Gail Gaymer Martin - The Christmas Kite

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.