Gail Gaymer Martin - The Christmas Kite

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.