The Christmas Kite by Gail Gaymer Martin

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.”
    Jordan extracted his hand and ran his fingers through his hair, contemplating the situation. “Well, thanks. How about a cola? Or I could make some coffee.”
    “Cola’s fine.” Jordan surveyed the room, then peered through the archway toward the lake.
    “Let’s sit on the porch,” Jordan said, motioning him ahead. “There’s a nice breeze out there.” On the way, he pulled two sodas from the refrigerator and grabbed the tumblers from the cupboard.
    Blair passed him and continued to the porch, and when Jordan entered, the man stood at the screen, peering out at the water.
    “Here you are,” Jordan said, setting the bottle and glass on the end table and slumping into a chair.
    Blair glanced at him over his shoulder, then turned back to the lake. “You’re right about the breeze. Real nice and great view. But quiet.” He jammed his hands in his pockets and pivoted on his heel, facing Jordan. “Too quiet. Too lonely. Doesn’t this eventually get to you?”
    A prickling of irritation rose up Jordan’s arms to the nape of his neck. What right did