The Christmas Kite. Gail Gaymer Martin

her gaze to the storekeeper. “I’d like to get a paper kite for my son. You know, one of the little diamond-shaped ones.”

      He chuckled. “I’m afraid you’ll have to go to the shop next door. We only have the kind yer lookin’ at here. Handcrafted, they are.”

      “And expensive,” Meara added.

      “I’m afraid so. At least, lots more expensive than those little paper toys. You like kites, son?”

      Mac grinned at the man. “Yep.” His pudgy hand jutted outward. “My name’s Mac. What’s your name?”

      The clerk leaned forward and took his hand in a broad handshake. “Nice to meet you, Mac. I’m Otis Manning.” He straightened his back. “Just a couple steps next door, ma’am. They have lots of kites for this young fella.”

      Meara’s heart lifted, observing the gentleman with Mac. He didn’t gawk at the boy’s disability or treat him like a second-rate citizen. His reaction warmed her heart. “Thank you. Ready, Mac? Let’s go next door and get your kite.”

      With a broad grin, Mac took her hand and they left the shop. Outside, the smell from the bakery tempted her taste buds. But that could wait. Instead she turned in the opposite direction to buy Mac’s kite. As she passed the display window, her gaze fell again on the Help Wanted sign. She paused. This would be a nice place to work. But reality tugged at her conscience, and she moved forward. She’d already decided to wait. By that time, the shop would have all the help it needed. Too bad.

      Glancing at the sign again with longing, she gave a wave through the glass at the elderly gentleman who watched them leave.

      Skimming the newspaper for rentals, Meara nibbled on a fresh oatmeal cookie from the bakery. She chided herself for the sweets—ice cream and now a cookie.

      “You know, Mac, we can’t keep eating all these treats. We’ll both be as big as elephants.”

      Mac giggled, dropping one of the new miniature trucks to the floor, and ran to her side. “I love you, Mama.”

      “I love you, too, Mac.” She gave him a big hug. Discouraged, Meara tossed the newspaper on the small table. Most rentals were summer cottages only meant for a one- or two-week vacation. One apartment seemed too expensive and was unfurnished. Only one held promise. Maybe later they would take a ride and check it out.

      Mac wandered to the sofa and picked up the yardstick-shaped package. “Make my kite, please,” he said, handing it to Meara.

      She unrolled the flimsy tissue paper and thin dowels, and, following the instructions, constructed the kite.

      Mac hung over her shoulder, watching, his eyes wide with wonder. “Can I…make it…fly?”

      “That, we’ll have to see,” Meara said, wondering what she owned to make the tail. She looked around the room, mentally assessed her wardrobe, and finally remembered a few pieces of ragged cloth in her trunk, kept there to clean her windows or wipe up spills.

      She went to the bedroom and returned with the cloth, tearing it into strips. After she tied the pieces together, she fastened them to the end of the kite, and Mac herded her to the beach.

      A light breeze stirred the trees near the cabin, but closer to shore a gusty wind blew, whisking the shimmering water into rolling whitecaps. Meara struggled to keep the paper kite from ripping away from her. She’d never flown a kite before, though she’d seen it done in movies or by others when she was a child. She prayed she wouldn’t disappoint her son.

      As if considering her the expert, Mac followed her every move. She unrolled a host of cord and let it fall to the ground.

      “Now, hold the ball of string, and I’ll run ahead with the kite.”

      Having no idea what she should do, she bit her lip and waited to make sure Mac appeared ready. While the wind pushed against her, she ran along the beach holding the kite in the air. Suddenly an air mass caught the paper and lifted it from her hands.

      “Hang on to the string,” she called, rushing back to Mac. But before she returned to him, the lengthy measure of string coiled on the ground offered no resistance to the aerodynamics, and the kite rose, then nose-dived into the water.

      Mac let out a cry, but she was helpless. The kite lay on top of the water, rising and falling with the waves. She looked at Mac’s downhearted expression, and disappointment coursed through her. She should have asked the shop clerk for tips on flying a kite. The “kite man” had made it look so easy.

      With her eyes on Mac’s disappointed face, she stepped forward to offer a consoling hug just as a huge red dog bounded between them. She struggled to keep her footing in the loose sand, wavering between success and failure, but the ground rose up to meet her. Though startled, she and Mac both laughed as the dog hovered above them, panted for a moment, then stayed long enough to lick her cheek.

      When the large, rambunctious dog settled into Mac’s awareness, his laughter faded. He let out a cry and dashed behind Meara, sending out sounds—a confused mixture of giggles and whimpers. With one hand, Meara patted Mac’s arm wrapped around her neck, and with the other, she held the dog at bay.

      A voice rose on the wind and she looked down the beach. The kite man raced forward toward her while she sprawled, pinioned to the spot by Mac and the big Irish setter.

      “Come, Dooley,” the man called. The dog lifted its head and turned toward him. “I’m sorry. Did he hurt you?”

      Dooley. The dog’s name. “No,” Meara said, a grin curling her lips, thinking of what she must look like. “Just my dignity, a little.”

      He grabbed the dog’s collar, pulling him away. “I’m usually more careful. I was maneuvering a kite through the door, and he shot out between my legs. He only does that when he sees the ducks.”

      “Ducks,” Mac repeated. “I want…to see…the ducks.” He punched the final word, tilting his head upward with a widemouthed smile.

      “Dooley scared them away, I’m afraid.” His gaze shifted from Mac to Meara, still sitting in the sand. “Let me help you.” He held the dog back with one hand and reached down for her.

      She felt like a downy pillow when he lifted her with ease. “Thank you,” she said, brushing the sand from her slacks and hands.

      His brooding eyes seemed friendly this afternoon, perhaps altered by the embarrassing situation Dooley had caused. His tight-pressed lips of yesterday looked more relaxed and the flicker of a grin curled the edge of his mouth.

      Meara’s gaze drifted to the thick cords of muscle that ribbed his arms as he controlled Dooley’s exuberance. The vision brought warmth to her cheeks. She realized Mac still clung to her side.

      “Mac, the dog won’t hurt you. That’s his way of being friendly.” Looking at her child, Meara saw the beads of tears in his eyes.

      He took one step backward, but his grip on her arm tightened.

      “Would you like to pet the dog?” the man asked, his gaze searching Mac’s face. “I’m sorry Dooley frightened you.”

      “It’s not just the dog,” Meara said, noticing he had seen Mac’s tears. “It’s the kite.” She gestured toward the lake.

      He followed the motion of her hand. “Oh, I see.”

      Lapping against the sand, Meara spied the crossed dowels splotched with fragments of torn, soggy tissue. The rag tail advanced and ebbed in the undulating waves. “Not very successful, was I?”

      A wry grin teased his mouth. “It takes a knack.” He reached forward as if to touch Mac’s head, but drew back. “I’ll tell you what, pal. If your mother buys another kite, I’ll show you how to fly it.”

      Mac’s eyes widened, and he dragged his arm across his moist eyes. Apparently he’d forgotten the dog, because he stepped forward, his grin spreading from ear to