hiding? Three years. Hadn’t he suffered enough? Hadn’t he paid his dues?
But Jordan knew the answer. He had nothing more with which to pay the price, nothing to heal the wounds, nothing to smooth the scars. He slapped his hand against the rickety table and shook his head. “Enough!” he cried out to the heavens. “Why not my life? If You’re really up there, Lord, why not me? I’ll never forgive You. Never.”
Tears escaped his tight control and lay in the corner of his eye. His hand shot upward, catching the single fleeting drop, halting it before it rolled down his cheek. He had promised himself he would no longer cry. He had thought he’d shed every tear possible. Yet one had lived, laughing at him behind his eye, waiting to foil his masquerade.
But he’d won. He’d snuffed it out with the swipe of his fingers—as quickly as a life could end.
Meara poured the cold cereal into a bowl, then sloshed in the milk. The blurry television filled the quiet morning with local news, and Mac stared into the dish, singing one of his incessant tunes.
“Mac, let’s say the blessing.” Meara held out her hand, and he grasped her fingers and bowed his head, the tune undaunted. When the song ended, he recited the prayer, then spooned into the cereal.
Meara sipped her tea, wishing she had coffee. Gazing out the small window, she watched the glimmer of sunlight play on the nearby birch trees. The pungent smell of mildew and disinfectant that clung to the old cabin infested her lungs, and she longed to be outside in the fresh air.
Leaning her elbows against the high windowsill, she peered through the foliage toward the beach. The water dragged visions of her homeland, her lovely green Erin, from her smothered memories. Dingle and Kenmare bays and the deepest cobalt blue of the Kerry Loughs waved through her thoughts.
Shades of green and blue swirled in her memory—the Emerald Isle. How had her American visit, so long ago, become this nightmare? The question was foolish. She knew how the nightmare began. But now, it had ended. She prayed it had. She would carve out a new life for Mac and her. With love pushing against her chest, she turned to study the child intent on his cereal bowl and his song.
A deep sense of grief stabbed her. How long would she have her son? How long would God grant him life on this earth? Deep love charged through her—despite the trials, despite the incessant songs. Meara smiled as Mac’s singsong voice penetrated her thoughts. Despite everything, she’d give the world for her son to have a long life.
Meara clapped her hands. “Mac, let’s get outside in the sunshine. You ready?”
His beaming smile met hers. “The kite.” He ate the last of his cereal. “Let’s see the kite.”
“Not today, Mac. We’ll gather shells on the beach. I’ll bring a plastic bag along to hold them, okay?”
“I want…the kite,” Mac said. “You have shells.”
Meara chuckled. “You’re a generous laddie, all right. And remember, no food, no cookies.”
Mac sat deathly still, finally giving a resolute nod. He slid off the chair and made his way to her. “No birds, Mama.” He rested his head on her leg, then slyly lifted his face with a grin. “You have…the birds.”
Playfully she tousled his hair. After grabbing a plastic bag, she locked the cabin and they headed down the path to the beach.
When they left the shade of the woods, the sun beat against Meara’s cool skin. She pulled her sweater off and tied it around her waist. Searching the sky ahead of him, Mac tore off down the beach in the direction that he had seen the kite the day before.
“Hold up, Mac.”
He slowed and turned toward her.
“How about if we take off our shoes. We can walk in the water.”
Mac plopped in the sand and tugged at his canvas shoes. Meara stepped out of her sandals and tossed them farther up on the beach, toward the grassy edge. Mac followed her lead. With the shoes safely stowed, they stepped into the frigid morning lake. With a shuddering laugh, they trudged along, halting for an occasional shell, but no matter what she said, Mac’s mind seemed focused on the bend in the shoreline.
Though the strange man had rankled her the day before, his image rose in her thoughts. Handsome, he was. Tall and lean, six-foot-plus, she guessed, with ash-brown hair streaked with wisps of gray. But mostly, she remembered his eyes, sad eyes of the palest blue, and his full, shapely lips, closed and unsmiling.
Why? filled her mind. He seemed a paradox, a grim, brooding man flying a bright, beautiful kite. The picture didn’t mix, like Scrooge tossing hundred-dollar bills to the poor.
Curiosity drove her forward, and her breath faltered in anticipation as she rounded the bend. Releasing a ragged blast of air, she paused. The sky ahead was empty. No kite. Nothing but the great expansion of the Mackinaw Bridge connecting the two peninsulas.
“No kite,” Mac said, halting ahead of her. He turned and disappointment filled his face. “Where’s…the kite man?”
“The man’s not there, Mac.”
Tears rose in his eyes. “He died?”
Her stomach knotted and she drew him closer. “No, maybe he’s working…or busy today.”
Mac didn’t move. “My daddy died.”
“Yes, he’s in heaven.” But she wondered if he was. Such a coldhearted man. Would God open His arms to a man who had rejected his son?
A new smile brightened Mac’s face. “Two fathers in heaven.”
She knelt and wrapped her arms around him, wanting to hold him forever. “That’s right, and don’t forget that.” She gave him a squeeze, forcing the hurtful memories from her thoughts. “I’ll race you,” she said, changing the subject. She needed to run, to clear her mind. Self-pity was a horrible thing, and she was filled with it.
She hurried ahead, half running, allowing Mac to gain some distance before she pressed nearer. He giggled and pushed his short legs ahead of him. A dog’s sharp bark drew him to an unplanned stop, and he tumbled to the sand.
“Are you okay?” She rushed forward, but he rolled over with a grin and pushed himself up. A door slam jolted her attention, and, turning, she caught sight of the ranch-style house set off the beach. Barking wildly, a dog pressed its muzzle against the front screen, and the shadow of a figure moved inside the screened porch.
Mac grabbed her hand and stared at the house through his sand-spattered glasses. A man’s voice calmed the dog to silence.
“The kite man,” Mac said, releasing Meara’s hand and pointing toward the shadowy figure. He stepped toward the house.
Meara caught his hand. “Maybe, son, but he’s busy today. Let’s go back to the cabin. We’ll take a ride into town. Mom needs a newspaper and some groceries. And—”
“Ice cream,” Mac added.
She breathed a relieved sigh. “And an ice-cream cone.” She turned and took a step in the direction they’d come. “Ready?”
He
