She stood with her hand on the trunk lid, gazing up at him. When her hand swung down, dropping the lid, he winced at the unexpected slam.

  Delicate. He nearly chuckled aloud at the paradox. She was strong and capable. He had to remember that. “So, how’s the apartment? And Mac?” he asked. And you, he said to himself.

  She searched his face before answering. “Fine. Everything’s fine.”

  “Good.” He wanted to say more, but what? His tongue tied itself in a knot. Get yourself away from here, he thought.

  “Otis hired me to work in the shop. Did he tell you?”

  “No. No, he didn’t, but that’s great.” He stared at her again, longing to escape, yet not wanting to leave her side.

  “Mac loves looking into the park and watching the kites. He’ll never want to move.”

  “I’m pleased he’s so happy.” With the suggestion of her staying in the area, his chest restricted. Did that make him happy? Happy? How long had it been since the word entered his thoughts?

  “It’s comfortable there. And Nettie has become a good friend.”

  “She’s a nice lady.” He could barely speak. Meara glowed in the late-afternoon sun, warm and shining…and beautiful.