The Christmas Kite. Gail Martin GaymerЧитать онлайн книгу.
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.
Chapter Three
The following day, Meara drove Mac past the apartment listed in the newspaper. The location was near town, but the building needed paint and the grounds needed trimming. Was the inside as badly in need of care? She hesitated. Saying nothing to her son, she continued down the road. Maybe she’d check the newspaper one more time for another option before looking at this apartment.
In town, Meara found parking and headed for the gift shop. Two kites seemed safer than one, after their last fiasco, and she let Mac select the ones he wanted. When she paid and stepped outside, the bakery lured her again, and she headed that way with the wavering promise she would only buy bread.
Passing the kite shop, the Help Wanted sign rose to meet her. She paused. Closing her eyes, she asked God for a hint of what to do. When she opened them again, the elderly gentleman smiled through the store window and waved them in. Before moving she looked heavenward. Was this God’s doing, or just an older man’s friendly bidding?
She pulled open the door, and Mac stepped in ahead of her.
“Good morning,” Otis said. “I see you got a couple more kites today. No luck with the last one?”
Meara chuckled. “‘No experience’ is the best way of putting it. I should have asked for a hint about launching one of these things. I’m grateful it was the two-dollar-and-fifty-cent version and not one of these.”
Otis nodded. “Yep, you don’t wanna spend your money on one of these gems unless you know what you’re doin’. Now, that’s for sure.”
Otis bent down and gave Mac a hearty smile. “How’s things goin’, sonny?”
“Good. I like…kites. They’re high in the sky.”
“They sure are.” He patted Mac’s head as the child’s focus swept the kite-filled ceiling. “You want to look at all the kites, boy? You can wander around if you want.”
Mac looked at Meara, who gave an agreeable nod. “But not too long,” she added. “And don’t get into anything.”
He wandered away, his mouth gaping at the colorful creations.
“That’s a nice boy you got there.”
“Thank you.” Flustered, she wondered if the comment was meant to open the door to questions about Mac.
“I had a cousin with a Down syndrome boy. He threw temper tantrums till you could hardly bear it. Your son seems easier goin’.”
Her question had been answered. “Mac’s no problem. He frightens easily. You know—dogs, birds, anything that comes up on him too quickly. But he’s a good boy.”
“You’re a visitor in town. Tourist, I suppose.”
Meara glanced down the aisle, checking on Mac. He stood near the back of the shop, staring at the kite they’d watched sailing over the lake. “No, we’re staying in a cabin up the road. I’m looking for a place to rent for a while.”
“You and the boy are alone?”
Her stomach jolted. She’d not been asked the question before and the reality shivered through her. “Yes, my husband died a few months ago. We lived with my in-laws and…” She ran her fingers through her hair. “I guess you didn’t ask for my life story.” She managed a smile. “We need a furnished place. Do you know of any?”
He hesitated, pinching his lower lip between his thumb and finger. “So happens, there’s an apartment over this shop. Not too big. Couple of bedrooms and bath.”
“We don’t need anything fancy for now. The cabin only has one bedroom, so most anything would be a mansion to us.”
Dunstan’s family home was a mansion. The thought slammed into the pit of her stomach. Never again would she want to live in a huge estate like his, especially not as a prisoner. That’s how she’d felt. When she focused on the kite shop proprietor, he was studying her.
“I even think the place up there has a few pieces of furniture,” he said, pointing his thumb toward the ceiling. “But it hasn’t been rented out since I can remember. Might be a mess now, for all I know.”
“I’d like to take a look. Could I contact the owner?”
“Let me talk to Mr. Baird. I’m not sure he’s even interested in using it as a rental. Right now, this whole strip of shops is in a bit of trouble…. But then, you don’t need to hear about that.”
He gave her a friendly smile, just as she had given him. The “bit of trouble” phrase caught her curiosity.
“Drop back tomorrow,” Otis said, “and I’ll let you know what he says.”
“Thanks. I’d really appreciate that.”
Mac wandered back down the aisle, and she called to him. His grin stretched across his rosy cheeks. She held out her hand, and he rushed to her side. After thanking the man again, she and Mac left the shop, her spirit lifting with hope.
Jordan hung the last pieces of cotton to dry. For the past two days he’d worked with batik wax-painting to design patterns on the cloth for an Edo warrior kite. Though beautiful, the design work was arduous, and the buyer would pay dearly for the creation.
Dooley nuzzled his nose against Jordan’s leg, then rushed toward the door. With the family down the beach, Jordan hated to give the dog free rein. Rather than taking a chance, he tucked the leash in his pocket, opened the door and stepped outside, needing some fresh air himself. Dooley darted toward the lake. Jordan scanned the water’s surface for any poor, unsuspecting ducks that might be lolling on the waves, but none was in sight.
At the water’s edge, Jordan turned left, then halted. Maybe today, for a change, he’d walk east along the beach.
Who are you kidding?
He shook his head. He knew full well why he was headed that way. Dooley sped off ahead, and he hurried behind the dog, glancing, now and again, into the woods, for the dilapidated cabins.
He slowed his gait as they reached what he suspected was the area. A child’s laugh drifted from the trees, and Jordan looked through the foliage. Mac waved and lurched down the inclined path toward him.
“Good morning,” Jordan said as the boy reached his side.
Mac’s gaze drifted from his to Dooley’s,