The T-shirt shop’s still stickin’ to their guns.” He took a long swig of soda.
“I’m not going to sweat it, Otis. The land is valuable. I hope the others know that and don’t sell it off for half its worth.”
“That’s what I mean. Maybe we could hold a meetin’. You know, Jordan, it’s not just losin’ the shop that bothers me. It’s what he’s plannin’ to put in its place. A saloon. One of those skimpy-dressed-waitress bars. That’s askin’ for trouble. Booze and half-naked women. We have no place for that here. This is a family vacation spot, and we want to keep it that way.”
“Who told you that’s what he’s planning to build?”
“Oh, word gets out. And I believe it. He’s after that strip of land. It’s right on the water, butted up to the ferry parking. All the Mackinaw Island traffic. He couldn’t find a better spot for a bar.”
Jordan’s stomach knotted. Otis was right, but he had no desire to get himself involved in city politics and battles. He hadn’t years ago, either, when life felt normal…and real. And now he’d settled into his life just as it was. Right here on the water, building his kites.
“So, Jordan, what do you think? You don’t want to see a joint like that in the city, do you?”
Jordan looked at the man’s serious expression. “You know I don’t, Otis. Let me think about it. I’m not sure you need to worry yet. Anyway, what about zoning? I wonder if anyone’s checked with the zoning board. Isn’t that Congregational church just down the street?”
Otis nodded. “Sure is. I wonder…” He ran his finger around the mouth of the bottle. “Let me check that out. Maybe the zoning board can save our necks.”
“Do that. Then let me know what they say.” Jordan rose and gave Otis a firm pat on the back. “Come out to the back porch, and I’ll help you load up the kites.”
Meara steered the coupe down Main Street, searching for a parking space. Tourists, pushing the summer season, thronged the streets and hung in shop doorways or gazed into colorful souvenir-filled windows. She stopped to give room to a van pulling away in the middle of the block. As he drove off, she nosed her car into the wide space.
She breathed a deep sigh. Though she knew how to drive, she’d had little practice in years. Her husband, Dunstan, or her father-in-law had driven her the few places she went. Most of the time she lived in the upper floors of the big rambling house, in her own sitting room with Mac playing by her side.
“Ice cream,” Mac called, pointing to the ice-cream parlor sign embellished with a colorful triple-dip cone.
“That’s a sure fact about you, Mac. You never forget a thing, do you? At least, nothing like ice cream.” She smiled at him as they climbed out from the car.
He stuck close to her side, and she gazed in the shop windows, stopping to buy two local newspapers and a net bag filled with tiny cars and trucks. She watched the pity-filled faces of people who glanced at her and Mac, then, in discomfort, looked away. She cringed at their lack of understanding.
Mac let out a gleeful chortle when they neared the ice-cream shop, and hastily, she quieted him as they marched through the door. As they waited their turn, she and Mac studied the menu.
The clerk dipped the ice-cream scoop into the cold water and turned toward them. “And what will you have, young—” His head jerked upright. “What would he like, ma’am?” he asked, stumbling over his words.
Her automatic defense yanked her response. “Mac, tell the young man what you’d like.”
A light flush rose on the teen’s face.
“One…dip of double chocolate,” Mac answered, sending the young man a spirited grin.
The clerk grabbed a cone and dug out a scoop. He glanced at the other workers behind the counter, dipped back into the barrel, slid an extra portion of ice cream onto the cone and smiled.
“Thank you,” Meara said, understanding his apology. “I’ll have a dip of peanut butter swirl.”
He added an extra measure to hers, too, and with napkins wrapped around the cones, they made their way past customers to the sidewalk. She kept an eye on Mac’s cone, guarding against unsightly drips, but he licked the edge and seemed in control.
“I saw a bakery across the street. Let’s take a look.”
They followed the sidewalk to the end of the block and crossed the road. Passing a fast-food restaurant, she drew in the smell of oil permeating the air, followed by the rich, taunting aroma of freshly baked bread. Beside the bakery, Meara studied the pastries and breads displayed in the window.
As she pulled open the screen door of the bakery, Mac’s strident voice bellowed in her ear.
“Kites!” He rambled past her to the window of the shop next door.
Meara closed the bakery door and followed Mac. Unique kites filled the storefront window, and in one corner, a small Help Wanted sign was taped to the glass. Her stomach tightened. She wanted a job…needed a job, but how could she work and care for Mac? She’d wait until school began and pray her money lasted.
Mac pressed his nose against the window, and Meara joined him, peeking through the glass. Magnificent kites of every shape and design hung from the ceiling and clung to the walls—dragons, birds and other shapes she’d never seen before.
Mac pulled open the screen, but before entering, he glanced at Meara. She nodded and grinned at the smear of ice cream on his mouth, then followed him inside.
“Can I…have a kite?” he asked, marveling at the myriad of designs surrounding them.
Kites mesmerized him, and she saw no reason not to buy him a small, inexpensive paper one. She looked around for the cheaper models. “We’ll see what they have, Mac.” He accepted her remark.
The shop seemed empty, but a door slammed in the back. Meara looked up to see a huge kite held by a pair of stubby hands come through the storage room doorway. The person owning the hands was hidden behind the colorful paper design with the long yellow-and-red tail.
Mac gazed with awe at the huge creation until he swung around and grabbed Meara’s arm. “The kite man.” He pointed to the doorway. An elderly face peeked around the unique kite.
“Well, hello there.” He grinned. “I’m just bringin’ in some new stock. I’ll be with you in a minute.” Placing the kite against the wall, he turned and headed back through the doorway.
Meara bent down to Mac’s level and whispered, “That’s not the kite man, Mac. This man is too old.”
Mac grinned. “No, the kite.” He pointed. “That’s the…kite man’s…kite.” His head punctuated every other word.
As Meara studied the paper-covered frame, her gaze drifted to the long tail. She could envision the yellow and red ribbons curling through the sky. “It is, Mac. You’re right. This must be where the man sells his kites.”
“Nice, huh?” The clerk’s voice interrupted their quiet conversation. He stepped toward them. “Now, may I help you?”
“Oh, yes,” Meara said, pulling her gaze to the storekeeper. “I’d like to get a paper kite for my son. You know, one of the little diamond-shaped ones.”
He chuckled. “I’m afraid you’ll have to go to the shop next door. We only have the kind yer lookin’ at here. Handcrafted, they are.”
“And expensive,” Meara added.
“I’m afraid so. At least, lots more expensive than those little paper toys. You like kites, son?”
Mac grinned at the man. “Yep.” His pudgy hand jutted outward. “My name’s Mac. What’s your name?”
The clerk leaned forward and took his hand in