Gail Gaymer Martin - The Christmas Kite

“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

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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 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

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

“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.