The Christmas Kite. Gail Gaymer Martin

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      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 СКАЧАТЬ