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

MILLS & BOON

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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.

“Cookie,” he said, brushing his moist eyes with a finger before grasping the treat.

Meara captured his free hand and continued their journey along the warm sandy beach. Glancing over her shoulder, she estimated the distance they’d wandered from the rough, rented cabin. Obviously her choice was a poor one. She hadn’t considered the inherent dangers of the water…and her son.

Mac paused and gazed above his head. “Birds,” he said again, waving the sugar cookie in the air.

“They’re seagulls. You’ll see lots of them around the water.”

“Sea…gulls,” he repeated, his face lifted upward toward her watchful eyes. He waved the cookie again in the birds’ direction.

Without warning, a cluster of gulls soared over them and swooped down. His body shaking, Mac gasped, grabbed the leg of her slacks and buried his face against the denim, knocking his glasses to the ground. She held him tightly as the birds gathered on the ground around them and fluttered toward the sweet clutched in his fingers.

“Drop the cookie, Mac. That’s what they’re after.”

It fell to the ground, and she snatched up his glasses and pulled the child away. The birds flapped their wings and screeched at one another, pecking and vying for bits of the scattered pieces.

She knelt at his side and pulled a tissue from her pocket to wipe his tear-filled eyes. “It’s okay, Mac. Mama should have thought. The birds like cookies and bread, all kinds of food. We’ll be more careful next time.”

He nodded, dragging his arm across his dripping nose. “Next time,” he agreed.

Meara pulled his arm away from his face and wiped the moisture with a tissue. “What about your hankie? What does Mama tell you?”

He looked thoughtfully, his dark brown almond-shaped eyes squinting into hers. “Use a hankie.”

“That’s right. Not your arm, remember?” She used another tissue to clean the sand from his glasses and popped them onto his blunt, upturned nose.

He grinned, and, having forgotten his fear of the birds, he scuttled off ahead of her.

Waves. Birds. She hesitated, wondering if they should return to the gloom of their cabin. The late-spring sun lit the sky, but did not quite penetrate the foliage of their small rental—two rooms and a bath—that lay hidden amidst the heavy pines. Only a few small windows allowed the sun’s rays in, and they were situated too high to enjoy a relaxed view of the lake. Their only entertainment was a fuzzy-picture television—nothing really to occupy Mac’s time. She looked ahead at the shoreline. We’ll walk to the bend and see what’s around the corner, she thought.

A warm gust whipped off the water, and she lifted her eyes to the blue sky dotted with a smattering of puffy white clouds. She felt free for the first time in her life. Free, but frightened. How could she survive alone with Mac? When she first left her deceased husband’s parents, the thoughts of where she would go or what she would do barely skittered through her mind. Freedom was what she’d longed for. Freedom and a chance to raise her son as she wanted, not chained by the Hayden family’s shame.

Meara focused again on her son. Mac’s short, sturdy legs struggled through the sand, his curiosity as strong as her sense of release. He neared the bend in the shoreline, and she hurried to shorten the distance between them.

But a large island in the distance, rising into hills above the green water, caught her eye, and she paused to enjoy its lush expanse and the miniature-appearing village that grazed the shoreline. Mackinaw Island, she told herself, a Michigan landmark. She’d heard of it but had never been there.

On the left hillside a long ribbon of white drew her interest. The hotel? She narrowed her eyes, gazing at the pale splotch against the green landscape. The name edged into her memory. Yes, the Grand Hotel. So many places she had never seen.

Meara looked ahead and her pulse lurched. Mac was no longer in sight. “Mac,” she called, dashing along the curve of the beach.

When she rounded the evergreens that grew close to the shoreline, Mac appeared far ahead of her, rushing away as fast as his awkward legs would carry him. His arm was extended, his finger pointing toward the sky. Expecting to see more birds, she looked up, but instead she saw what had lured him. A kite. An amazing kite, dipping and soaring above the water. The brilliant colors glinted in the sun, and a long, flowing yellow-and-red tail curled and waved like pennants in a parade.

She halted to catch her breath, clasping her fist against her pounding heart. Her fear subsided. Mac was safe, a generous distance from the water’s edge. He turned toward her, waving his arms above his head. She waved back, pointing toward the kite, letting him know she saw the lovely sight.

He turned again and trudged forward toward the distant figure of a man who apparently held the invisible string.

Jordan Baird grasped the cord, fighting the wind. If he tugged too hard, the string would break and send his kite swooping into the water. If he released his grip, the wind could snatch it from his hand. With expert control, he eased and pulled, knowing when to let the wind take control and when to hold it back. Pride rose in him. If he knew anything, he understood the aerodynamics of a kite.

A shadow fell across his line of sight and, surprised, he glanced at its origin. A child with soggy shorts and an eager face tripped through the sand toward him.

“Whoa, there, young man. What do you think you’re doing?” He glowered down at the boy, pointing to the sign stuck haphazardly into the grassy sand above the beach. “Can’t you read? This is private property.”

The boy skidded to a halt, and a pair of frightened eyes shifted upward. “I can…read…some words.”

“Can’t you read those? It says, Private Property.”

The child squinted at the sign and shook his head.

Jordan peered down—the child was maybe five or six—and reality set in. Perhaps he couldn’t read.

The child’s smile returned. Faltering, he lifted his finger, pointing to the soaring colors. “Look!”

“Haven’t you seen a kite before?” He frowned at the boy, studying his face. The child’s expression amazed him.

The boy’s innocent grin met his scowl. “Kite,” the boy repeated, gazing at him with huge almond-shaped eyes behind thick glasses.

“Yes, a kite.”

The boy giggled. “Kite,” he said again.

He peered at the child. Something wasn’t quite right.

The child’s mouth opened in an uncontrolled laugh.

Jordan’s curiosity ebbed as his awareness rose. Down syndrome. He should have realized sooner. But certainly, the boy would not be walking this lonely stretch of beach alone.

He looked beyond the child’s head and saw, nearing them, a woman hurrying across the sand. For a fleeting moment his thoughts flew back in time. A knifing ache tore through him, and he closed his eyes, blocking the invading, painful memory.

Despite his defense the child’s intrusion penetrated Jordan’s iron wall, a wall he’d built to keep the torment out. Memories flooded over its barrier, and Jordan struggled to gather the horrible images and push them away behind the crumbling stones of protection.

Yet the boy rattled the door of Jordan’s curiosity and, wall or no wall, questions jutted into his mind. Where had he come from? And the woman. Who was she? “What’s your name, son?”

The child pulled his gaze from the kite long enough to answer the question. “Dunstan Mac…Auley Hayden.” He punched the last syllable of each name as he faltered over the three words.

“That’s quite a label for a young man.”

The boy giggled and poked a fist toward him. “I don’t have a label.”

An unnatural grin pulled at Jordan’s mouth. “I mean your name. That’s a powerful name for a boy.” His gaze shifted. “Is that lady your mother?” He tilted his head in the direction of the woman, keeping his eye on the kite.

The lad glanced over his shoulder and nodded, a wide grin stretching his blotchy red cheeks.

“What does she call you? Certainly not Dunstan Mac-Auley, I hope.”

“Mac.” He poked himself in the chest. “I’m Mac. What’s your name?” He stuck his hand forward, offering a handshake.

Amused, Jordan shifted the kite string and grasped the child’s hand but didn’t answer. Instead, he eyed the slender, fragile-looking woman who came panting to his side.

“I’m sorry,” she said, gazing at him with doleful, emerald-green eyes. “He saw your kite and got away from me.” Her voice rose and fell in a soft lilt.

“You need to keep a better eye on him. The water can be dangerous.” The muscles tightened in his shoulders at the thought, and he tugged on the kite string to right it.

“Yes, I know. I’m sorry. He’s never seen a kite. Everything is new to him, and—”

Jordan’s chest tightened. How could a child never have seen a kite? “How old is he?” Eyeing the boy, the throbbing sadness filled his heart.

A flush rose to her ivory cheeks, and her eyes darkened. “Eight,” she mumbled. “He’s small for his age.”

Jordan shifted his gaze from the woman to his kite, then to the child. “You need to watch him.”

“I said I’m sorry.”

She lowered her eyes, and he wished he hadn’t sounded so harsh. But then, she’d never lost a son.

“Mac,” she called, “let’s go.”

The child gave a hesitant look, but the kite seemed to mesmerize him and he didn’t move.

“Mac, I said let’s go.” She stepped toward him, then spun around to face Jordan. “I’m sorry we intruded.”

Longing and grief pitched in his mind and muddied his thoughts like a stick stirring a rain puddle. “Yes, well, this is private property.” The words marched undaunted from his mouth, and he gestured to the makeshift sign.

And so is my life.

“But anyone can make a mistake,” he added, feeling the need to ease his sharp words. His emotions knotted—pity for himself and sadness for the mother and son.

“That’s private,” she snapped, pointing to the grass above the sand. “Not the beach.” She glared at him, her eyes shooting sparks like gemstones. “It’s public.” The fire in her voice matched her blazing red hair tied back in a long, thick tail. She grabbed Mac’s hand and spun away, heading back the way she’d come. The boy twisted in her grasp, his eyes riveted to the kite sailing above the water.

Watching the woman and boy vanish around the bend, Jordan closed his eyes. She was right. He didn’t own the beach, though he wished he did. He would put up a fence to keep the few stragglers from invading his world.

After a final glance at the retreating figures, he turned his attention to the kite. With measured motion, he reeled in his paper creation. He’d lost his spirit. The intrusion settled on his enthusiasm like an elephant on a turtle’s back.

As the kite neared the shore, he shifted farther from the lake and turned to avoid a water landing. Before the fragile construction hit the ground, he caught it in his hand and then toted it up the incline to the house.

Inside, Jordan placed the kite on the enclosed back porch with the others he’d made over the past few days, then stopped in the kitchen. He’d forgotten to turn off the coffeepot, and the acrid smell caught in his throat. He pulled the wall plug and poured the thick, black liquid into a mug. Wandering to the screened front porch, Jordan took a sip, grimacing at its pungent taste.

He looked toward the beach. The waves, stirred by the wind, rolled forward in frothy caps, spilling debris along the sand. He let his gaze wander to the bend in the shoreline and wondered about the mother and child. Were they visiting someone? Jordan had never seen them before. Few people, especially strangers, wandered this stretch of the beach. Miles of the wooded, weedy acreage was state owned, without a cottage or house.

Jordan remembered a few ramshackle cabins up the road a mile or two. Had they wandered from there? If so, they’d be gone in the morning and leave him to his peace and quiet. He snorted. Quiet, yes, but peace? Never. Since the fiery death of Lila and Robbie, peace had evaded him.

He raised his arm and ran his hand across the back of his neck. Tension knotted along his shoulders, always, when he thought about them. The woman had said Mac was eight years old. The round impish face of Jordan’s son filled his thoughts. Robbie was eight, too, when he died. Tears stung the backs of Jordan’s eyes, and a deep moan rumbled from his throat. Its impact quaked along his spine. Why did he allow these strangers to wrench his memories from hiding? Three years. Hadn’t he suffered enough? Hadn’t he paid his dues?

But Jordan knew the answer. He had nothing more with which to pay the price, nothing to heal the wounds, nothing to smooth the scars. He slapped his hand against the rickety table and shook his head. “Enough!” he cried out to the heavens. “Why not my life? If You’re really up there, Lord, why not me? I’ll never forgive You. Never.”

Tears escaped his tight control and lay in the corner of his eye. His hand shot upward, catching the single fleeting drop, halting it before it rolled down his cheek. He had promised himself he would no longer cry. He had thought he’d shed every tear possible. Yet one had lived, laughing at him behind his eye, waiting to foil his masquerade.

But he’d won. He’d snuffed it out with the swipe of his fingers—as quickly as a life could end.

Meara poured the cold cereal into a bowl, then sloshed in the milk. The blurry television filled the quiet morning with local news, and Mac stared into the dish, singing one of his incessant tunes.

“Mac, let’s say the blessing.” Meara held out her hand, and he grasped her fingers and bowed his head, the tune undaunted. When the song ended, he recited the prayer, then spooned into the cereal.

Meara sipped her tea, wishing she had coffee. Gazing out the small window, she watched the glimmer of sunlight play on the nearby birch trees. The pungent smell of mildew and disinfectant that clung to the old cabin infested her lungs, and she longed to be outside in the fresh air.

Leaning her elbows against the high windowsill, she peered through the foliage toward the beach. The water dragged visions of her homeland, her lovely green Erin, from her smothered memories. Dingle and Kenmare bays and the deepest cobalt blue of the Kerry Loughs waved through her thoughts.

Shades of green and blue swirled in her memory—the Emerald Isle. How had her American visit, so long ago, become this nightmare? The question was foolish. She knew how the nightmare began. But now, it had ended. She prayed it had. She would carve out a new life for Mac and her. With love pushing against her chest, she turned to study the child intent on his cereal bowl and his song.

A deep sense of grief stabbed her. How long would she have her son? How long would God grant him life on this earth? Deep love charged through her—despite the trials, despite the incessant songs. Meara smiled as Mac’s singsong voice penetrated her thoughts. Despite everything, she’d give the world for her son to have a long life.

Meara clapped her hands. “Mac, let’s get outside in the sunshine. You ready?”

His beaming smile met hers. “The kite.” He ate the last of his cereal. “Let’s see the kite.”

“Not today, Mac. We’ll gather shells on the beach. I’ll bring a plastic bag along to hold them, okay?”

“I want…the kite,” Mac said. “You have shells.”

Meara chuckled. “You’re a generous laddie, all right. And remember, no food, no cookies.”

Mac sat deathly still, finally giving a resolute nod. He slid off the chair and made his way to her. “No birds, Mama.” He rested his head on her leg, then slyly lifted his face with a grin. “You have…the birds.”

Playfully she tousled his hair. After grabbing a plastic bag, she locked the cabin and they headed down the path to the beach.

When they left the shade of the woods, the sun 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 so. The tourists are already pouring into town.”

“Is business okay otherwise?”

“Pretty good.” Otis’s gaze shifted to Dooley, and he ran his fingers through his graying hair. “But I’m afraid we’re going to run into a problem.” Slowly, he raised his eyes to Jordan’s. “I been meaning to talk to you about that investor, Donald Hatcher. Told you about him a while back. Remember?”

Jordan nodded, sensing something coming but not sure what.

“He’s putting pressure on the shops along the strip there. I’ve been thinkin’ maybe you’d want to get involved. Some of them might be ready to sell, and if one does, then the next will…and pretty soon, you got no business. Right now, the kite shop’s in a prime location.”

“I’m not sure I can do any more than the others. Who’s giving up? The bakery?”

“Naw, Scott’s tough as nails. He’s ready for a fight. So’s the fast-food place. Hatcher’s been hanging around the gift shop. I talked to Bernard Dawson, the manager. He thinks the owner might be thinking about selling. The T-shirt shop’s still stickin’ to their guns.” He took a long swig of soda.

“I’m not going to sweat it, Otis. The land is valuable. I hope the others know that and don’t sell it off for half its worth.”

“That’s what I mean. Maybe we could hold a meetin’. You know, Jordan, it’s not just losin’ the shop that bothers me. It’s what he’s plannin’ to put in its place. A saloon. One of those skimpy-dressed-waitress bars. That’s askin’ for trouble. Booze and half-naked women. We have no place for that here. This is a family vacation spot, and we want to keep it that way.”

“Who told you that’s what he’s planning to build?”

“Oh, word gets out. And I believe it. He’s after that strip of land. It’s right on the water, butted up to the ferry parking. All the Mackinaw Island traffic. He couldn’t find a better spot for a bar.”

Jordan’s stomach knotted. Otis was right, but he had no desire to get himself involved in city politics and battles. He hadn’t years ago, either, when life felt normal…and real. And now he’d settled into his life just as it was. Right here on the water, building his kites.

“So, Jordan, what do you think? You don’t want to see a joint like that in the city, do you?”

Jordan looked at the man’s serious expression. “You know I don’t, Otis. Let me think about it. I’m not sure you need to worry yet. Anyway, what about zoning? I wonder if anyone’s checked with the zoning board. Isn’t that Congregational church just down the street?”

Otis nodded. “Sure is. I wonder…” He ran his finger around the mouth of the bottle. “Let me check that out. Maybe the zoning board can save our necks.”

“Do that. Then let me know what they say.” Jordan rose and gave Otis a firm pat on the back. “Come out to the back porch, and I’ll help you load up the kites.”

Meara steered the coupe down Main Street, searching for a parking space. Tourists, pushing the summer season, thronged the streets and hung in shop doorways or gazed into colorful souvenir-filled windows. She stopped to give room to a van pulling away in the middle of the block. As he drove off, she nosed her car into the wide space.

She breathed a deep sigh. Though she knew how to drive, she’d had little practice in years. Her husband, Dunstan, or her father-in-law had driven her the few places she went. Most of the time she lived in the upper floors of the big rambling house, in her own sitting room with Mac playing by her side.

“Ice cream,” Mac called, pointing to the ice-cream parlor sign embellished with a colorful triple-dip cone.

“That’s a sure fact about you, Mac. You never forget a thing, do you? At least, nothing like ice cream.” She smiled at him as they climbed out from the car.

He stuck close to her side, and she gazed in the shop windows, stopping to buy two local newspapers and a net bag filled with tiny cars and trucks. She watched the pity-filled faces of people who glanced at her and Mac, then, in discomfort, looked away. She cringed at their lack of understanding.

Mac let out a gleeful chortle when they neared the ice-cream shop, and hastily, she quieted him as they marched through the door. As they waited their turn, she and Mac studied the menu.

The clerk dipped the ice-cream scoop into the cold water and turned toward them. “And what will you have, young—” His head jerked upright. “What would he like, ma’am?” he asked, stumbling over his words.

Her automatic defense yanked her response. “Mac, tell the young man what you’d like.”

A light flush rose on the teen’s face.

“One…dip of double chocolate,” Mac answered, sending the young man a spirited grin.

The clerk grabbed a cone and dug out a scoop. He glanced at the other workers behind the counter, dipped back into the barrel, slid an extra portion of ice cream onto the cone and smiled.

“Thank you,” Meara said, understanding his apology. “I’ll have a dip of peanut butter swirl.”

He added an extra measure to hers, too, and with napkins wrapped around the cones, they made their way past customers to the sidewalk. She kept an eye on Mac’s cone, guarding against unsightly drips, but he licked the edge and seemed in control.

“I saw a bakery across the street. Let’s take a look.”

They followed the sidewalk to the end of the block and crossed the road. Passing a fast-food restaurant, she drew in the smell of oil permeating the air, followed by the rich, taunting aroma of freshly baked bread. Beside the bakery, Meara studied the pastries and breads displayed in the window.

As she pulled open the screen door of the bakery, Mac’s strident voice bellowed in her ear.

“Kites!” He rambled past her to the window of the shop next door.

Meara closed the bakery door and followed Mac. Unique kites filled the storefront window, and in one corner, a small Help Wanted sign was taped to the glass. Her stomach tightened. She wanted a job…needed a job, but how could she work and care for Mac? She’d wait until school began and pray her money lasted.

Mac pressed his nose against the window, and Meara joined him, peeking through the glass. Magnificent kites of every shape and design hung from the ceiling and clung to the walls—dragons, birds and other shapes she’d never seen before.

Mac pulled open the screen, but before entering, he glanced at Meara. She nodded and grinned at the smear of ice cream on his mouth, then followed him inside.

“Can I…have a kite?” he asked, marveling at the myriad of designs surrounding them.

Kites mesmerized him, and she saw no reason not to buy him a small, inexpensive paper one. She looked around for the cheaper models. “We’ll see what they have, Mac.” He accepted her remark.

The shop seemed empty, but a door slammed in the back. Meara looked up to see a huge kite held by a pair of stubby hands come through the storage room doorway. The person owning the hands was hidden behind the colorful paper design with the long yellow-and-red tail.

Mac gazed with awe at the huge creation until he swung around and grabbed Meara’s arm. “The kite man.” He pointed to the doorway. An elderly face peeked around the unique kite.

“Well, hello there.” He grinned. “I’m just bringin’ in some new stock. I’ll be with you in a minute.” Placing the kite against the wall, he turned and headed back through the doorway.

Meara bent down to Mac’s level and whispered, “That’s not the kite man, Mac. This man is too old.”

Mac grinned. “No, the kite.” He pointed. “That’s the…kite man’s…kite.” His head punctuated every other word.

As Meara studied the paper-covered frame, her gaze drifted to the long tail. She could envision the yellow and red ribbons curling through the sky. “It is, Mac. You’re right. This must be where the man sells his kites.”

“Nice, huh?” The clerk’s voice interrupted their quiet conversation. He stepped toward them. “Now, may I help you?”

“Oh, yes,” Meara said, pulling 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 ear. “Okay,” he said.

Dooley’s tail flagged the air as he strained forward. When Mac noticed he stepped away, but the new promise seemed to give him courage, and he edged closer, eyeing the large dog.

“He likes you, lad,” the man said.

Mac eased nearer, inching his hand toward the dog’s shiny red coat. Finally his fingers touched the setter’s fur.

Though his action was fleeting, Meara reveled in the progress Mac had made and the kindness of the man. The man. She had not introduced herself. Before she could follow through with the amenities, he turned and stepped away.

“When you buy the kite, let me know,” he said, his face darkening as he distanced himself.

“Thank you, Mr….” But he was out of earshot.

Down the beach, he gave the dog free rein.

Meara held Mac’s hand and watched the man following the dog until he disappeared around the bend in the shoreline.

Jordan raced through the sand with Dooley a long stretch ahead of him. He sensed the woman watched, but he didn’t turn around to see if he was correct. Earlier she’d studied him, and he had watched her lovely face shift from laughter to concern to curiosity. So much life in one delicate face. Lila’s face had been round and sturdy, but this woman—He snapped his thoughts closed like a book he’d finally waded through and finished. No more of that. The child and his mother pressed against his thoughts too often. Talk about curiosity. He was as inquisitive about the child’s mother as she appeared to be about him.

He skidded to a stop in front of the house and drew in a deep calming breath. Dooley had run a good race, but Jordan’s heart hammered for more reason than the swift dash along the sand. Mac had pierced his barricade. Why had he offered to teach the child to fly a kite? He should have escaped immediately. Instead his fatherly instinct had led him to open his foolish mouth. Now he would pay.

Jordan remembered years earlier when he had built Robbie his first kite. The boy had a knack—like father, like son, as they say. With little help, Robbie ran through the field, the bright yellow tissue billowing, diving and soaring toward the clouds. A warm summer day, it was. And he’d thought then that they had so many bright sunny days to share.

His chest tightened, holding back the emotion that burned his throat. His gaze lifted to the cerulean-blue sky, and he longed to shake his fist at Lila’s God. But the gesture was useless.

No fist, no anger, no cursing could bring Robbie or Lila back.

Chapter Three

The following day, Meara drove Mac past the apartment listed in the newspaper. The location was near town, but the building needed paint and the grounds needed trimming. Was the inside as badly in need of care? She hesitated. Saying nothing to her son, she continued down the road. Maybe she’d check the newspaper one more time for another option before looking at this apartment.

In town, Meara found parking and headed for the gift shop. Two kites seemed safer than one, after their last fiasco, and she let Mac select the ones he wanted. When she paid and stepped outside, the bakery lured her again, and she headed that way with the wavering promise she would only buy bread.

Passing the kite shop, the Help Wanted sign rose to meet her. She paused. Closing her eyes, she asked God for a hint of what to do. When she opened them again, the elderly gentleman smiled through the store window and waved them in. Before moving she looked heavenward. Was this God’s doing, or just an older man’s friendly bidding?

She pulled open the door, and Mac stepped in ahead of her.

“Good morning,” Otis said. “I see you got a couple more kites today. No luck with the last one?”

Meara chuckled. “‘No experience’ is the best way of putting it. I should have asked for a hint about launching one of these things. I’m grateful it was the two-dollar-and-fifty-cent version and not one of these.”

Otis nodded. “Yep, you don’t wanna spend your money on one of these gems unless you know what you’re doin’. Now, that’s for sure.”

Otis bent down and gave Mac a hearty smile. “How’s things goin’, sonny?”

“Good. I like…kites. They’re high in the sky.”

“They sure are.” He patted Mac’s head as the child’s focus swept the kite-filled ceiling. “You want to look at all the kites, boy? You can wander around if you want.”

Mac looked at Meara, who gave an agreeable nod. “But not too long,” she added. “And don’t get into anything.”

He wandered away, his mouth gaping at the colorful creations.

“That’s a nice boy you got there.”

“Thank you.” Flustered, she wondered if the comment was meant to open the door to questions about Mac.

“I had a cousin with a Down syndrome boy. He threw temper tantrums till you could hardly bear it. Your son seems easier goin’.”

Her question had been answered. “Mac’s no problem. He frightens easily. You know—dogs, birds, anything that comes up on him too quickly. But he’s a good boy.”

“You’re a visitor in town. Tourist, I suppose.”

Meara glanced down the aisle, checking on Mac. He stood near the back of the shop, staring at the kite they’d watched sailing over the lake. “No, we’re staying in a cabin up the road. I’m looking for a place to rent for a while.”

“You and the boy are alone?”

Her stomach jolted. She’d not been asked the question before and the reality shivered through her. “Yes, my husband died a few months ago. We lived with my in-laws and…” She ran her fingers through her hair. “I guess you didn’t ask for my life story.” She managed a smile. “We need a furnished place. Do you know of any?”

He hesitated, pinching his lower lip between his thumb and finger. “So happens, there’s an apartment over this shop. Not too big. Couple of bedrooms and bath.”

“We don’t need anything fancy for now. The cabin only has one bedroom, so most anything would be a mansion to us.”

Dunstan’s family home was a mansion. The thought slammed into the pit of her stomach. Never again would she want to live in a huge estate like his, especially not as a prisoner. That’s how she’d felt. When she focused on the kite shop proprietor, he was studying her.

“I even think the place up there has a few pieces of furniture,” he said, pointing his thumb toward the ceiling. “But it hasn’t been rented out since I can remember. Might be a mess now, for all I know.”

“I’d like to take a look. Could I contact the owner?”

“Let me talk to Mr. Baird. I’m not sure he’s even interested in using it as a rental. Right now, this whole strip of shops is in a bit of trouble…. But then, you don’t need to hear about that.”

He gave her a friendly smile, just as she had given him. The “bit of trouble” phrase caught her curiosity.

“Drop back tomorrow,” Otis said, “and I’ll let you know what he says.”

“Thanks. I’d really appreciate that.”

Mac wandered back down the aisle, and she called to him. His grin stretched across his rosy cheeks. She held out her hand, and he rushed to her side. After thanking the man again, she and Mac left the shop, her spirit lifting with hope.

Jordan hung the last pieces of cotton to dry. For the past two days he’d worked with batik wax-painting to design patterns on the cloth for an Edo warrior kite. Though beautiful, the design work was arduous, and the buyer would pay dearly for the creation.

Dooley nuzzled his nose against Jordan’s leg, then rushed toward the door. With the family down the beach, Jordan hated to give the dog free rein. Rather than taking a chance, he tucked the leash in his pocket, opened the door and stepped outside, needing some fresh air himself. Dooley darted toward the lake. Jordan scanned the water’s surface for any poor, unsuspecting ducks that might be lolling on the waves, but none was in sight.

At the water’s edge, Jordan turned left, then halted. Maybe today, for a change, he’d walk 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.

“Ready?”

Mac gave an emphatic nod and Jordan led his guests to the beach. He located a log and upended it to form a stool for Meara. Then, explaining as simply as he could, Jordan described the major issues of aerodynamics. 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.” He chuckled, and Jordan patted him on the back.

“Sorry, I was down here helping a young man fly a kite.”

“Now, why doesn’t that surprise me?”

Jordan gave him a fleeting grin. “So what can I do for you? Hadn’t expected you today.”

“No, I was passin’ by and thought I’d stop in. I have a question for ya. And by the way, I checked out the zoning board. Looks like the church is a few feet clear of the property restriction limit, so that doesn’t help us one bit.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” He’d hoped the board might solve the problem without further action. Now he’d have to give the issue more thought. “Come in,” he said, holding open the screen.

Otis stepped inside but stayed by the door. “This won’t take a minute.”

“Sure you don’t want to sit?”

“No, the wife’s probably wondering where I am. She’s expectin’ me home. I had a question from this woman and son who came by the shop a couple times. First time lookin’ for those cheap kites. I sent her to the gift shop. Anyway, she passed by again and came in. Her boy is a charmer and loves kites.”

Curious, Jordan’s stomach tightened.

“She’s lookin’ for a rental. Happened to mention it, and I thought about the apartment above the shop. You have any interest in renting out the place? She’s alone with the boy and could probably use a cheap rental.”

Jordan stuck his hands in his pockets, trying to decide how to ask the question. “Do you know her name?”

“Nope. The boy’s name is Mac. He introduced himself to me like a little man. Down syndrome boy, but bright as a new penny.”

Jordan’s tensed shoulders rose and relaxed as he released a blast of pent-up air. “Can you guess what boy I was helping with the kite a few minutes ago?”

Otis snapped to attention. “Mac?”

Jordan nodded.

“You don’t say.”

“They’re renting a cabin down the beach. Those rustic ones.”

“She said they were down the road. Never thought you’d know her. Funny thing, I mentioned your name. She didn’t act like she knew you at all.”

He shook his head. “We introduced ourselves today.” Curious. She hadn’t shown she recognized his name. He gave a mental shrug. “I met them one day when the boy saw me kite-flying. Then Dooley knocked the woman over on the beach yesterday and we chatted a minute.”

“You sure know how to win friends and influence people, don’t you.”

Otis’s words held more truth than he knew. “I don’t seem to have the knack, Otis.”

He gave a soft chuckle. “So what about the apartment? I haven’t seen it in a long time. Not sure what shape it’s in. I told her to drop by, and I’d let her know.”

“How about checking it out. I don’t want to rent a firetrap to anyone.”

“Sure thing. Might even have the missus look it over. You know, from a woman’s point of view.”

“Do you have a key for the place?”

“I think so. It should be on the ring.” Otis pulled a set of keys from his pocket and eyed them. “Check this one out if you would. I think that’s it.”

Jordan took the key and burrowed through a drawer until he found a set of tagged keys. He matched it against the other. “That’s it, Otis.”

“Good. By the way, I mentioned earlier that I posted the Help Wanted in the window. Nothin’ yet. Darla can work only another week or so. I’ll need at least a part-timer.”

“Whatever you need, Otis. Run an ad in the paper if you want to.”

Otis stepped backward, his hand against the screen-door handle. “I’ll check the apartment in the morning.”

Jordan gave him a nod, and Otis headed back to his car.

Standing with a full view of the lake, Jordan gazed out at the glinting sun hanging low in the sky. Sparkles of gold and copper bounced on the waves. If he thought Lila’s God really cared one iota for him, he’d believe the Lord was working in his life. Meara and Mac had walked into his walled-up world, and for the first time in years, life seemed tolerable. More than tolerable. He found himself looking down the beach, wishing he’d see Mac’s smiling face and hear Meara’s soft, lilting voice.

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