The Christmas Kite. Gail Gaymer Martin

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