The Christmas Kite. Gail Martin Gaymer

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 СКАЧАТЬ