Copyright © 2003
by Harlequin Enterprises Limited
® and ™ are trademarks of the publisher
Discussion
Questions
"My grace is
sufficient for you,
for my power is made
perfect in weakness."
Therefore I will boast
all the more gladly
about my weaknesses,
so that Christ's power
may rest on me.
2 Cor 12:9 NIV
The life of a single mom with a Down Syndrome child is turned around by a mysterious kite-flying stranger. Reclusive, Jordan Baird is drawn back into the world by a happy-go-lucky eight year old, Mac Hayden. His mother, Meara, is determined to make a life for her son and finds a niche in the Michigan town of Mackinaw City where her life becomes as colorful and exciting as the kites flying over the water. With her abundant faith, Meara comes to grips with her past and Jordan learns that forgiveness is possible with love and faith in God.
Excerpt from Chapter 1
"Be careful, Mac." Meara Hayden’s heart rose to her throat as her son wandered toward the white-capped waves.
"Stay back."
He turned toward her, his mouth bent into a gleeful smile. "Birds." He pointed upward where seagulls curled and dipped above the rolling waters of Lake Huron.
"Yes," she yelled, forcing her soft voice above the dashing waves, fear gripping her heart. "Come back, Mac."
A new crest rose, its frothy cap arching high above the surface. Meara dashed forward. But too late.
The surging water thundered upward crashing to the shore, then siphoned back in a powerful undertow. Mac staggered against its strength, and as the swell washed the earth from beneath his feet, the water dragged driftwood, debris, and Mac into its roiling depth.
As a heart-wrenching gasp tore from Meara’s throat, she dashed into the retreating wave, grabbing him by one flailing arm and lifted him to safety.
"Mac," she whispered, her voice quaking with fear. She clutched him to her side and guided him back to the dry sand.
"Wet," he moaned, pulling at his soggy shorts. Tears brimmed in his eyes.
"It’s all right. They’ll dry." To distract him, Meara pulled a wrapped cookie from her blouse pocket. "Here, Mac." Her ploy worked.
"Cookie," he said, brushing his moist eyes with a finger before grasping the treat.
Meara captured his free hand and continued their journey along the warm sandy beach. Glancing over her shoulder, she estimated the distance they’d wandered from the rough, rented cabin. Obviously her choice was a poor one. She hadn’t considered the inherent dangers of the water. . .and her son.
Mac paused and gazed above his head. "Birds," he said again, waving the sugar cookie in the air.
"They’re seagulls. You’ll see lots of them around the water."
"Sea. . .gulls," he repeated, his face lifted upward toward her watchful eyes. He waved the cookie, again, in the birds’ direction.
Without warning, a cluster of gulls soared over them and swooped down. His body quaking, Mac gasped and grabbed the leg of her slacks, knocking his glasses to the ground and burying his face against the denim cloth. She held him tightly as the birds gathered on the ground around them and fluttered toward the sweet clutched in his fingers.
"Drop the cookie, Mac. That’s what they’re after."
It fell to the ground, and she snatched up his glasses and pulled the child away. The birds flapped their wings and screeched at one another, pecking and vying for bits of the scattered pieces.
She knelt at his side and pulled a tissue from her pocket to wipe his tear-filled eyes. "It’s okay, Mac. Mama should have thought. The birds like cookies and bread, all kinds of food. We’ll be more careful next time."
He nodded, dragging his arm across his dripping nose. "Next time," he agreed.
Meara pulled his arm away from his face and wiped the moisture with a tissue. "What about your hanky? What does mama tell you?"
He looked thoughtfully, his dark brown almond-shaped eyes squinting into hers. "Use a hanky."
"That’s right. Not your arm, remember?" She used another tissue to clean the sand from his glasses and popped them on his blunt, up-turned nose.
He grinned, and having forgotten his fear of the birds, he scuttled off ahead of her.
Waves. Birds. She hesitated, wondering if they should return to the gloom of their cabin. The late spring sun lit the sky, but did not quite penetrate the foliage of their small rental, two rooms and bath, that lay hidden amidst the heavy pines. Only a few small windows allowed in the sun’s rays, and they were situated too high to enjoy a relaxed view of the lake. Their only entertainment was a fuzzy-picture television, nothing really to occupy Mac’s time. She looked ahead at the shoreline. We’ll walk to the bend and see what’s around the corner.
A warm gust whipped off the water, and she lifted her eyes to the blue sky dotted with a smattering of puffy white clouds. She felt free for the first time in her life. Free, but frightened. How could she survive alone with Mac? When she left her deceased husband’s parents, the thoughts of where she would go or what she would do barely skittered through her mind. Freedom is what she’d longed for. Freedom and a chance to raise her son as she wanted, not chained by the Hayden family’s shame.
Meara focused again on her son. Mac’s short, sturdy legs struggled through the sand, his curiosity as energetic as her sense of release. He neared the bend in the shoreline, and she hurried to shorten the distance between them.
But a large island in the distance, rising into hills above the green water, caught her eye, and she paused to enjoy its lush expanse and the miniature-appearing village that dotted the shoreline. Mackinaw Island, she told herself, a Michigan landmark. She’d heard of it, but had never been there.
On the left hillside, a long ribbon of white drew her interest. The hotel? She narrowed her eyes, gazing at the pale splotch against the green landscape. The name edged into her memory. Yes, the Grand Hotel. So many places she had never seen.
Meara looked ahead, and her pulse lurched. Mac was no longer in sight. "Mac," she called, dashing along the curve of the beach.
When she rounded the evergreens that grew close to the shoreline, Mac appeared far ahead of her, rushing away as fast as his awkward legs would carry him. His arm extended, his finger pointing toward the sky. Expecting to see more birds, she lifted her line of vision, but instead, saw what had driven him far ahead. A kite. An amazing kite, dipping and soaring above the water. The brilliant colors glinted in the sun, and a long flowing yellow and red tail curled and waved like pennants in a parade.
She halted to catch her breath, clasping her fist against her pounding heart. Her fear subsided. Mac was safe, a generous distance from the water’s edge. He turned toward her, flailing his arms above his head. She waved back, pointing toward the kite, letting him know she saw the lovely sight.
He turned again and trudged forward toward the distant figure of a man who apparently held the invisible string.
Jordan Baird grasped the cord, fighting the wind. If he tugged too hard, the string would break and send his kite swooping into the water. If he released his grip, the wind could snatch it from his hand. With expert control, he eased and pulled, knowing when to let the wind take control and when to hold it back. Pride rose in him. If he knew anything, he understood the aerodynamics of a kite.
A shadow fell across his line of sight, and surprised, he glanced at its origin. A child with soggy shorts and an eager face tripped through the sand and stumbled toward him.
"Whoa, there, young man. What do you think you’re doing?" He glowered down at the boy, pointing to the sign stuck haphazardly into the grassy sand above the beach. "Can’t you read? This is private property?"
The boy skidded to a halt, and a pair of frightened eyes shifted upward. "I can. . .read. . .some words."
"Can’t you read those? It says, ‘Private property.’"
The child squinted at the sign and shook his head.
Jordan peered down at the child. He 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 through 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 lifted his gaze above the child’s head, and nearing them, a woman hurried 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-clad 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 through 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 like you."
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 MacAuley, I hope."
"Mac." He poked himself in the chest. "I’m Mac. What’s your name?" He stuck his hand forward, offering a hand shake.
Amused, Jordan shifted the kite string and grasp 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 have never 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, he supposed, 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 a quality gemstone. "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.