The Christmas Kite. Gail Gaymer Martin
Mac listened as if he understood while Jordan demonstrated.
Meara watched him, her face as animated as Mac’s. Losing himself in the process, Jordan moved closer and wrapped his hands around the boy’s to give him the feeling of the tug and pull of the wind on the string.
But time after time, with each attempt to launch it, Jordan saved the nose-diving kite from a watery death. “You know, Mac, maybe you need to be one more year older. This kite-flying isn’t easy.”
“Isn’t…easy,” Mac repeated, giving his trademark nod. Then he grinned, grabbing his mother’s hand. “Mom can fly the kite.”
“‘Mom,’” Meara said. “What happened to ‘Mama’?”
“Mom,” Mac said again with a laugh, squeezing her hand.
“I think that’s my fault,” Jordan said, recalling he’d used the term earlier. “How about it? Can I show you what to do?”
Meara lifted her eyebrows as if questioning his confidence. “We shall see.”
Quickly repeating the process, he held the ball of string and kite toward her, but she hesitated.
“Let me take off my shoes. I’ll trip myself up, otherwise.” Slipping off her sandals, she dug her feet into the sun-warmed sand. “Feels good,” she said, reaching out for the kite and string.
In a moment she was rushing along the sand, the kite extended into the air. At a gleeful laugh from Mac, it lifted from her hand and sailed upward. The boy patted Jordan’s arm, then clapped his hands and bounced with pleasure.
Jordan kept his eyes riveted to the kite while Meara released the string, but suddenly a gust of wind flipped the kite into a nosedive. Panic rose on her face, and he dashed forward, wrapping his arms around her from behind and manipulating the string. With a pull and release of tension, the kite righted itself and sailed skyward again.
Her sweet, fascinating aroma filled his senses, and her soft hair brushed against his cheek. He moved back quickly, though he longed to stay in the embrace, holding her close and feeling her warm skin against his arms.
She turned to him, a flush highlighting her ivory skin. “I almost lost it again,” she said, her eyes bright with life and her lips posed in a rich smile so close he could almost taste the sweetness.
A deep breath escaped him as he attempted to control his thudding heart. You’re a fool, Jordan. What are you doing? “There’s no ‘almost’ in baseball or kite-flying. A save is a save.” He forced a lighthearted look to his face, but panic rose in his chest.
“But if you hadn’t been here, I’d be back in the cabin building Mac’s third kite.”
“Let me show you what to do when you have another problem like that.” He moved in again, knowing he was working the situation, taking advantage of her nearness. He had to stop, but the sound of her voice covered the warnings that raged in his head.
He took her hand and the string, demonstrating the tug and pull of the wind, but most of all, he reveled in the warmth of her delicate hand against his and the sound of her laughter in his ear.
“Me,” Mac called.
Jordan swung around, realizing they had all but forgotten the boy. The kite was his, not theirs. He chided himself on his self-centered urges. “Come here, Mac. You hold the string, and I’ll help you.”
Not thinking, Jordan opened his arms to the boy, and his heart all but plunged to the ground. Grief washed over him like the waves that covered the shining rocks on the beach. With Mac in his arms, Robbie’s image rose before him like a living phantom—a moving, loving memory that wrenched his entire being. A sob rose in his throat, and he coughed to cover the horrible reality that battered his happiness to deepest pain.
Mac turned his head, giving him a curious look, and Jordan forced a smile to his lips—so compacted that they felt numb. “How you doing?”
“Good,” he whispered.
“You sure are.”
With Meara watching from her log stool, they let the kite soar overhead for a time, until Mac’s attention wavered. Then, with Jordan’s help, they reeled in the string, bringing the kite to a safe landing. Meara clapped her hands, then opened her arms as Mac ran to her.
“Good job.”
“Yep,” he agreed. “I flew the kite.”
“And one of these days, you’ll do it all by yourself, Mac,” Jordan said, standing above them. “Now remember, if you have any trouble, let me know. If there’s one thing I know, it’s kites.” That’s about it, too, he thought, angry at himself for allowing his emotions to reach the surface.
“It was kind of you, Mr. Baird. Mac and I both appreciate your help.”
Meara’s gentle face caught him off guard again.
“Jordan, please, and if you don’t mind, I’ll call you Meara.”
“Not at all,” she said as her lashes lowered shyly for a heartbeat.
“It’s a beautiful name. Where did you get it?” He looked at her with longing, marveling at the mysterious aura that emanated from her.
A grin crept to her lips. “From my mother.”
“Hmm?” he asked, not understanding.
“My name. My mother gave it to me.” Her grin widened to a smile.
“Right, but I mean, what kind of a name is it?”
“I’m being silly. I knew what you meant.” She drew her shoulders as if surprised she’d allowed herself the lighthearted moment. “It’s Irish. My parents were born in Ireland like I was.”
“Ah, so that’s the lilt I hear in your voice.”
She tilted her head upward. “Lilt? I didn’t know I had one.”
“It’s lovely, really, like your name. Like music.”
“Thank you. Meara means ‘happy.’” A distant look rose in her eyes, and her face filled with a kind of sadness.
“Happy? And are you?” he asked, wondering why he had posed such a personal question. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have spoken like that.”
Her gaze drifted to the ground, then upward. “No, you’re being honest. I am…sometimes…like today with the kites.” She nodded. “Today, I was happy.” She reached toward Mac, who held the kite close to his chest. “We need to be running along. You’ve given us too much of your time. Thank you.”
She gazed at her son. “Say thank-you, Mac.”
The child lifted his excited gaze. “Thank you,” he said.
“You’re welcome. And you, too, Mac.”
They headed down the beach, hand in hand, and Jordan turned toward the house, tugging at every fiber of his good sense. How many times must he caution himself and still not listen? This woman and child needed too much, and he had nothing to give anyone. He was scarred, scarred to his core. His capacity for love had burned away the day God took his family, the day guilt and grief scorched every strand of his being…his spirit.
He tucked his thoughts back where they belonged, deep inside. No time for mourning now. He needed to face life, learn to live in the world again, not for love or family, but just to get through each day. He’d abandoned his career and lived like a hermit far too long. Good old Otis did the pickup and delivery, while he hid from the world building kites. And what was he hiding from? Memories? A person can’t hide from those. He’d tried.
Raising his eyes, Jordan saw Otis standing outside the front door. He hailed him with a wave.
“Okay, this time I knocked,” Otis said with a good-natured grin. “That didn’t work any better than the doorbell.”