The Christmas Kite (8 page)

T
he summer sun sneaked beneath Meara’s bedroom shade, and she opened her eyes. The clock’s digital numbers surprised her. Eight-thirty. And the quiet also amazed her. The early-morning bustle of tourists usually floated up to her windows, but today she heard nothing but cushioned silence.

Sunday. No wonder. She tossed back the daisy-print sheet and swung her legs to the floor. Sunday. Again the day lifted her thoughts. So long ago, she’d promised Nettie that one weekend she would visit her church. Now, at the end of June, she’d not kept her promise, and with the building only a few blocks away, the location seemed perfect. And the people, too. She’d met so many genial men and women when she attended the congregation’s rummage sale back in May.

Rising, Meara stretched her arms above her head and headed for the bathroom. She could take a quick shower and dress before Mac awakened. In the mirror she viewed a relaxed, pleasant face. Joy pricked her senses. Out from under the Haydens’ mandates, she could make her own decisions: where she would go, what she would do and what she might say. Independence.

Yet her independence held responsibility. She’d felt abandoned. Perhaps, somehow, she deserved it. She’d made a bad choice marrying Dunstan…but her son deserved none of it. Mac. Her son, the innocent, who needed so much. She’d never allow him to feel abandoned again.

Refreshing water splashed over her as she sudsed and rinsed her hair. After a sweep of the thick terry towel, she slipped into her robe and scurried to the kitchen to fill the coffeemaker.

During her second mug of coffee, Mac ambled sleepy-eyed and yawning into the kitchen. He rested his head on her shoulder and rocked to one of his nondescript tunes.

She petted his cheek and noticed his half-closed eyes. “It’s Sunday, Mac. What do you say we go to Nettie’s church?”

“Otis’s church?” Mac asked.

“I suppose.” Nettie was the churchgoer. Otis? She didn’t have a clue. “How about some cereal?”

Mac nodded, and she filled a bowl, then grabbed her cup and headed back to her room. By the time Mac had finished, Meara was dressed. Then she helped him find appropriate Sunday clothes.

Later, when they exited the enclosed staircase, the morning breeze carried the familiar scent of the lake, a mixture of seagrass, fish and warm sand. But circling the building, a new aroma greeted them. From the bakery the fragrance of fresh-baked bread and cookies teased her palate. In a couple of hours caramel corn and chocolate fudge would fill the air and blend with the fumes from cars filling the slots in front of the tourist shops.

Ahead, the white church building, rising close to the lake, appeared around the bend in the road. Cars filled the nearby parking lot, and parishioners meandered toward the wide double door, holding their children’s hands and smoothing their rumpled clothing. The organ’s jubilant chords lifted on the breeze, and the music beckoned Meara.

On the sign outside, Meara read that Sunday school preceded the service, so she led Mac into the sanctuary. Inside, the air felt cool, and the stained-glass windows bathed the aisle and pews and gilded the worshipers’ complexions with a wash of color.

An usher greeted them with a smile and a bulletin. Unable to spot Nettie, Meara inquired about her, and the gentleman pointed down the left side toward the front, where the older woman sat, her white hair adorned with shades of pink and gold from the window’s reflection.

When Meara slid into the pew, Nettie smiled warmly. Mac crawled over Meara and approached the elderly woman. “Where’s Otis?”

She grinned and squeezed his hand. “He’s in the shop this morning. This is his Sunday to open.”

Mac accepted her response and slid in between the two women, nestling close to Nettie.

The service began, and with enthusiasm Meara joined in the prayers and songs. She had missed attending worship these past weeks. Today she felt wholesome and cleansed.

Mac’s attention drifted as the service progressed, and Meara quieted him with a tender shush. Soon Nettie’s seasoned hand gave him pats and hard candy until he settled back against her shoulder and drifted off to sleep.

Meara glanced at the two, and a quiver of longing traveled over her, yearning for a real family for her son. Grandparents, aunts and uncles—people to give him attention and affection. Her homeland glided into her thoughts—Erin’s lush green landscape with the serenity broken only by a distant bleat or the sweet tinkle of a lamb’s bell. In Ireland, loving hands and voices had surrounded her.

The pastor’s voice captured her attention. The hair bristled on her arms as his words settled into her consciousness.

“God did not promise us that life would be perfect. He did not guarantee we would walk this earth without feeling pain, hunger, anger or grief. Remember that through it all God is with us. Listen to what God tells us in First Peter, chapter four—‘However, if you suffer as a Christian, do not be ashamed, but praise God that you bear that name.’”

Suffered? Yes. Tears pooled in her eyes, and she blinked to stem the rising flood. She had tried so hard to keep her faith. And she had. Yes, she had. Despite her frustration, she knew Christ was her Savior, but…

The pastor’s words rose again and invaded her thoughts. “So, then, those who suffer according to God’s will should commit themselves to their faithful Creator and continue to do good.”

That was her problem. She had often repeated the words “my life is God’s will.” But did she really believe it? The Bible told her to be faithful to God and do good. Had she been faithful? And what good had she done?

Unconsciously, her hand shifted to Mac’s soft arm. She brushed his cool skin, and the soothing motion calmed her thoughts. Despite Mac’s problems…and despite her own, God was giving her another chance for a full and happy life. Be faithful and do good—she repeated the words in her head.

The congregation rose for the final hymn, and Mac stood, lazy-lidded, and clung to the pew in front of him, maintaining his balance. He yawned and grinned at her. She returned his smile. As voices lifted in song, she joined in the well-loved hymn: “My faith looks up to Thee, Thou Lamb of Calvary, Savior divine…”

Be faithful? She would.

With the resounding last note, she closed the hymnbook and greeted Nettie. “I promised I’d come, and here I am.”

“Bless you. And little Mac, too,” she said, holding him against her side. “Sunday school is before service. Mac would probably like that better.”

“I know, but we came on short notice. When I woke this morning, I just wanted to be here.”

“Now, won’t the Lord be happy to hear that.”

As they moved down the aisle, familiar faces from the rummage sale day nodded in welcome, and Meara returned their greeting. A woman beckoned to her, and she guided Mac away from the flow of traffic toward the lady.

“Remember me?” the woman asked. “Sara Burns. We met at the rummage sale.”

“Yes, I do,” Meara said.

“I see you have your boy with you today.” She eyed Mac, but her friendly smile hid any curiosity.

Mac stuck his hand toward her. “I’m Mac.”

She took his hand. “What a polite fellow you are. It’s nice to meet you.” She raised her eyes to Meara’s, then returned her attention to Mac. “I hope you bring your daddy next time.”

Meara’s pulse skipped, anticipating Mac’s response. Her mouth opened to cover the woman’s blunder, but Mac was quicker.

“I have two fathers in heaven,” Mac said, gazing in earnest at the woman.

Sara’s uneasiness was clear in her eyes. She peered first at Mac, then at Meara, and finally at Nettie. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t—”

Meara touched her arm. “One father is the Heavenly Father.” She hoped she’d soothed the woman’s misery.

“Heavenly Fa—Uh, yes.” She looked again at Mac, then at Meara. “Then, I hope the two of you worship with us again. We love seeing new faces.”

“Thank you.”

Sara smiled and backed away.
Escaped
was more like it.

Nettie caught up with them, and they stepped outside. Heavy traffic moved along the city street. Mac stuck close to Nettie’s side, holding her hand, and Meara sensed he was struggling with a thought.

Finally he halted. “Where’s my grandma?”

The question jarred Meara’s perplexed thoughts. He’d not mentioned his grandmother since they moved. Meara supposed the “father” reference had been the catalyst. Usually when he asked, Meara had dismissed his queries with a description of their adventurous journey. But he could no longer be put off.

“She’s in Petoskey, Mac.”

Nettie’s face grew curious.

“I want to see her,” Mac said.

Meara forced her expression to remain stoic. What had brought about this sudden interest in Dunstan’s mother? Her gaze shifted from Mac to Nettie’s inquisitive face and her neatly curled crown of white hair, and Meara had her answer.

“Later, Mac. We’ll discuss it when we get home.”

“I—”

“Later,” Meara repeated, pinning him with her eyes.

He dropped his gaze.

They walked without conversation until the bakery’s aroma captured their senses.

“Smells tempting,” Meara said, easing their disquiet.

“Cookies,” Mac said, his eager steps guiding him ahead to the bakery window.

Nettie paused at the kite shop door, and Meara hesitated, knowing she’d flustered the woman.

“Let me buy us a treat,” Meara offered. “I’ll make tea. In the lovely pot you gave me,” she added, hoping the reference would ease the strain. “I’ll make a cup for Otis, too.”

Nettie rested her hand on the shop door. “I’m sure he’d enjoy that. I’ll wait inside.” She pushed a stray, windblown curl from her cheek and opened the kite shop door.

“Come on,” Mac called, and Meara followed him into the bakery. At Mac’s prodding, she selected a sampling of doughnuts and cookies, then carried the string-tied box into the kite shop.

A few customers meandered through the store while Otis was giving change to a customer. For a fleeting moment she gazed at the well-dressed gentleman, eyeing his neat slacks and tweed sport jacket. Unusual garb for the typical tourist.

As he turned toward the door, their eyes met. Being caught gawking at him, Meara flushed. He gave her a friendly grin and slid passed her. Chancing another curious look as he opened the door, Meara saw him give her another look. Did she know him? She followed his exit, watching until he reached his automobile. Nothing registered.

With a broom in her hand, Nettie bustled in from the rear of the store, sweeping the aisle beside the workroom. Wasn’t that just like her.

“I’ll bring you down a treat in a few minutes,” she said to Otis as she passed.

With an acknowledging wave, he returned his attention to a customer.

“I’ll be up in a minute,” Nettie said, pushing dirt into a dustpan.

Agreeing, Meara headed for the kitchen. As the teakettle whistled, Nettie tapped on the door, and Meara beckoned her inside.

“Now that’s done,” Nettie said between small puffs of breath resulting from her trip up the stairs.

“You work too hard,” Meara said, pouring the water into the teapot. “Go inside and sit. I’ll fix the tray and be in shortly.”

Nettie ambled into the living room, where Mac sat with his nose pressed against the window, watching the kites in the park. Meara heard their quiet conversation and Nettie’s gentle chuckle. As she carried the tray into the room, Mac gave Nettie a hearty hug.

“You’re such a loving young man,” the elderly woman said, patting his shoulder. As if they were conspirators, they quieted and followed Meara with their eyes.

“So what’s all of this?” Meara asked with a curious frown.

Mac giggled and shook his head, his lips pinched together.

Meara eyed him, then Nettie. “Here’s some juice, Mac. Nettie, help yourself, and I’ll run a cup of tea and doughnuts downstairs for Otis. I’ll be right back.”

Mac had already grabbed a cookie in each hand.

“One at a time,” she said to him. “Nettie, you’re in charge while I’m gone.”

Before she descended the stairs, Nettie’s voice echoed behind her. “Did you hear your mother? I’m in charge,” Nettie teased.

“Uh-huh. You’re in charge, Grandma,” Mac answered with a conspiring giggle.

Grandma.
Meara stood on the second step, waiting for her aching heart to quiet.

A rap on the back door brought Jordan to attention. Dooley tangled under his feet as he opened the porch screen and let the dog out the front. When he reached the back door, Blair Dunham stood on the other side of the screen, his gaze focused on the ground.

Jordan’s pulse shifted into second gear, like a semi climbing a twenty-percent grade. His friend’s presence confounded him. He forced his legs forward and dragged a pleasant expression to his strained face.

“Blair, my word, what are you doing here?” He pushed open the screen door, and his old friend from the university, dressed in slacks and a tweed jacket, crossed the threshold. He extended his hand in greeting.

“I was in town and thought I’d look you up. It’s been too long, Jordan.” He wrapped a firm hand around their clasped palms in a lengthy handshake. “I miss you, man.”