Читать книгу The Christmas Kite - Gail Martin Gaymer - Страница 10

Jordan sank back against the wicker chair, feeling a mixture of relief and longing. At first he had thought the boy might be hurt, but his concern seemed foolish now, as he watched them retreat. The child had tripped in the sand, nothing more.

Jordan was relieved they’d turned back. His heart skipped at the thought. For a moment he had feared the boy might run up to his door. What would he do? Ignoring the child was one solution, but could he do that?

Longing shivered through him. Mac tugged at Jordan’s repressed emotions—the desire to be a father, to teach a son about manhood. Jordan had never had the opportunity to share those things with his young son.

He pushed the thought from his mind. Where was this boy’s father? Back at the cabin, perhaps. He had thought they’d be gone today, but obviously he’d been wrong. Anxiety filled him. Had the family rented the place for a week? Perhaps more? He leaned his head against the chair back, forcing the thoughts from his mind. He had work to do. Concentrate on the kite. He grabbed a piece of bamboo he’d whittled and began to sand. Softened by water, the bamboo dowel curved as he attached it to the other bonded pieces in an intricate design, then glued and tied each side with strong linen thread. He checked the rounded form against the washi paper’s woodblock image of Fukusuke, a Japanese gnome. It fit perfectly.

As he grasped another dowel, a voice drifted from the side of the house.

“Anybody home?”

Jordan dropped the bamboo and rose, stepping to the door. “I’m in the front, Otis.”

Otis Manning appeared at the side of the screened enclosure and nodded. Dooley, Jordan’s Irish setter, raced onto the porch, his tail lashing like a whip.

“Come in,” Jordan said, pushing open the door.

The elderly man stepped inside. “Thought you weren’t here,” he said. Dooley pressed against his leg, and Otis nuzzled the dog’s head. “I rang the doorbell in the back. You didn’t hear it?”

Jordan shook his head. “I don’t think it’s working. Never bothered to fix it.”

“You got yourself a great watchdog, here, Jordan. Dooley just grinned at me and wagged his tail.”

“He knows you.” Jordan clapped his hands, and the dog left the man’s side and curled beside Jordan. “Next time knock. I’ll hear you then.” He gestured toward the small sofa. “Have a seat.”

“Thanks.” He sat on the wicker settee and folded his hands on his knees. “Just come by for the new kites.”

“They’re on the back porch. I’ll help you with them.”

Otis eyed the unfinished kite. “Looks like a beauty, that one.” He nodded toward the washi-paper gnome.

“Thanks,” Jordan said, shifting in his chair. Though he knew Otis well, he’d lost the art of adult conversation. He’d held one-sided chats with the dog occasionally, but the longest conversation he’d had in days was with the child on the beach. “Care for a soda, Otis? I was about to get one myself.”

“Sure. That’d be nice.”

Jordan dashed into the safety of the house. Only three years earlier, he’d paraded in a lecture hall, teaching Shakespeare to two hundred college students. Today he couldn’t come up with a single thread of casual conversation.

He screwed the caps off two sodas and grabbed one glass from the cupboard. Taking a deep breath, he returned to the porch. “Here you go.” He handed Otis the soda and glass.

“Don’t need no glass. Thanks. I’m a bottle baby myself.” His eyes glinted with amusement.

Jordan slid the tumbler onto the table and sank back into the chair. A blast of air rushed from his chest. “So how’s the store?”

“Still no clerk. Sign’s in the window, but no bites yet. I’m surprised.”

“You’ll get someone soon,” Jordan said.

“Hope so. The tourists are already pouring into town.”

“Is business okay otherwise?”

“Pretty good.” Otis’s gaze shifted to Dooley, and he ran his fingers through his graying hair. “But I’m afraid we’re going to run into a problem.” Slowly, he raised his eyes to Jordan’s. “I been meaning to talk to you about that investor, Donald Hatcher. Told you about him a while back. Remember?”

Jordan nodded, sensing something coming but not sure what.

“He’s putting pressure on the shops along the strip there. I’ve been thinkin’ maybe you’d want to get involved. Some of them might be ready to sell, and if one does, then the next will…and pretty soon, you got no business. Right now, the kite shop’s in a prime location.”

“I’m not sure I can do any more than the others. Who’s giving up? The bakery?”

“Naw, Scott’s tough as nails. He’s ready for a fight. So’s the fast-food place. Hatcher’s been hanging around the gift shop. I talked to Bernard Dawson, the manager. He thinks the owner might be thinking about selling. The T-shirt shop’s still stickin’ to their guns.” He took a long swig of soda.

“I’m not going to sweat it, Otis. The land is valuable. I hope the others know that and don’t sell it off for half its worth.”

“That’s what I mean. Maybe we could hold a meetin’. You know, Jordan, it’s not just losin’ the shop that bothers me. It’s what he’s plannin’ to put in its place. A saloon. One of those skimpy-dressed-waitress bars. That’s askin’ for trouble. Booze and half-naked women. We have no place for that here. This is a family vacation spot, and we want to keep it that way.”

“Who told you that’s what he’s planning to build?”

“Oh, word gets out. And I believe it. He’s after that strip of land. It’s right on the water, butted up to the ferry parking. All the Mackinaw Island traffic. He couldn’t find a better spot for a bar.”

Jordan’s stomach knotted. Otis was right, but he had no desire to get himself involved in city politics and battles. He hadn’t years ago, either, when life felt normal…and real. And now he’d settled into his life just as it was. Right here on the water, building his kites.

“So, Jordan, what do you think? You don’t want to see a joint like that in the city, do you?”

Jordan looked at the man’s serious expression. “You know I don’t, Otis. Let me think about it. I’m not sure you need to worry yet. Anyway, what about zoning? I wonder if anyone’s checked with the zoning board. Isn’t that Congregational church just down the street?”

Otis nodded. “Sure is. I wonder…” He ran his finger around the mouth of the bottle. “Let me check that out. Maybe the zoning board can save our necks.”

“Do that. Then let me know what they say.” Jordan rose and gave Otis a firm pat on the back. “Come out to the back porch, and I’ll help you load up the kites.”

Meara steered the coupe down Main Street, searching for a parking space. Tourists, pushing the summer season, thronged the streets and hung in shop doorways or gazed into colorful souvenir-filled windows. She stopped to give room to a van pulling away in the middle of the block. As he drove off, she nosed her car into the wide space.

She breathed a deep sigh. Though she knew how to drive, she’d had little practice in years. Her husband, Dunstan, or her father-in-law had driven her the few places she went. Most of the time she lived in the upper floors of the big rambling house, in her own sitting room with Mac playing by her side.

“Ice cream,” Mac called, pointing to the ice-cream parlor sign embellished with a colorful triple-dip cone.

“That’s a sure fact about you, Mac. You never forget a thing, do you? At least, nothing like ice cream.” She smiled at him as they climbed out from the car.

He stuck close to her side, and she gazed in the shop windows, stopping to buy two local newspapers and a net bag filled with tiny cars and trucks. She watched the pity-filled faces of people who glanced at her and Mac, then, in discomfort, looked away. She cringed at their lack of understanding.

Mac let out a gleeful chortle when they neared the ice-cream shop, and hastily, she quieted him as they marched through the door. As they waited their turn, she and Mac studied the menu.

The clerk dipped the ice-cream scoop into the cold water and turned toward them. “And what will you have, young—” His head jerked upright. “What would he like, ma’am?” he asked, stumbling over his words.

Her automatic defense yanked her response. “Mac, tell the young man what you’d like.”

A light flush rose on the teen’s face.

“One…dip of double chocolate,” Mac answered, sending the young man a spirited grin.

The clerk grabbed a cone and dug out a scoop. He glanced at the other workers behind the counter, dipped back into the barrel, slid an extra portion of ice cream onto the cone and smiled.

“Thank you,” Meara said, understanding his apology. “I’ll have a dip of peanut butter swirl.”

He added an extra measure to hers, too, and with napkins wrapped around the cones, they made their way past customers to the sidewalk. She kept an eye on Mac’s cone, guarding against unsightly drips, but he licked the edge and seemed in control.

“I saw a bakery across the street. Let’s take a look.”

They followed the sidewalk to the end of the block and crossed the road. Passing a fast-food restaurant, she drew in the smell of oil permeating the air, followed by the rich, taunting aroma of freshly baked bread. Beside the bakery, Meara studied the pastries and breads displayed in the window.

As she pulled open the screen door of the bakery, Mac’s strident voice bellowed in her ear.

“Kites!” He rambled past her to the window of the shop next door.

Meara closed the bakery door and followed Mac. Unique kites filled the storefront window, and in one corner, a small Help Wanted sign was taped to the glass. Her stomach tightened. She wanted a job…needed a job, but how could she work and care for Mac? She’d wait until school began and pray her money lasted.

Mac pressed his nose against the window, and Meara joined him, peeking through the glass. Magnificent kites of every shape and design hung from the ceiling and clung to the walls—dragons, birds and other shapes she’d never seen before.

Mac pulled open the screen, but before entering, he glanced at Meara. She nodded and grinned at the smear of ice cream on his mouth, then followed him inside.

“Can I…have a kite?” he asked, marveling at the myriad of designs surrounding them.

Kites mesmerized him, and she saw no reason not to buy him a small, inexpensive paper one. She looked around for the cheaper models. “We’ll see what they have, Mac.” He accepted her remark.

The shop seemed empty, but a door slammed in the back. Meara looked up to see a huge kite held by a pair of stubby hands come through the storage room doorway. The person owning the hands was hidden behind the colorful paper design with the long yellow-and-red tail.

Mac gazed with awe at the huge creation until he swung around and grabbed Meara’s arm. “The kite man.” He pointed to the doorway. An elderly face peeked around the unique kite.

“Well, hello there.” He grinned. “I’m just bringin’ in some new stock. I’ll be with you in a minute.” Placing the kite against the wall, he turned and headed back through the doorway.

Meara bent down to Mac’s level and whispered, “That’s not the kite man, Mac. This man is too old.”

Mac grinned. “No, the kite.” He pointed. “That’s the…kite man’s…kite.” His head punctuated every other word.

As Meara studied the paper-covered frame, her gaze drifted to the long tail. She could envision the yellow and red ribbons curling through the sky. “It is, Mac. You’re right. This must be where the man sells his kites.”

“Nice, huh?” The clerk’s voice interrupted their quiet conversation. He stepped toward them. “Now, may I help you?”

“Oh, yes,” Meara said, pulling her gaze to the storekeeper. “I’d like to get a paper kite for my son. You know, one of the little diamond-shaped ones.”

He chuckled. “I’m afraid you’ll have to go to the shop next door. We only have the kind yer lookin’ at here. Handcrafted, they are.”

“And expensive,” Meara added.

“I’m afraid so. At least, lots more expensive than those little paper toys. You like kites, son?”

Mac grinned at the man. “Yep.” His pudgy hand jutted outward. “My name’s Mac. What’s your name?”

The clerk leaned forward and took his hand in a broad handshake. “Nice to meet you, Mac. I’m Otis Manning.” He straightened his back. “Just a couple steps next door, ma’am. They have lots of kites for this young fella.”

Meara’s heart lifted, observing the gentleman with Mac. He didn’t gawk at the boy’s disability or treat him like a second-rate citizen. His reaction warmed her heart. “Thank you. Ready, Mac? Let’s go next door and get your kite.”

With a broad grin, Mac took her hand and they left the shop. Outside, the smell from the bakery tempted her taste buds. But that could wait. Instead she turned in the opposite direction to buy Mac’s kite. As she passed the display window, her gaze fell again on the Help Wanted sign. She paused. This would be a nice place to work. But reality tugged at her conscience, and she moved forward. She’d already decided to wait. By that time, the shop would have all the help it needed. Too bad.

Glancing at the sign again with longing, she gave a wave through the glass at the elderly gentleman who watched them leave.

Skimming the newspaper for rentals, Meara nibbled on a fresh oatmeal cookie from the bakery. She chided herself for the sweets—ice cream and now a cookie.

“You know, Mac, we can’t keep eating all these treats. We’ll both be as big as elephants.”

Mac giggled, dropping one of the new miniature trucks to the floor, and ran to her side. “I love you, Mama.”

“I love you, too, Mac.” She gave him a big hug. Discouraged, Meara tossed the newspaper on the small table. Most rentals were summer cottages only meant for a one- or two-week vacation. One apartment seemed too expensive and was unfurnished. Only one held promise. Maybe later they would take a ride and check it out.

Mac wandered to the sofa and picked up the yardstick-shaped package. “Make my kite, please,” he said, handing it to Meara.

She unrolled the flimsy tissue paper and thin dowels, and, following the instructions, constructed the kite.

Mac hung over her shoulder, watching, his eyes wide with wonder. “Can I…make it…fly?”

“That, we’ll have to see,” Meara said, wondering what she owned to make the tail. She looked around the room, mentally assessed her wardrobe, and finally remembered a few pieces of ragged cloth in her trunk, kept there to clean her windows or wipe up spills.

She went to the bedroom and returned with the cloth, tearing it into strips. After she tied the pieces together, she fastened them to the end of the kite, and Mac herded her to the beach.

A light breeze stirred the trees near the cabin, but closer to shore a gusty wind blew, whisking the shimmering water into rolling whitecaps. Meara struggled to keep the paper kite from ripping away from her. She’d never flown a kite before, though she’d seen it done in movies or by others when she was a child. She prayed she wouldn’t disappoint her son.

As if considering her the expert, Mac followed her every move. She unrolled a host of cord and let it fall to the ground.

“Now, hold the ball of string, and I’ll run ahead with the kite.”

Having no idea what she should do, she bit her lip and waited to make sure Mac appeared ready. While the wind pushed against her, she ran along the beach holding the kite in the air. Suddenly an air mass caught the paper and lifted it from her hands.

“Hang on to the string,” she called, rushing back to Mac. But before she returned to him, the lengthy measure of string coiled on the ground offered no resistance to the aerodynamics, and the kite rose, then nose-dived into the water.

Mac let out a cry, but she was helpless. The kite lay on top of the water, rising and falling with the waves. She looked at Mac’s downhearted expression, and disappointment coursed through her. She should have asked the shop clerk for tips on flying a kite. The “kite man” had made it look so easy.

With her eyes on Mac’s disappointed face, she stepped forward to offer a consoling hug just as a huge red dog bounded between them. She struggled to keep her footing in the loose sand, wavering between success and failure, but the ground rose up to meet her. Though startled, she and Mac both laughed as the dog hovered above them, panted for a moment, then stayed long enough to lick her cheek.

When the large, rambunctious dog settled into Mac’s awareness, his laughter faded. He let out a cry and dashed behind Meara, sending out sounds—a confused mixture of giggles and whimpers. With one hand, Meara patted Mac’s arm wrapped around her neck, and with the other, she held the dog at bay.

A voice rose on the wind and she looked down the beach. The kite man raced forward toward her while she sprawled, pinioned to the spot by Mac and the big Irish setter.

“Come, Dooley,” the man called. The dog lifted its head and turned toward him. “I’m sorry. Did he hurt you?”

Dooley. The dog’s name. “No,” Meara said, a grin curling her lips, thinking of what she must look like. “Just my dignity, a little.”

He grabbed the dog’s collar, pulling him away. “I’m usually more careful. I was maneuvering a kite through the door, and he shot out between my legs. He only does that when he sees the ducks.”

“Ducks,” Mac repeated. “I want…to see…the ducks.” He punched the final word, tilting his head upward with a widemouthed smile.

“Dooley scared them away, I’m afraid.” His gaze shifted from Mac to Meara, still sitting in the sand. “Let me help you.” He held the dog back with one hand and reached down for her.

She felt like a downy pillow when he lifted her with ease. “Thank you,” she said, brushing the sand from her slacks and hands.

His brooding eyes seemed friendly this afternoon, perhaps altered by the embarrassing situation Dooley had caused. His tight-pressed lips of yesterday looked more relaxed and the flicker of a grin curled the edge of his mouth.

Meara’s gaze drifted to the thick cords of muscle that ribbed his arms as he controlled Dooley’s exuberance. The vision brought warmth to her cheeks. She realized Mac still clung to her side.

“Mac, the dog won’t hurt you. That’s his way of being friendly.” Looking at her child, Meara saw the beads of tears in his eyes.

He took one step backward, but his grip on her arm tightened.

“Would you like to pet the dog?” the man asked, his gaze searching Mac’s face. “I’m sorry Dooley frightened you.”

“It’s not just the dog,” Meara said, noticing he had seen Mac’s tears. “It’s the kite.” She gestured toward the lake.

He followed the motion of her hand. “Oh, I see.”

Lapping against the sand, Meara spied the crossed dowels splotched with fragments of torn, soggy tissue. The rag tail advanced and ebbed in the undulating waves. “Not very successful, was I?”

A wry grin teased his mouth. “It takes a knack.” He reached forward as if to touch Mac’s head, but drew back. “I’ll tell you what, pal. If your mother buys another kite, I’ll show you how to fly it.”

Mac’s eyes widened, and he dragged his arm across his moist eyes. Apparently he’d forgotten the dog, because he stepped forward, his grin spreading from ear to ear. “Okay,” he said.

Dooley’s tail flagged the air as he strained forward. When Mac noticed he stepped away, but the new promise seemed to give him courage, and he edged closer, eyeing the large dog.

“He likes you, lad,” the man said.

Mac eased nearer, inching his hand toward the dog’s shiny red coat. Finally his fingers touched the setter’s fur.

Though his action was fleeting, Meara reveled in the progress Mac had made and the kindness of the man. The man. She had not introduced herself. Before she could follow through with the amenities, he turned and stepped away.

“When you buy the kite, let me know,” he said, his face darkening as he distanced himself.

“Thank you, Mr….” But he was out of earshot.

Down the beach, he gave the dog free rein.

Meara held Mac’s hand and watched the man following the dog until he disappeared around the bend in the shoreline.

Jordan raced through the sand with Dooley a long stretch ahead of him. He sensed the woman watched, but he didn’t turn around to see if he was correct. Earlier she’d studied him, and he had watched her lovely face shift from laughter to concern to curiosity. So much life in one delicate face. Lila’s face had been round and sturdy, but this woman—He snapped his thoughts closed like a book he’d finally waded through and finished. No more of that. The child and his mother pressed against his thoughts too often. Talk about curiosity. He was as inquisitive about the child’s mother as she appeared to be about him.

He skidded to a stop in front of the house and drew in a deep calming breath. Dooley had run a good race, but Jordan’s heart hammered for more reason than the swift dash along the sand. Mac had pierced his barricade. Why had he offered to teach the child to fly a kite? He should have escaped immediately. Instead his fatherly instinct had led him to open his foolish mouth. Now he would pay.

Jordan remembered years earlier when he had built Robbie his first kite. The boy had a knack—like father, like son, as they say. With little help, Robbie ran through the field, the bright yellow tissue billowing, diving and soaring toward the clouds. A warm summer day, it was. And he’d thought then that they had so many bright sunny days to share.

His chest tightened, holding back the emotion that burned his throat. His gaze lifted to the cerulean-blue sky, and he longed to shake his fist at Lila’s God. But the gesture was useless.

No fist, no anger, no cursing could bring Robbie or Lila back.