The Christmas Kite Page 2

  Jordan remembered a few ramshackle cabins up the road a mile or two. Had they wandered from there? If so, they’d be gone in the morning and leave him to his peace and quiet. He snorted. Quiet, yes, but peace? Never. Since the fiery death of Lila and Robbie, peace had evaded him.

  He raised his arm and ran his hand across the back of his neck. Tension knotted along his shoulders, always, when he thought about them. The woman had said Mac was eight years old. The round impish face of Jordan’s son filled his thoughts. Robbie was eight, too, when he died. Tears stung the backs of Jordan’s eyes, and a deep moan rumbled from his throat. Its impact quaked along his spine. Why did he allow these strangers to wrench his memories from hiding? Three years. Hadn’t he suffered enough? Hadn’t he paid his dues?

  But Jordan knew the answer. He had nothing more with which to pay the price, nothing to heal the wounds, nothing to smooth the scars. He slapped his hand against the rickety table and shook his head. “Enough!” he cried out to the heavens. “Why not my life? If You’re really up there, Lord, why not me? I’ll never forgive You. Never.”

  Tears escaped his tight control and lay in the corner of his eye. His hand shot upward, catching the single fleeting drop, halting it before it rolled down his cheek. He had promised himself he would no longer cry. He had thought he’d shed every tear possible. Yet one had lived, laughing at him behind his eye, waiting to foil his masquerade.

  But he’d won. He’d snuffed it out with the swipe of his fingers—as quickly as a life could end.

  Meara poured the cold cereal into a bowl, then sloshed in the milk. The blurry television filled the quiet morning with local news, and Mac stared into the dish, singing one of his incessant tunes.

  “Mac, let’s say the blessing.” Meara held out her hand, and he grasped her fingers and bowed his head, the tune undaunted. When the song ended, he recited the prayer, then spooned into the cereal.

  Meara sipped her tea, wishing she had coffee. Gazing out the small window, she watched the glimmer of sunlight play on the nearby birch trees. The pungent smell of mildew and disinfectant that clung to the old cabin infested her lungs, and she longed to be outside in the fresh air.

  Leaning her elbows against the high windowsill, she peered through the foliage toward the beach. The water dragged visions of her homeland, her lovely green Erin, from her smothered memories. Dingle and Kenmare bays and the deepest cobalt blue of the Kerry Loughs waved through her thoughts.

  Shades of green and blue swirled in her memory—the Emerald Isle. How had her American visit, so long ago, become this nightmare? The question was foolish. She knew how the nightmare began. But now, it had ended. She prayed it had. She would carve out a new life for Mac and her. With love pushing against her chest, she turned to study the child intent on his cereal bowl and his song.

  A deep sense of grief stabbed her. How long would she have her son? How long would God grant him life on this earth? Deep love charged through her—despite the trials, despite the incessant songs. Meara smiled as Mac’s singsong voice penetrated her thoughts. Despite everything, she’d give the world for her son to have a long life.

  Meara clapped her hands. “Mac, let’s get outside in the sunshine. You ready?”

  His beaming smile met hers. “The kite.” He ate the last of his cereal. “Let’s see the kite.”

  “Not today, Mac. We’ll gather shells on the beach. I’ll bring a plastic bag along to hold them, okay?”

  “I want…the kite,” Mac said. “You have shells.”

  Meara chuckled. “You’re a generous laddie, all right. And remember, no food, no cookies.”

  Mac sat deathly still, finally giving a resolute nod. He slid off the chair and made his way to her. “No birds, Mama.” He rested his head on her leg, then slyly lifted his face with a grin. “You have…the birds.”

  Playfully she tousled his hair. After grabbing a plastic bag, she locked the cabin and they headed down the path to the beach.

  When they left the shade of the woods, the sun beat against Meara’s cool skin. She pulled her sweater off and tied it around her waist. Searching the sky ahead of him, Mac tore off down the beach in the direction that he had seen the kite the day before.

  “Hold up, Mac.”

  He slowed and turned toward her.

  “How about if we take off our shoes. We can walk in the water.”

  Mac plopped in the sand and tugged at his canvas shoes. Meara stepped out of her sandals and tossed them farther up on the beach, toward the grassy edge. Mac followed her lead. With the shoes safely stowed, they stepped into the frigid morning lake. With a shuddering laugh, they trudged along, halting for an occasional shell, but no matter what she said, Mac’s mind seemed focused on the bend in the shoreline.

  Though the strange man had rankled her the day before, his image rose in her thoughts. Handsome, he was. Tall and lean, six-foot-plus, she guessed, with ash-brown hair streaked with wisps of gray. But mostly, she remembered his eyes, sad eyes of the palest blue, and his full, shapely lips, closed and unsmiling.

  Why? filled her mind. He seemed a paradox, a grim, brooding man flying a bright, beautiful kite. The picture didn’t mix, like Scrooge tossing hundred-dollar bills to the poor.

  Curiosity drove her forward, and her breath faltered in anticipation as she rounded the bend. Releasing a ragged blast of air, she paused. The sky ahead was empty. No kite. Nothing but the great expansion of the Mackinaw Bridge connecting the two peninsulas.

  “No kite,” Mac said, halting ahead of her. He turned and disappointment filled his face. “Where’s…the kite man?”

  “The man’s not there, Mac.”

  Tears rose in his eyes. “He died?”

  Her stomach knotted and she drew him closer. “No, maybe he’s working…or busy today.”

  Mac didn’t move. “My daddy died.”

  “Yes, he’s in heaven.” But she wondered if he was. Such a coldhearted man. Would God open His arms to a man who had rejected his son?

  A new smile brightened Mac’s face. “Two fathers in heaven.”

  She knelt and wrapped her arms around him, wanting to hold him forever. “That’s right, and don’t forget that.” She gave him a squeeze, forcing the hurtful memories from her thoughts. “I’ll race you,” she said, changing the subject. She needed to run, to clear her mind. Self-pity was a horrible thing, and she was filled with it.

  She hurried ahead, half running, allowing Mac to gain some distance before she pressed nearer. He giggled and pushed his short legs ahead of him. A dog’s sharp bark drew him to an unplanned stop, and he tumbled to the sand.

  “Are you okay?” She rushed forward, but he rolled over with a grin and pushed himself up. A door slam jolted her attention, and, turning, she caught sight of the ranch-style house set off the beach. Barking wildly, a dog pressed its muzzle against the front screen, and the shadow of a figure moved inside the screened porch.

  Mac grabbed her hand and stared at the house through his sand-spattered glasses. A man’s voice calmed the dog to silence.

  “The kite man,” Mac said, releasing Meara’s hand and pointing toward the shadowy figure. He stepped toward the house.

  Meara caught his hand. “Maybe, son, but he’s busy today. Let’s go back to the cabin. We’ll take a ride into town. Mom needs a newspaper and some groceries. And—”

  “Ice cream,” Mac added.

  She breathed a relieved sigh. “And an ice-cream cone.” She turned and took a step in the direction they’d come. “Ready?”

  He stared up at the shadow for a moment, then waved. Without a complaint, Mac turned and followed her.

  Chapter Two

  Jordan sank back against the wicker chair, feeling a mixture of relief and longing. At first he had thought the boy might be hurt, but his concern seemed foolish now, as he watched them retreat. The child had tripped in the sand, nothing more.

  Jordan was relieved they’d turned back. His heart skipped at the thought. For a moment he had feared the boy
might run up to his door. What would he do? Ignoring the child was one solution, but could he do that?

  Longing shivered through him. Mac tugged at Jordan’s repressed emotions—the desire to be a father, to teach a son about manhood. Jordan had never had the opportunity to share those things with his young son.

  He pushed the thought from his mind. Where was this boy’s father? Back at the cabin, perhaps. He had thought they’d be gone today, but obviously he’d been wrong. Anxiety filled him. Had the family rented the place for a week? Perhaps more? He leaned his head against the chair back, forcing the thoughts from his mind. He had work to do. Concentrate on the kite. He grabbed a piece of bamboo he’d whittled and began to sand. Softened by water, the bamboo dowel curved as he attached it to the other bonded pieces in an intricate design, then glued and tied each side with strong linen thread. He checked the rounded form against the washi paper’s woodblock image of Fukusuke, a Japanese gnome. It fit perfectly.

  As he grasped another dowel, a voice drifted from the side of the house.

  “Anybody home?”

  Jordan dropped the bamboo and rose, stepping to the door. “I’m in the front, Otis.”

  Otis Manning appeared at the side of the screened enclosure and nodded. Dooley, Jordan’s Irish setter, raced onto the porch, his tail lashing like a whip.

  “Come in,” Jordan said, pushing open the door.

  The elderly man stepped inside. “Thought you weren’t here,” he said. Dooley pressed against his leg, and Otis nuzzled the dog’s head. “I rang the doorbell in the back. You didn’t hear it?”

  Jordan shook his head. “I don’t think it’s working. Never bothered to fix it.”

  “You got yourself a great watchdog, here, Jordan. Dooley just grinned at me and wagged his tail.”

  “He knows you.” Jordan clapped his hands, and the dog left the man’s side and curled beside Jordan. “Next time knock. I’ll hear you then.” He gestured toward the small sofa. “Have a seat.”

  “Thanks.” He sat on the wicker settee and folded his hands on his knees. “Just come by for the new kites.”

  “They’re on the back porch. I’ll help you with them.”

  Otis eyed the unfinished kite. “Looks like a beauty, that one.” He nodded toward the washi-paper gnome.

  “Thanks,” Jordan said, shifting in his chair. Though he knew Otis well, he’d lost the art of adult conversation. He’d held one-sided chats with the dog occasionally, but the longest conversation he’d had in days was with the child on the beach. “Care for a soda, Otis? I was about to get one myself.”

  “Sure. That’d be nice.”

  Jordan dashed into the safety of the house. Only three years earlier, he’d paraded in a lecture hall, teaching Shakespeare to two hundred college students. Today he couldn’t come up with a single thread of casual conversation.

  He screwed the caps off two sodas and grabbed one glass from the cupboard. Taking a deep breath, he returned to the porch. “Here you go.” He handed Otis the soda and glass.

  “Don’t need no glass. Thanks. I’m a bottle baby myself.” His eyes glinted with amusement.

  Jordan slid the tumbler onto the table and sank back into the chair. A blast of air rushed from his chest. “So how’s the store?”

  “Still no clerk. Sign’s in the window, but no bites yet. I’m surprised.”

  “You’ll get someone soon,” Jordan said.

  “Hope so. The tourists are already pouring into town.”

  “Is business okay otherwise?”

  “Pretty good.” Otis’s gaze shifted to Dooley, and he ran his fingers through his graying hair. “But I’m afraid we’re going to run into a problem.” Slowly, he raised his eyes to Jordan’s. “I been meaning to talk to you about that investor, Donald Hatcher. Told you about him a while back. Remember?”

  Jordan nodded, sensing something coming but not sure what.

  “He’s putting pressure on the shops along the strip there. I’ve been thinkin’ maybe you’d want to get involved. Some of them might be ready to sell, and if one does, then the next will…and pretty soon, you got no business. Right now, the kite shop’s in a prime location.”

  “I’m not sure I can do any more than the others. Who’s giving up? The bakery?”

  “Naw, Scott’s tough as nails. He’s ready for a fight. So’s the fast-food place. Hatcher’s been hanging around the gift shop. I talked to Bernard Dawson, the manager. He thinks the owner might be thinking about selling. The T-shirt shop’s still stickin’ to their guns.” He took a long swig of soda.

  “I’m not going to sweat it, Otis. The land is valuable. I hope the others know that and don’t sell it off for half its worth.”

  “That’s what I mean. Maybe we could hold a meetin’. You know, Jordan, it’s not just losin’ the shop that bothers me. It’s what he’s plannin’ to put in its place. A saloon. One of those skimpy-dressed-waitress bars. That’s askin’ for trouble. Booze and half-naked women. We have no place for that here. This is a family vacation spot, and we want to keep it that way.”

  “Who told you that’s what he’s planning to build?”

  “Oh, word gets out. And I believe it. He’s after that strip of land. It’s right on the water, butted up to the ferry parking. All the Mackinaw Island traffic. He couldn’t find a better spot for a bar.”

  Jordan’s stomach knotted. Otis was right, but he had no desire to get himself involved in city politics and battles. He hadn’t years ago, either, when life felt normal…and real. And now he’d settled into his life just as it was. Right here on the water, building his kites.

  “So, Jordan, what do you think? You don’t want to see a joint like that in the city, do you?”

  Jordan looked at the man’s serious expression. “You know I don’t, Otis. Let me think about it. I’m not sure you need to worry yet. Anyway, what about zoning? I wonder if anyone’s checked with the zoning board. Isn’t that Congregational church just down the street?”

  Otis nodded. “Sure is. I wonder…” He ran his finger around the mouth of the bottle. “Let me check that out. Maybe the zoning board can save our necks.”

  “Do that. Then let me know what they say.” Jordan rose and gave Otis a firm pat on the back. “Come out to the back porch, and I’ll help you load up the kites.”

  Meara steered the coupe down Main Street, searching for a parking space. Tourists, pushing the summer season, thronged the streets and hung in shop doorways or gazed into colorful souvenir-filled windows. She stopped to give room to a van pulling away in the middle of the block. As he drove off, she nosed her car into the wide space.

  She breathed a deep sigh. Though she knew how to drive, she’d had little practice in years. Her husband, Dunstan, or her father-in-law had driven her the few places she went. Most of the time she lived in the upper floors of the big rambling house, in her own sitting room with Mac playing by her side.

  “Ice cream,” Mac called, pointing to the ice-cream parlor sign embellished with a colorful triple-dip cone.

  “That’s a sure fact about you, Mac. You never forget a thing, do you? At least, nothing like ice cream.” She smiled at him as they climbed out from the car.

  He stuck close to her side, and she gazed in the shop windows, stopping to buy two local newspapers and a net bag filled with tiny cars and trucks. She watched the pity-filled faces of people who glanced at her and Mac, then, in discomfort, looked away. She cringed at their lack of understanding.

  Mac let out a gleeful chortle when they neared the ice-cream shop, and hastily, she quieted him as they marched through the door. As they waited their turn, she and Mac studied the menu.

  The clerk dipped the ice-cream scoop into the cold water and turned toward them. “And what will you have, young—” His head jerked upright. “What would he like, ma’am?” he asked, stumbling over his words.

  Her automatic defense yanked her response. “Mac, tell the young man what you’d like.”

  A light flush rose on th
e teen’s face.

  “One…dip of double chocolate,” Mac answered, sending the young man a spirited grin.

  The clerk grabbed a cone and dug out a scoop. He glanced at the other workers behind the counter, dipped back into the barrel, slid an extra portion of ice cream onto the cone and smiled.

  “Thank you,” Meara said, understanding his apology. “I’ll have a dip of peanut butter swirl.”

  He added an extra measure to hers, too, and with napkins wrapped around the cones, they made their way past customers to the sidewalk. She kept an eye on Mac’s cone, guarding against unsightly drips, but he licked the edge and seemed in control.

  “I saw a bakery across the street. Let’s take a look.”

  They followed the sidewalk to the end of the block and crossed the road. Passing a fast-food restaurant, she drew in the smell of oil permeating the air, followed by the rich, taunting aroma of freshly baked bread. Beside the bakery, Meara studied the pastries and breads displayed in the window.

  As she pulled open the screen door of the bakery, Mac’s strident voice bellowed in her ear.

  “Kites!” He rambled past her to the window of the shop next door.

  Meara closed the bakery door and followed Mac. Unique kites filled the storefront window, and in one corner, a small Help Wanted sign was taped to the glass. Her stomach tightened. She wanted a job…needed a job, but how could she work and care for Mac? She’d wait until school began and pray her money lasted.

  Mac pressed his nose against the window, and Meara joined him, peeking through the glass. Magnificent kites of every shape and design hung from the ceiling and clung to the walls—dragons, birds and other shapes she’d never seen before.

  Mac pulled open the screen, but before entering, he glanced at Meara. She nodded and grinned at the smear of ice cream on his mouth, then followed him inside.