A Mother's Love Read online

  “I can’t think where it would have been,” he said, then shook his head. “Never mind. It’ll come to us. Do you have bags?”

  She shook her head, which again made her feel vaguely dizzy. She pressed her fingers to her temples. “Just this,” she said, pointing to the rolling carry-on she’d brought with her.

  “I hope you brought some warmer things.” He eyed the long-sleeved T-shirt she wore, the sleeves printed with Sanskrit characters.

  “Not a lot warmer. It’s summer. I didn’t think—”

  “Never mind. You’re as jet-lagged as I’ve ever seen anyone. Let’s get you something to eat and a warm bed, shall we? Everything else will wait until morning.”

  Kyra wanted to weep with gratitude but managed to just nod. “Is it far?”

  “A bit of a drive. A couple of hours. Will you eat something first?”

  Again she nodded, suddenly overwhelmed. “Yes, please.”

  DYLAN CLEARED THE city before he stopped for tea at a roadside café. The rain, which had been drizzling all the livelong day, now began to pour in earnest, and even the fastest setting on the wipers couldn’t clear the windscreen. The shop was housed in a white cottage with a window box full of sodden petunias and a puddle of water on the pavement before the door. “Mind your step,” he said, holding the umbrella over Kyra’s dark head.

  She wasn’t at all what he’d expected, nothing at all like the airy, blond Africa, who’d been wispy and strange. Kyra was tall and, yes, thin, but with the athletic solidness of a horsewoman. The hair was a wonder, curly and long and dark, barely tamed in a ponytail. She shivered a little as they headed into the shop, crossing her arms over her chest.

  “Let’s get you some tea, shall we?”

  He ordered a pot of tea with milk from the gray-haired woman who ran the place. She brought the tea and cups along with two menus. “Not fit for man or beast out there,” she said. “We’ve a nice lamb stew today.”

  Dylan winked at her. “Thanks, love.”

  Kyra smiled at her. “Thank you.” She bent her head over the menu, blinking.

  Pretty, he thought. The long eyelashes and freshly scrubbed face, the smooth skin. He knew she and Africa had gone to school together, which would make her his own age—late thirties—but she looked about twenty-five. A long-forgotten stir moved at the base of his ribs. He scowled, forcing himself to look at the menu.

  It was small but hearty, filled with soups and stews and quiches. “I’d recommend the ham.”

  “I’m sure it’s delicious, but I’m not really a meat eater.” She raised one shoulder apologetically. “I think I’m going to give the quiche a try—we don’t often see them with peas.”

  “Don’t eat meat at all? No fish, either?”

  “No. I mean, I’m not going to be rude about it, so don’t worry about that.”

  “I wasn’t worried.” He realized that he was waiting for her to meet his eyes, and she still had not. She put down the menu and busied herself admiring the lace of the curtain at her elbow. “It’s just hard to fathom, that’s all. Don’t you miss it?”

  “Not really. It’s been a long time.”

  The woman came back and took their order, laughing in her bosomy way. When she bustled away, Dylan pointed to the steeping pot. “Shall I pour for us?”

  “Um, sure.”

  “Tea will be just the thing on such a grim day. Nothing tea can’t cure, you know.”

  She still didn’t look directly at him, but the edges of a smile caught her lips. “So I’ve heard.”

  “Have you traveled to Britain before?” Tea the color of the earth came from the spout of the utilitarian steel pot.

  “No. I haven’t been many places at all, honestly. Africa was the one who traipsed all over.”

  He’d get back to that, but she looked about to keel over. “Sugar? Or have you given that up, too?”

  “Not at all.” At last she looked at him. Her eyes were quite large, a ferny pale green, and there was the faintest glint of amusement in them. “Is sugar traditional in tea?”

  Dylan didn’t kid himself. He knew women liked him, his slight air of danger, and he let them fuss and try to bring him in, heal him and feed him like some lost dog. But it was rare that he glimpsed such straightforward, levelheaded earnestness, and he felt a tiny hook catch his chest. “Sugar and milk,” he said, stirring it in. “Not cream, which is too thick for tea.” He passed it to her. “Try that.”

  She bent and inhaled the steam, then took a gingerly sip. “Oh, that’s wonderful.”

  “Aye.” He sipped his own, sugarless but milky. “So you left the traveling to Africa, did you?”

  “Not on purpose, exactly. Someone had to run things, and I seem to be good at that. How about you—how do you know everyone?”

  “Thomas was my best friend since we were boys.” A thick sense of loss filled his throat, and he blinked hard, looking out the window to the sheeting rain. She said nothing, and after a moment he cleared his throat. “Sorry. It’s been hard.”

  She nodded, carefully skirting the loss once again. “Are you a soldier, too?”

  “No. Engineer. I’ve worked on bridges and roads mainly, but since I’ve been back in Wales it’s been office buildings and the like.” Not that he loved it these days.

  The food arrived, hearty and solid. “Eat up, Kyra. You’ll need it.”

  “You say that as if there’s something dire ahead.”

  He gave her a slight smile. “Well, you’ve yet to meet my mother.”

  Kyra widened her eyes. “What does that mean? Will she hate me?”

  “She loves the baby and she’s fierce, that’s all.”

  Kyra absorbed that, tucking into her quiche. “All I can do is my best.”

  “True enough.”

  THEIR DRIVE TOOK THEM along the sea, gray and roiling in the dark day, and Kyra found it easy to just watch the turmoil and let it carry her away from herself. Next to her, Dylan didn’t seem inclined to chatter or fill every small silence with a commentary. “Do you want the radio?” he asked at one point.

  “It’s up to you.”

  “Then, if the quiet doesn’t bother you, I’ll leave it off.”

  She nodded. The road was thin and curving, and she thought of Thomas and Africa. Skittered away.

  When they hit the edges of a village, Dylan said, “There’s not much here, but I’ve booked you into a bed-and-breakfast. The beach is close and you can walk to it. I’ll have to come get you to see the baby, who is with my mother. Do you want to sleep first?”

  “No, I want to see the baby first, please.”

  The baby they called her, so anonymously. She had no name, and for some reason that broke Kyra’s heart. “Is she all right?”

  “Right as rain. Me mum’s spoiling her.” He pulled off onto a dirt track that led through fields to a cottage sitting forlornly on a bluff over the sea. It was sturdy and square, with shutters that could be pulled over the windows and roses growing up the wall facing away from the sea.

  “How pretty,” she said.

  The door was opened by a woman as sturdy and sensible-looking as the cottage. Her dark gray hair was pulled back from her face, and spectacles dominated a round face that had not a single wrinkle despite what must be seventy years. She took Kyra’s measure.

  Dylan said, “Mum, this is Kyra. Kyra, Emma Jones.”

  “How do you do?”

  “Come in, then, won’t you?”

  Under that gaze, Kyra felt foolish and inept. As if to deliver what the woman expected, she tripped over a rug on her way in and banged into a table, sending things rocking, though nothing actually fell. “Sorry,” she murmured.

  “I guess you want to see the baby.”

  “Yes, please.”

  “This way.”

  The infant lay in an old handcrafted cradle made of wood, with high wooden sides and a heart cutout at either end. Kyra felt an odd plucking sweetness move through her at the sight of it, sitting against the cottage
wall covered with faded wallpaper from another era.

  “It’s all right,” Dylan said, and his lean hand pressed briefly into her shoulder blade, as if to give her courage.

  Courage. She had never had a child of her own, had never been much around babies or little siblings. She had never babysat for pocket money. Hidden below the high edge of the cradle was a being Kyra understood would transform her life entirely, and her heart thudded against her breastbone as if she were about to leap from a cliff or stick her hand into a nest of snakes.

  It was only a baby. Kyra took the last step and peeked into the interior. At first, all she could make out was a froth of blankets, layers and layers of thin blankets knitted in ice-cream-sundae colors—strawberry-pink and berry-blue and pale vanilla-yellow. It was warm in the room. The baby had to be sweltering, and impulsively she reached to peel a layer or two back. Dylan’s mother made a sound, quickly swallowed. Kyra didn’t look around, but she suspected it was because Dylan had held up a hand or otherwise stilled her.

  Beneath the blankets was a tiny body, a tiny hand with tiny fingers lying in a loose fist beside her flushed little face. A wave of something moved in Kyra’s heart, a sweep of emotions, the loss of Africa and the sorrow that the mother would never see the daughter, the daughter would never know the vivid presence of the mother who had given her life and, looping through that, a sense of wonder woven around the rest like a cord of light.

  “She’s beautiful!” Kyra whispered, reaching one finger out to brush the baby’s red cheek. “And she has so much hair!” She touched the black curls, found them as airy as dandelion fluff.

  “You’re going to wake her if you keep that up,” Dylan’s mother said.

  Kyra drew her hand back quickly. “Sorry. It’s not usual to have so much hair, is it?”

  “It’s all right, lass,” Dylan said, coming up next to her. “She’ll need to meet her mother, now, won’t she?”

  A wave of terror and excitement struck the back of Kyra’s throat. “I am her mother, aren’t I?” Airlessly she looked back at the sleeping girl.

  And true to Dylan’s mother’s predictions, the baby suddenly mewled and opened her eyes.

  “Didn’t I tell you?” Emma Jones rushed forward, not gently nudging Kyra aside. “You’ve gone and woken her.”

  “Mother.” Dylan’s voice was calm and low. “Let’s leave them to meet in private.”

  “Does she even know how to pick up a baby?”

  “I don’t,” Kyra admitted, and she wanted to apologize for everything she didn’t know, even the simplest, most basic things, like this—how to pick up Africa’s daughter, how to calm her, how to change her diaper.

  “It’s not so hard,” Dylan said. “I’ll show you.”

  He bent over the cradle and gathered the small bundle of girl into his hands. His thumbs were long and tan against the baby’s porcelain-white skin. “You brace her beneath her head, you see?” He moved close to Kyra, who raised a hand to brace that small head and accept the rest of her, too, which was much more solid and squirmy than Kyra was prepared for. It took a second to find the right hold, and the baby startled, arms flying out in terror, and burst into a loud, heartbroken yowl.

  Kyra froze, holding the baby up a little. “What do I do?”

  “She just got a little scared, nothing to worry about,” Dylan said over the crying. “Pull her close to you, against your chest. It will make her feel safe to be cradled against you.”

  The crying turned to a particularly piercing scream, and the baby’s face turned red, feet pumping, arms flailing, and Kyra could barely breathe for her terror. She did her best to bring the baby close against her, feeling her small bottom snuggle in against her elbow, the little feet pumping against her lower ribs. “Shh, little one,” she said quietly. “It’s okay. You’re safe.”

  Still the baby howled.

  “Bounce a little,” Dylan suggested.

  Kyra moved her arms awkwardly, feeling utterly inept and lost as the baby’s arms flew around, the tiny fist railing against the unfairness. “It’s okay, honey. It’s okay.” The baby turned her head suddenly and began to root at Kyra’s breast, mouth opening and closing in a manner that was unmistakable. Kyra blushed.

  “She’s hungry. I’ll get her a bottle.” Dylan touched Kyra’s arm as he went by, squeezing it just above the elbow. “You’re doing fine, Kyra.”

  Behind her, Kyra felt the bristling judgment of Dylan’s mother, headed toward her like iron filings to a magnet, dark and pointed but ultimately harmless. Drawing in a breath to steady herself, she jostled the baby and murmured soft things, and the baby cried on and on, turning to root at the breast, then roar out complaint.

  She was heavy and strong, Kyra thought in some wonder. A fighter, filled with passion, like her mother. In her face Kyra could see Africa—in her rosebud of a mouth, the lower lip so full and pouty; in the extraordinary length of her eyelashes, spiked together with tears. The black curls must come from her father.

  “Here, lovely, come sit down,” Dylan said, carrying a bottle. “The more comfortable you are, the more she will be.”

  Kyra sat in the rocking chair and took the bottle. “I have what you want now,” she said. Instinctively holding the baby close to her breast in the position she would take if she were nursing, she offered the bottle. The baby latched on eagerly, sucking greedily. After a moment, a low noise of satisfaction came out of her, an animal noise of pleasure. Kyra chuckled. “That’s it, sweetie,” she said.

  The baby opened her eyes. It was hard to tell the color, but they were light and direct, and she arrowed right in on Kyra’s face. Something hot and rich pierced her chest, and Kyra said, “Hello, my sweet.”

  The baby paused for one second, mouth opening slightly around the nipple as she stared upward as if surprised to see this face in front of her. For a long moment she peered at Kyra nearsightedly. “I’m happy to meet you,” Kyra murmured, touching the girl’s cheek. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”

  The baby went back to gobbling her bottle, grunting like a piglet.

  “She must recognize your voice,” Dylan said.

  “Maybe.” Africa had visited Kyra many times during her pregnancy, exploring the possibility of living in the UK or the United States. She hadn’t been sure where they would go after Thomas finished his tour of duty as a soldier.

  Suddenly Kyra knew what they should call the baby. “Her name is Amanda Thomasina,” she said. “Amanda for her mother. Thomasina for her father.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  KYRA AWAKENED INTO the faintest dawn peeking around the windows. For a long, disoriented moment she had absolutely no idea where she was—lying under a thick feather duvet beneath the sloping walls of an upper-story bedroom. Two dormer windows leaked the gray light around their curtains. Some kind of bird she didn’t recognize twittered outside, and there was a faint, almost imperceptible sound in the distance.

  The sea!

  She jumped out of bed and flung open the curtains—and there it was, the ocean. Choppy and foamy as it roared into the beach, making its way around craggy rocks. A low sky held the sound close to the earth.

  Kyra glanced at the clock—it was not yet five-thirty, and there was already so much light! The surprisingly young woman who ran the hotel had said that there would be breakfast starting at seven, and Dylan would come for her at eight-thirty. Plenty of time.

  She rushed through her ablutions, brushing teeth, splashing water on her face and tossing on her yoga clothes and the lone sweater she’d brought with her. The yoga mat had had to be folded to fit into a carry-on, and she tugged it out and rolled it properly, tucking it under her arm. There were bottles of water by the door, and she nabbed one to carry with her as she quietly let herself out of the room, then quietly made her way down the winding stairs and out the door to the day.

  The beach was just behind the house, reached by a well-worn path through low-growing succulents Kyra didn’t recognize. Long ago, her family had gon
e to the ocean for their one and only vacation, and she’d fallen in love with it. With the sand and the smell of brine and the whispering dampness of the air over her skin. The last day, as they’d driven away, Kyra had promised herself she would find a way back to it one day.

  It was a promise she’d not done very well in keeping. But now she was here, slipping and sliding in the sand, her yoga mat under her arm. She was alone except for a seagull wheeling around on wind currents.

  When she reached the edge of the water, Kyra felt a fierce joy unfold in her chest, and she paused to let it fill her up, leak into her limbs and rise to her brain, illuminating her whole body. How could she have taken such a long time to honor her promise to her little-girl self?

  Never mind. She was here now.

  Here. Now.

  “SHE DOESN’T KNOW A blithering thing about babies,” Dylan’s mother said, wrapped efficiently in a workaday apron that protected her enormous bosom. “How in the world does she imagine to raise her?”

  Dylan held the baby—Amanda, he reminded himself—and gave her a bottle. She paused a moment and farted smartly into his palm. He chuckled. “She’ll learn, Mother. Give her a little time.”

  “I don’t know how she can take this wee thing all the way to America.”

  “They have babies in America. And it’s not like they’re going on a steamship over the frigid Atlantic.”

  “Some women are just not meant to be mothers, you know.” She scoured a pan, elbows pumping. “The woman is near to forty and never had any children of her own—you’d think if it mattered to her, she would have done by now.”

  “You don’t know her story,” Dylan said patiently. “Maybe she’s a widow or she can’t have children of her own.”

  Emma turned, fixing her bespectacled gaze on him. “Oh, you’re defending her awfully fast. You sweet on her?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  She tsked and pulled the stopper from the drain, wiping counters with vigor, as if to scrub away the possibility of any life but her own vision of what it should be. “No good will come of it,” she said darkly. “Strangers bring nothing but trouble, as you well know.”