The Christmas Kite

Praise for
GAIL
GAYMER
MARTIN

“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

The Christmas Kite
Gail Gaymer Martin

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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 KITE FLYERS

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

Contents

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

Chapter One

“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.

A warm gust whipped off the water, and she lifted her eyes to the blue sky dotted with a smattering of puffy white clouds. She felt free for the first time in her life. Free, but frightened. How could she survive alone with Mac? When she first left her deceased husband’s parents, the thoughts of where she would go or what she would do barely skittered through her mind. Freedom was what she’d longed for. Freedom and a chance to raise her son as she wanted, not chained by the Hayden family’s shame.

Meara focused again on her son. Mac’s short, sturdy legs struggled through the sand, his curiosity as strong as her sense of release. He neared the bend in the shoreline, and she hurried to shorten the distance between them.

But a large island in the distance, rising into hills above the green water, caught her eye, and she paused to enjoy its lush expanse and the miniature-appearing village that grazed the shoreline. Mackinaw Island, she told herself, a Michigan landmark. She’d heard of it but had never been there.

On the left hillside a long ribbon of white drew her interest. The hotel? She narrowed her eyes, gazing at the pale splotch against the green landscape. The name edged into her memory. Yes, the Grand Hotel. So many places she had never seen.

Meara looked ahead and her pulse lurched. Mac was no longer in sight. “Mac,” she called, dashing along the curve of the beach.

When she rounded the evergreens that grew close to the shoreline, Mac appeared far ahead of her, rushing away as fast as his awkward legs would carry him. His arm was extended, his finger pointing toward the sky. Expecting to see more birds, she looked up, but instead she saw what had lured him. A kite. An amazing kite, dipping and soaring above the water. The brilliant colors glinted in the sun, and a long, flowing yellow-and-red tail curled and waved like pennants in a parade.

She halted to catch her breath, clasping her fist against her pounding heart. Her fear subsided. Mac was safe, a generous distance from the water’s edge. He turned toward her, waving his arms above his head. She waved back, pointing toward the kite, letting him know she saw the lovely sight.

He turned again and trudged forward toward the distant figure of a man who apparently held the invisible string.

Jordan Baird grasped the cord, fighting the wind. If he tugged too hard, the string would break and send his kite swooping into the water. If he released his grip, the wind could snatch it from his hand. With expert control, he eased and pulled, knowing when to let the wind take control and when to hold it back. Pride rose in him. If he knew anything, he understood the aerodynamics of a kite.

A shadow fell across his line of sight and, surprised, he glanced at its origin. A child with soggy shorts and an eager face tripped through the sand toward him.

“Whoa, there, young man. What do you think you’re doing?” He glowered down at the boy, pointing to the sign stuck haphazardly into the grassy sand above the beach. “Can’t you read? This is private property.”

The boy skidded to a halt, and a pair of frightened eyes shifted upward. “I can…read…some words.”

“Can’t you read those? It says, Private Property.”

The child squinted at the sign and shook his head.

Jordan peered down—the child was maybe five or six—and reality set in. Perhaps he couldn’t read.

The child’s smile returned. Faltering, he lifted his finger, pointing to the soaring colors. “Look!”

“Haven’t you seen a kite before?” He frowned at the boy, studying his face. The child’s expression amazed him.

The boy’s innocent grin met his scowl. “Kite,” the boy repeated, gazing at him with huge almond-shaped eyes behind thick glasses.

“Yes, a kite.”

The boy giggled. “Kite,” he said again.

He peered at the child. Something wasn’t quite right.

The child’s mouth opened in an uncontrolled laugh.

Jordan’s curiosity ebbed as his awareness rose. Down syndrome. He should have realized sooner. But certainly, the boy would not be walking this lonely stretch of beach alone.

He looked beyond the child’s head and saw, nearing them, a woman hurrying across the sand. For a fleeting moment his thoughts flew back in time. A knifing ache tore through him, and he closed his eyes, blocking the invading, painful memory.

Despite his defense the child’s intrusion penetrated Jordan’s iron wall, a wall he’d built to keep the torment out. Memories flooded over its barrier, and Jordan struggled to gather the horrible images and push them away behind the crumbling stones of protection.

Yet the boy rattled the door of Jordan’s curiosity and, wall or no wall, questions jutted into his mind. Where had he come from? And the woman. Who was she? “What’s your name, son?”

The child pulled his gaze from the kite long enough to answer the question. “Dunstan Mac…Auley Hayden.” He punched the last syllable of each name as he faltered over the three words.

“That’s quite a label for a young man.”

The boy giggled and poked a fist toward him. “I don’t have a label.”

An unnatural grin pulled at Jordan’s mouth. “I mean your name. That’s a powerful name for a boy.” His gaze shifted. “Is that lady your mother?” He tilted his head in the direction of the woman, keeping his eye on the kite.

The lad glanced over his shoulder and nodded, a wide grin stretching his blotchy red cheeks.

“What does she call you? Certainly not Dunstan Mac-Auley, I hope.”

“Mac.” He poked himself in the chest. “I’m Mac. What’s your name?” He stuck his hand forward, offering a handshake.

Amused, Jordan shifted the kite string and grasped the child’s hand but didn’t answer. Instead, he eyed the slender, fragile-looking woman who came panting to his side.

“I’m sorry,” she said, gazing at him with doleful, emerald-green eyes. “He saw your kite and got away from me.” Her voice rose and fell in a soft lilt.

“You need to keep a better eye on him. The water can be dangerous.” The muscles tightened in his shoulders at the thought, and he tugged on the kite string to right it.

“Yes, I know. I’m sorry. He’s never seen a kite. Everything is new to him, and—”

Jordan’s chest tightened. How could a child never have seen a kite? “How old is he?” Eyeing the boy, the throbbing sadness filled his heart.

A flush rose to her ivory cheeks, and her eyes darkened. “Eight,” she mumbled. “He’s small for his age.”

Jordan shifted his gaze from the woman to his kite, then to the child. “You need to watch him.”

“I said I’m sorry.”

She lowered her eyes, and he wished he hadn’t sounded so harsh. But then, she’d never lost a son.

“Mac,” she called, “let’s go.”

The child gave a hesitant look, but the kite seemed to mesmerize him and he didn’t move.

“Mac, I said let’s go.” She stepped toward him, then spun around to face Jordan. “I’m sorry we intruded.”

Longing and grief pitched in his mind and muddied his thoughts like a stick stirring a rain puddle. “Yes, well, this is private property.” The words marched undaunted from his mouth, and he gestured to the makeshift sign.

And so is my life.

“But anyone can make a mistake,” he added, feeling the need to ease his sharp words. His emotions knotted—pity for himself and sadness for the mother and son.

“That’s private,” she snapped, pointing to the grass above the sand. “Not the beach.” She glared at him, her eyes shooting sparks like gemstones. “It’s public.” The fire in her voice matched her blazing red hair tied back in a long, thick tail. She grabbed Mac’s hand and spun away, heading back the way she’d come. The boy twisted in her grasp, his eyes riveted to the kite sailing above the water.

Watching the woman and boy vanish around the bend, Jordan closed his eyes. She was right. He didn’t own the beach, though he wished he did. He would put up a fence to keep the few stragglers from invading his world.

After a final glance at the retreating figures, he turned his attention to the kite. With measured motion, he reeled in his paper creation. He’d lost his spirit. The intrusion settled on his enthusiasm like an elephant on a turtle’s back.

As the kite neared the shore, he shifted farther from the lake and turned to avoid a water landing. Before the fragile construction hit the ground, he caught it in his hand and then toted it up the incline to the house.

Inside, Jordan placed the kite on the enclosed back porch with the others he’d made over the past few days, then stopped in the kitchen. He’d forgotten to turn off the coffeepot, and the acrid smell caught in his throat. He pulled the wall plug and poured the thick, black liquid into a mug. Wandering to the screened front porch, Jordan took a sip, grimacing at its pungent taste.

He looked toward the beach. The waves, stirred by the wind, rolled forward in frothy caps, spilling debris along the sand. He let his gaze wander to the bend in the shoreline and wondered about the mother and child. Were they visiting someone? Jordan had never seen them before. Few people, especially strangers, wandered this stretch of the beach. Miles of the wooded, weedy acreage was state owned, without a cottage or house.

Jordan remembered a few ramshackle cabins up the road a mile or two. Had they wandered from there? If so, they’d be gone in the morning and leave him to his peace and quiet. He snorted. Quiet, yes, but peace? Never. Since the fiery death of Lila and Robbie, peace had evaded him.

He raised his arm and ran his hand across the back of his neck. Tension knotted along his shoulders, always, when he thought about them. The woman had said Mac was eight years old. The round impish face of Jordan’s son filled his thoughts. Robbie was eight, too, when he died. Tears stung the backs of Jordan’s eyes, and a deep moan rumbled from his throat. Its impact quaked along his spine. Why did he allow these strangers to wrench his memories from hiding? Three years. Hadn’t he suffered enough? Hadn’t he paid his dues?

But Jordan knew the answer. He had nothing more with which to pay the price, nothing to heal the wounds, nothing to smooth the scars. He slapped his hand against the rickety table and shook his head. “Enough!” he cried out to the heavens. “Why not my life? If You’re really up there, Lord, why not me? I’ll never forgive You. Never.”

Tears escaped his tight control and lay in the corner of his eye. His hand shot upward, catching the single fleeting drop, halting it before it rolled down his cheek. He had promised himself he would no longer cry. He had thought he’d shed every tear possible. Yet one had lived, laughing at him behind his eye, waiting to foil his masquerade.

But he’d won. He’d snuffed it out with the swipe of his fingers—as quickly as a life could end.

Meara poured the cold cereal into a bowl, then sloshed in the milk. The blurry television filled the quiet morning with local news, and Mac stared into the dish, singing one of his incessant tunes.

“Mac, let’s say the blessing.” Meara held out her hand, and he grasped her fingers and bowed his head, the tune undaunted. When the song ended, he recited the prayer, then spooned into the cereal.

Meara sipped her tea, wishing she had coffee. Gazing out the small window, she watched the glimmer of sunlight play on the nearby birch trees. The pungent smell of mildew and disinfectant that clung to the old cabin infested her lungs, and she longed to be outside in the fresh air.

Leaning her elbows against the high windowsill, she peered through the foliage toward the beach. The water dragged visions of her homeland, her lovely green Erin, from her smothered memories. Dingle and Kenmare bays and the deepest cobalt blue of the Kerry Loughs waved through her thoughts.

Shades of green and blue swirled in her memory—the Emerald Isle. How had her American visit, so long ago, become this nightmare? The question was foolish. She knew how the nightmare began. But now, it had ended. She prayed it had. She would carve out a new life for Mac and her. With love pushing against her chest, she turned to study the child intent on his cereal bowl and his song.

A deep sense of grief stabbed her. How long would she have her son? How long would God grant him life on this earth? Deep love charged through her—despite the trials, despite the incessant songs. Meara smiled as Mac’s singsong voice penetrated her thoughts. Despite everything, she’d give the world for her son to have a long life.

Meara clapped her hands. “Mac, let’s get outside in the sunshine. You ready?”

His beaming smile met hers. “The kite.” He ate the last of his cereal. “Let’s see the kite.”

“Not today, Mac. We’ll gather shells on the beach. I’ll bring a plastic bag along to hold them, okay?”

“I want…the kite,” Mac said. “You have shells.”

Meara chuckled. “You’re a generous laddie, all right. And remember, no food, no cookies.”

Mac sat deathly still, finally giving a resolute nod. He slid off the chair and made his way to her. “No birds, Mama.” He rested his head on her leg, then slyly lifted his face with a grin. “You have…the birds.”

Playfully she tousled his hair. After grabbing a plastic bag, she locked the cabin and they headed down the path to the beach.

When they left the shade of the woods, the sun beat against Meara’s cool skin. She pulled her sweater off and tied it around her waist. Searching the sky ahead of him, Mac tore off down the beach in the direction that he had seen the kite the day before.

“Hold up, Mac.”

He slowed and turned toward her.

“How about if we take off our shoes. We can walk in the water.”

Mac plopped in the sand and tugged at his canvas shoes. Meara stepped out of her sandals and tossed them farther up on the beach, toward the grassy edge. Mac followed her lead. With the shoes safely stowed, they stepped into the frigid morning lake. With a shuddering laugh, they trudged along, halting for an occasional shell, but no matter what she said, Mac’s mind seemed focused on the bend in the shoreline.

Though the strange man had rankled her the day before, his image rose in her thoughts. Handsome, he was. Tall and lean, six-foot-plus, she guessed, with ash-brown hair streaked with wisps of gray. But mostly, she remembered his eyes, sad eyes of the palest blue, and his full, shapely lips, closed and unsmiling.

Why? filled her mind. He seemed a paradox, a grim, brooding man flying a bright, beautiful kite. The picture didn’t mix, like Scrooge tossing hundred-dollar bills to the poor.

Curiosity drove her forward, and her breath faltered in anticipation as she rounded the bend. Releasing a ragged blast of air, she paused. The sky ahead was empty. No kite. Nothing but the great expansion of the Mackinaw Bridge connecting the two peninsulas.

“No kite,” Mac said, halting ahead of her. He turned and disappointment filled his face. “Where’s…the kite man?”

“The man’s not there, Mac.”

Tears rose in his eyes. “He died?”

Her stomach knotted and she drew him closer. “No, maybe he’s working…or busy today.”

Mac didn’t move. “My daddy died.”

“Yes, he’s in heaven.” But she wondered if he was. Such a coldhearted man. Would God open His arms to a man who had rejected his son?

A new smile brightened Mac’s face. “Two fathers in heaven.”

She knelt and wrapped her arms around him, wanting to hold him forever. “That’s right, and don’t forget that.” She gave him a squeeze, forcing the hurtful memories from her thoughts. “I’ll race you,” she said, changing the subject. She needed to run, to clear her mind. Self-pity was a horrible thing, and she was filled with it.

She hurried ahead, half running, allowing Mac to gain some distance before she pressed nearer. He giggled and pushed his short legs ahead of him. A dog’s sharp bark drew him to an unplanned stop, and he tumbled to the sand.

“Are you okay?” She rushed forward, but he rolled over with a grin and pushed himself up. A door slam jolted her attention, and, turning, she caught sight of the ranch-style house set off the beach. Barking wildly, a dog pressed its muzzle against the front screen, and the shadow of a figure moved inside the screened porch.

Mac grabbed her hand and stared at the house through his sand-spattered glasses. A man’s voice calmed the dog to silence.

“The kite man,” Mac said, releasing Meara’s hand and pointing toward the shadowy figure. He stepped toward the house.

Meara caught his hand. “Maybe, son, but he’s busy today. Let’s go back to the cabin. We’ll take a ride into town. Mom needs a newspaper and some groceries. And—”

“Ice cream,” Mac added.

She breathed a relieved sigh. “And an ice-cream cone.” She turned and took a step in the direction they’d come. “Ready?”

He stared up at the shadow for a moment, then waved. Without a complaint, Mac turned and followed her.