Gail Martin - The Christmas Kite

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.

The next morning Meara sat on the beach, longing for Jordan to stroll past taking Dooley for a walk. But only squawking gulls and lapping waves—and Mac—disturbed her silence. She grinned at the child making fortlike mounds in the sand and singing in his sweet voice a repetitive tune with lyrics only a mother could love.

“Dig the sand and dig the sand. Dig the sand and make a hole. Dig the sand and make a hole. Make a hole and dig the sand,” he sang.

Listening, she recognized the tune was one she’d taught him, “Jesus Loves Me.” To laugh or scream was her only way to handle his repetitiveness. She chuckled at the endless monotony. How could she do otherwise? Mac enjoyed music and loved to sing. Though he was cheated in one way, God had given him a gift.

Her heart tugged as she studied her son. He’d been cheated, and she would be, too…one day when he was gone. Life expectancy. She reeled, remembering the doctor’s words. It would be shortened, he had said. Tears found her eyes. She pushed them away with angry fingers.

Not her son. Not Mac. Life expectancy had nothing to do with God’s will. If she had anything to do about it, God’s will would be a long life for Mac, if…

Mac’s clear voice crooned the words again. Meara dragged her saddened thoughts upward and glanced for the fourth time in the direction of Jordan’s house, hoping. Her vision reached the curve in the shoreline. Nothing. Why he interested her, she had no idea. She recalled the day they met. He had been rude and abrupt. But since that day, he had softened and had shown kindness to Mac and to her. And beneath Jordan’s rough exterior, she suspected he was as vulnerable as she. Though she’d tried to read the hidden message in his brooding eyes, he had blocked it behind a wall of silence.

She rose from the sand chair and took a cautious step into the water. The sun’s warmth had yet to raise the temperature of the lake, and she shivered as her foot sank into the frigid surf, jolting her senses. Yet she needed a jolt. She had been protected too long from everything, including living.

“Mac, want to walk in the water?” she called.

He shook his head without a break in his song.

“Don’t go anywhere, then. I’m going for a swim.”

With one rapid motion, she dived into the water, her body tingling with exhilaration. It had been forever since she’d gone swimming—until this past week. How many empty years had passed since she’d walked along a beach and watched the sun sink into a deep purple horizon? Or watched the birds flying free—the way she felt today? Free and optimistic…and happy. She bounced to her feet, feeling the sandy bottom against her toes. She wanted to yell, sing out like Mac.

Seeing her son playing with contentment on the shore, she felt her heart squeeze and tears appear behind her eyes. They had lived like prisoners in the Hayden mansion. Their presence had brought discomfort and shame to the arrogant, wealthy family. Life had, for once, turned the tables on their elaborate plans.

Following the death of Dunstan’s childless wife, his parents had pushed their only heir, Dunstan Alfred Hayden, to woo and marry Meara MacAuley for the sole purpose of an heir. And what did Meara give him? A child with Down syndrome. And who did they blame? Her. Her Irish heritage, her lack of education and her awkward ways.

Had they considered Dunstan’s age? He was more than twice her twenty-seven years. She had been foolishly flattered—encouraged by her cousin to marry the wealthy man. “You can stay in America,” Alison had said. “We’ll be such friends.” But instead, she, too, had turned her back when Mac was born, perhaps feeling to blame for arranging Meara’s introduction to Dunstan.

Often Meara wondered why God had allowed those terrible things to happen to her. She’d been strong in her faith back then. She’d convinced herself that Dunstan glided into her life because God had planned it. He offered her a world she’d never known: wealth, security…and love. Or so she had thought. But Meara had been entirely wrong. Without love and tenderness, a baby-making machine was what she had become. She’d been the means to procreate, and once the child lived inside her, Dunstan might as well have vanished from her life. Once Mac was born, things became worse. She’d prayed and asked God “why,” but no answer came to her—until she looked at Mac. Her child was God’s gift and her special challenge. Meara clung to that belief.

No matter. Those days were over. Never again would she put herself in that position. Never again would she fall in love and allow her son to be hurt and abandoned…and let herself be hurt and abandoned.

Meara had new experiences awaiting her, and she prayed they would be blessings. Meara lifted her gaze toward heaven, then pulled her thoughts to the present and dove again into the clear, calm water, this time feeling less chilled.

The pleasant afternoon sun lay upon her arms, and she gauged from its position that it was nearly noon. She dragged her legs through the water to shore. Today she would drive into town to check the apartment. Hopefully Otis Manning would have some information.

“Hello, there,” Otis said with an easy smile as they came through the shop door.

Mac shot forward, extending his hand in greeting. Otis grinned and grasped the child’s hand in a hearty shake. “And how’s the kite-flying, son?”

Mac poked himself in the chest. “Me? Nope. But Mama’s good.”

“She is, huh? And why can’t you fly a kite?” He bent his pleasant face toward Mac’s.

“Too small. Mr…. Baird said…maybe a year.”

“Well, if anyone knows about kite-flying, he’s your man. You were talking to the horse’s mouth.” Otis patted the child’s head.

Mac let out a loud chortle. “Horse’s mouth.” He poked at Meara.

She rolled her eyes at Otis, and the elderly man grimaced.

“That’s only an expression, Mac,” Meara said. “He means Mr. Baird knows what he’s talking about.”

“Okay,” Mac said, eyeing the kites. The “horse’s mouth” was forgotten as he wandered through the shop.

“Sorry about that,” Otis whispered. “I’d better watch what slips off this tongue with that young ’un around.”

He looked so downtrodden, forgiveness was easy. “No problem. I do it myself.”

A relieved expression swept over his face. “So I s’pose you’re anxious to hear about the apartment.”

“Yes. Did you talk to the owner?”

“Sure did. Jordan told me to give the place a once-over and—”

“Jordan?” Hearing the name, she stopped breathing for a moment.

“The owner. Jordan Baird. I understand you’ve met.” He let loose a quiet chuckle. “Met head-on from what I’m told. He tells me Dooley gave you a topple. Jordan sure has amusing ways to knock a woman off her feet. Well, at least Dooley does.”

“Jordan owns this shop?” A contained breath burst from her lungs. “The other day Mac noticed a kite that we figured he had made. But I thought maybe he sold them to you.”

“Jordan made all the kites in this shop. Every last one of them.” His arm made a broad sweep of the surroundings. “Right pretty, aren’t they?”