The Christmas Kite. Gail Gaymer Martin

      

      Praise for

      GAIL

       GAYMER

       MARTIN

      “In The Christmas Kite, Gail Martin probes the depths of love and forgiveness. A tender and heartwarming read.”

      —Lyn Cote, Author of Summer’s End,

       on The Christmas Kite

      “The Christmas Kite is a tender romance, the story of two wounded people learning to live and love again. And I guarantee that little Mac will steal your heart. Settle into your favorite chair and enjoy.”

      —Robin Lee Hatcher, bestselling author of Firstborn and Speak to Me of Love on The Christmas Kite

      “Gail Gaymer Martin’s best book to date. Real conflict and very likeable characters enhance this wonderful romantic story.”

      —Romantic Times BOOKreviews on Loving Hearts

      “Perhaps Gail Gaymer Martin’s best, a romantic suspense novel you’ll want to read—during the day!”

      —Romantic Times BOOKreviews

       on A Love for Safekeeping

      “An emotional, skillfully written story about mature subject matter. You’ll probably need a box of tissues for this one.”

      —Romantic Times BOOKreviews

       on Upon a Midnight Clear

      The Christmas Kite

      Gail Gaymer Martin

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

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      With much love, to Andrea,

       the inspiration for my poem, “The Kite Flyers.”

       May she always remember to bend with the wind.

      Thanks to Jo Ferguson and Linda Windsor,

       fellow authors who introduced me

       to families with Down Syndrome children.

       And a huge thanks to authors Deb Stover

       and April Kihlstrom, and to Jenni,

       who willingly shared their stories.

       I hope I did your openness justice.

      My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is

       made perfect in weakness. Therefore I will boast

       all the more gladly about my weaknesses,

       so that Christ’s power may rest on me.

      —2 Corinthians 12:9

      THE KITE FLYERS

      The heart, like a kite, is tugged

      By the winds of change.

      Fragments of color, dipping and soaring,

      The kite flyers hold in their hands

      The string, giving more to the wind

      Or holding back in the softer silence.

      With eager hearts they watch their kites

      Soar in harmony, in a sweep of colored

      Stillness.

      Tugging too hard on the cord, it may break

      And the lovely kite

      flutters lifeless

      to the ground.

      Its spirit silenced like a whimper,

      Or the string may slip from the hands

      And the kite caught on the wind

      sails away

      a memory.

      Patience and love is the cord.

      Learn to bend with the wind,

      To understand when to give

      And when to hold back,

      So your kites will soar on any wind

      Independent, yet together.

      Gail Gaymer Martin

       1988

      Contents

      Chapter One

      Chapter Two

      Chapter Three

      Chapter Four

      Chapter Five

      Chapter Six

      Chapter Seven

      Chapter Eight

      Chapter Nine

      Chapter Ten

      Chapter Eleven

      Chapter Twelve

      Chapter Thirteen

      Chapter Fourteen

      Chapter Fifteen

      Chapter Sixteen

      Chapter Seventeen

      Chapter Eighteen

      Chapter Nineteen

      Chapter Twenty

      Chapter Twenty-One

      Questions for Discussion

      Chapter One

      “Be careful, Mac.” Meara Hayden’s heart rose to her throat as her son wandered toward the white-capped waves. “Stay back.”

      He turned toward her, his mouth bent into a gleeful smile. “Birds.” He pointed upward where seagulls curled and dipped above the rolling waters of Lake Huron.

      “Yes,” she yelled, forcing her soft voice above the dashing waves, fear gripping her heart. “Come back, Mac.”

      A new crest rose, its frothy cap arching high above the surface. Meara dashed forward. But too late.

      The surging water thundered upward, crashing to the shore, then siphoned back in a powerful undertow. Mac staggered against its strength, and as the swell washed the earth from beneath his feet, the water dragged driftwood, debris and Mac into its roiling depths.

      As a heart-wrenching gasp tore from Meara’s throat, she dashed into the retreating wave, grabbed him by one flailing arm and lifted him to safety.

      “Mac,” she whispered, her voice quaking with fear. She clutched him to her side and guided him back to the dry sand.

      “Wet,” he moaned, pulling at his soggy shorts. Tears brimmed in his eyes.

      “It’s all right. They’ll dry.” To distract him, Meara pulled a wrapped cookie from her blouse pocket. “Here, Mac.” Her ploy worked.