Gail Martin - The Christmas Kite

Meara nailed him with her steady gaze. “Why are you smiling?” Her soft lilt sharpened as her shoulders tensed, and she pulled them erect. “You think I’m foolish for asking. I don’t want charity. I can pay my own way.”

Her words jolted him from his reverie.

“Charity has nothing to do with it! That apartment has been sitting empty since I bought the shop. The rent is pure profit.”

“But you have to consider the utilities—the electricity and water and gas.”

He ran his fingers through his hair. “I suppose, then, I’m only making one hundred and fifty a month profit. Really, don’t worry about it. You’re doing me a favor.” His mouth tugged toward a grin. He focused on Mac, who had shifted his petting to the dog’s head. “I have someone else to pet Dooley instead of me all the time. Mac’s a great dog-sitter.”

Mac let out a widemouthed laugh. “Dog-sitter,” he repeated.

Dooley rose and plopped his head in Mac’s lap, and the child leaned down and pressed a loud smacking kiss on his brow.

Meara opened her mouth to speak, then closed it. She shifted her gaze and stared through the screen. “Well, thanks, then, if you’re sure.” She heaved a great sigh. “I have so much to do. Nettie told me about a church sale tomorrow, and what I can’t pick up there, I’ll have to buy in Cheboygan, I suppose.”

“That’s probably the best place to shop,” Jordan agreed, thinking of the stores in Mackinaw. “Most stores in town are for tourists. But if you’re looking for a seashell ashtray, you can probably get one next door to the kite shop.”

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