The Christmas Kite. Gail Gaymer Martin
east along the beach.
Who are you kidding?
He shook his head. He knew full well why he was headed that way. Dooley sped off ahead, and he hurried behind the dog, glancing, now and again, into the woods, for the dilapidated cabins.
He slowed his gait as they reached what he suspected was the area. A child’s laugh drifted from the trees, and Jordan looked through the foliage. Mac waved and lurched down the inclined path toward him.
“Good morning,” Jordan said as the boy reached his side.
Mac’s gaze drifted from his to Dooley’s, and he teetered backward, a look of fright rushing to his face.
“It’s okay, Mac. Dooley won’t hurt you. Only thing he might do is knock you down trying to give you a big wet kiss.” He caught the dog’s collar, keeping him close to his side.
“Dooley,” Mac repeated, maintaining his distance.
The dog looked at the boy, his tongue hanging from his mouth in a rapid pant. Jordan tightened his hold, monitoring Dooley’s movement as the dog strained toward the child.
With caution, Mac garnered courage and stepped toward the dog, his hand outstretched. Dooley shot his tongue forward, dragging a slobbery kiss across Mac’s fingers.
The boy’s eyes widened, and Jordan expected him to cry out, but instead he laughed and leaned forward. Dooley swiped his tongue along the child’s cheek.
“A big wet kiss,” Mac said, his eyes twinkling.
Jordan looked back toward the foliage. Would the woman let him play outside without keeping an eye on him? He saw nothing near the cabin. “Where’s your mom?”
“Making a kite. Come and see.” He grasped Jordan’s hand and pulled him toward the grassy path.
“And your father? Where’s your dad?”
Mac clung to his fingers with one hand while his free hand pointed skyward. “Up,” Max answered. “In heaven. Two fathers…in heaven.”
Two fathers? His mind spun, wondering what kind of life this young boy must have experienced. “Two?”
Mac gave an assuring nod. “Come.” He beckoned with his free hand. “See my kite.” He tugged at Jordan’s arm, and, reluctant to hurt the boy’s feelings, Jordan followed.
His memory of the cabins was correct. Though the word ramshackle had come to mind first, he altered that to rustic, out of kindness.
“Mama,” Mac called as they neared a cabin nestled in the trees closest to the beach.
In a flash a screen door swung open and the woman faltered in the doorway. “Oh, it’s…you.” She grinned and stepped outside. “Good morning. Is something wrong?” Her gaze shifted to Mac and returned to Jordan’s face.
“No. Mac invited me up to see the kite. I’m sorry. I don’t believe I’ve introduced myself.” He forced his hand forward. “Jordan Baird.”
Meara chuckled and grasped his fingers. “Glad to learn your name. You’ve been only the ‘kite man’ to us, Mr. Baird. I’m Meara Hayden, and this is—”
“Mac. He told me his name the first day we met.” He glanced behind her into the shadows of the cabin. “Mac tells me you bought another kite.”
“Two kites.” Her delicate features curved to a lovely full-lipped smile. “Just to be on the safe side, this time.”
Two kites. Two fathers. And he deduced, two husbands. Her lilting voice unsettled him, almost like music, and he longed to ask her heritage but muzzled his curiosity. “Do you need any help?”
“I’m not sure.” She glanced over her shoulder. “This place isn’t elegant, but would you like to step in? You can give me your expert opinion.” She pulled the door open. Mac skittered inside and he followed.
In the dusky light, he agreed. The place was not elegant. It was barely passable for this woman and child. He scanned the sagging upholstered sofa and rickety side table while an acrid smell of mildew and cleaning fluid hit his senses.
A bright yellow kite lay across the small Formica kitchen table. He picked it up and studied her amateur workmanship. “Not bad. Looks like you followed directions.” He glanced around the room. “How about a tail?”
“I used an old cloth from my car trunk for the last one.”
“Let’s…fly the kite,” Mac decreed, his smile flashing like neon.
“In a minute, Mac. I might have another rag,” she continued, looking at Jordan. “Let me see.” She stepped toward the door.
“No need.” The boy’s bright smile motivated Jordan’s offer without thinking. “You and your mom follow me. I have plenty of tail cloth at the house.” He could have bit his tongue, but it was too late. The boy tugged at his heart like wind caught on a kite. Mac grabbed his hand, leading him back down the trail, and the intriguing woman—Meara—followed them.
Dooley, minding his manners, trotted beside the boy as if he understood that he must behave. Mac’s grin swiveled like a weather vane in a wavering wind between Jordan and the dog. The child captivated his spirit.
In the heat a sweet scent permeated the breeze. Jordan glanced for wildflowers along the way, but Meara stepped into his line of vision. And he knew. The scent was hers, a fascinating aroma lingering in the heated air. Delicate and sweet, the woman pried into his closed heart with a new awareness. How long had it been since he’d allowed a woman in his thoughts or wanted a woman in his arms? He pulled his attention to the sand and the water, anything to drive away the longing.
Relieved, Jordan watched the house appear, but as he neared, the Private Property sign glowed in the sun like chastening neon. With what he hoped was a subtle yank, he jerked it from the sand, tossing it into the tall grass. He’d retrieve it later for the trash. But a quick glance at Meara’s grinning face told him she’d witnessed every embarrassing move.
At the door, he invited them onto the porch. “I’m thirsty. How about you? Can I offer you a soda?”
“No, thank you, I think—”
“Okay,” Mac countered. “A soda.”
Meara closed her open mouth and aimed a warning look at Mac.
A chuckle rose in Jordan’s chest, but he clamped his lips.
She gave an embarrassed grin. “I guess we’ll trouble you for a soda, if you don’t mind.”
“Have a seat,” he said, and went inside for the soft drinks. Mac chattered behind him. Surprised, he glanced over his shoulder and saw Mac at his heels. Despite having the boy underfoot, he made quick work of the tumblers and soda cans. “Here,” he said, pouring Mac’s drink into the glass, “you can carry your own.”
Obviously pleased, the boy concentrated on the liquid and headed back to the porch.
“Careful, Mac,” Meara said when he reached her.
“He’s okay,” Jordan said, and handed her a glass. He set his drink on a small side table and, before joining her, grabbed a handful of colorful tails from a storage box.
When he turned, Mac stood nearby, gazing with his trusting eyes at the strips of cloth.
“Okay, Mac, here are all the colors I have,” he said, dangling the strands in front of the child.
Mac’s face filled with wonder as he gazed at the bright strips. “Yellow, red, blue, purpo—”
“That’s purple, Mac,” Meara corrected. “Pur…ple.”
He repeated the word, mimicking her careful enunciation.
Selecting purple and yellow, Mac handed Jordan the cloth, who knotted and attached them to the end of the kite.