A Mother's Love (4 page)

“C
AN WE STOP IN THE
church before we go back?” Kyra asked, pausing in front of the wrought-iron fence that surrounded the graveyard.

Dylan pushed away the dread in his chest. “It would be best to get back. My mother will be cooking—and she isn't pleased with all of this anyway.”

“How do I win her approval?” Kyra asked.

It was startling in its directness, startling enough he stopped. She paused with him, the long black curls blowing on the barely visible breeze, as if the earth itself had a vested interest in making her look as attractive as possible. In the hazy gold light breaking through the day's mist, he saw a sprinkling of freckles over the bridge of her nose and scattered on her chest. He told himself he liked bustier women, but something about the freckles made him want to see what she would look like without her shirt, without the bra he knew by the way her breasts moved was nothing much but a stretchy athletic scrap.

Stop,
he told himself and took a breath. “Well, I'm not sure you can. She's made up her mind that you're full of fluff and nonsense and never will care for a baby as well as she could.”

“But—I'm hardly a frivolous person! I have a business of my own. Africa and I have made a fortune, and I'll safeguard Amanda's portion with my life.”

In the sunlight her eyes were the color of new ferns. “I know,” he said. “You asked for the truth and I'm giving it to you. She's old-fashioned and protective. And she loved my best friend Thomas from the time he was a very small boy. Amanda is all there is of him.”

She made a face. “It doesn't help that I made such a mess of things yesterday. I really don't have any experience with babies.”

“You'll learn.”

“I hope so.”

In the car he asked, “How did a girl named Amanda become nicknamed Africa?”

Kyra chuckled. “Causes. She was always raising money for causes of various kinds, carrying her coffee can all over campus, soliciting for orphans or Africa or something. A friend of ours started calling her Africa and it stuck.” Kyra shook her head, smiling faintly. “She was the biggest geek you could possibly imagine—so skinny she had knobs for elbows and knees, and long stringy hair. And her causes.” She touched her throat. Took a breath. “Always her causes.”

He saw her wipe a tear away surreptitiously. “And you? What were you like?”

“Even worse.” Kyra laughed. “I was a math major. A girl with a slide rule. We were matched up as roommates because we both loved classical music.”

He laughed appreciatively. “Well, you've grown up very nicely.”

“Thanks.”

He drove them to the cottage, which sat in its little spot in the open, where sea winds buffeted the roses and the lavender and the tomatoes in his mother's garden and storms
crashed over the craggy cliffs behind. It was a hard landscape, one that needed a strong nature.

Kyra visibly braced herself as they headed up the walk, and he caught her arm impulsively. “Live through this and I'll see to it that you have a little joy tonight.”

She inclined her head quizzically. “How so?”

“I fiddle in the local pub.” He winked. “The singer's a strapping lad—the women all love him.”

One heavy, dark brow lifted. “I won't.”

“Won't you?”

“I dislike men who are that popular.” She stepped on the stoop and waited for him to open the door, hands folded in an oddly prim way before her.

“Relax, my lovely,” he said with a grin.

“Oh, sure. No problem.”

He opened the door. “The executioner awaits.”

 

K
YRA SMELLED FISH AS
soon as she came in the door. As Emma came around the corner, she pasted a bright smile on her face and said, “Hello! You must be cooking something wonderful!”

With a dishcloth thrown over her shoulder and the sturdy apron covering her bosom, Emma looked, Kyra thought, like one of those steely-eyed matrons who'd manned the hospitals during World War I. No nonsense here, that was clear. “I hope it's not burnt,” she said. “It's Dylan's favorite. Kedgeree. With peas fresh from the garden.”

“Wonderful. How is Amanda?”

“Amanda?”

“The baby?”

“Oh. Yes. She's sleeping. Ate like a trooper and went to bed not twenty minutes ago.”

Kyra felt a prick of heat in her chest and took a cooling
breath. No way through this but right through it. “Do babies always sleep so much?”

“Good babies do.” Tugging the dish towel from her shoulder, Emma led the way into the tiny dining area to a table set with a fresh cloth beneath a window overlooking the sea. “Well, come sit down.”

The dish was beautiful. Kyra could appreciate the fresh green peas dotting fluffy white rice. But the smell of smoked fish spoiled it. Even before she'd given up meat, she'd despised fish. Born inland, she'd never had a chance to develop a taste for it, and now it was a moot point.

Or mostly it was. Somehow she was going to have to get through this meal.

Dylan said, dishing up a spoonful of the casserole, “This is one of my mother's best dishes.” He passed the spoon toward her, eyes quiet. “She's known far and wide for it.”

Kyra took the hint and focused on telling a single truth. “It looks beautiful.”

How hard could it be to eat a serving or two? She wasn't six years old, throwing a tantrum about bad food. With determination, she focused on the beauty of the fresh peas, the snowy rice, the chunks of fish. As she ladled a spoonful from the dish, the smell wafted upward on the steam, smelling of—

Ocean,
she told herself and focused on the idea of offerings from the sea and earth. The ocean smelled just like this. She loved the ocean. She passed the dish to her left, to Emma.

“Is that all you're having?” she asked. “There's plenty!” And before Kyra could come up with a good excuse, Emma scooped a massive helping onto Krya's plate. “There you go. Are all American girls as skinny as you and Africa? Don't you all know men like some meat on a woman's bones?”

“Mother,” Dylan said mildly, reaching for the salt.

“Oh, I know, I know. I talk too much. But I'm an old woman.” She seemed downright cheerful, her face flushed from cooking, strands of hair sticking to one cheek. “I've earned the right.”

As the others dug in, Kyra gingerly scooped up a bit of rice and peas. If there was so much on her plate, maybe she could get away with only eating the nonfish parts and bury the fish in the rest of the meal.

Fish broth filled her mouth. Smoky, sharp, exceedingly unpleasant. Kyra swallowed, took a sip of water. “Wonderful,” she said.

“This is one of Dylan's favorites,” Emma commented.

“Is that so?” Kyra noticed both of them had made a big dent in their piles, so there was obviously nothing wrong with the food, only her own taste buds. Recalling meals when she'd been forced to eat cow's liver and chicken gizzards as a child, Kyra held her nose and took another bite. Chewing as little as possible—not difficult, actually—she swallowed fast. Drank some more.

“Have some bread and butter.” Dylan nudged the plate toward her. His eyes, when she met his gaze, danced with wicked humor. He
knew.

She raised an eyebrow. “I'm afraid I'll have trouble eating all of this, delicious as it is.”

“Don't get too full. You've got pudding, haven't you, Mother?”

“Lemon cookies.”

Kyra took a breath and scooped a big bite onto her fork and popped it into her mouth. Her tongue detected fish parts and peas, and the gag reflex that had kept her such a picky eater as a child suddenly kicked in. Resolutely she focused her gaze on a spot just above the window.

She got it down. With a sigh, she patted her tummy. “If I'm going to leave room for lemon cookies, I'm afraid that's all I can eat.”

Emma made a sound through her lips, but she bustled around, picking up the plates.

“May I help you?” Kyra asked.

“Aye. Take the casserole.”

Kyra followed her. The kitchen was tiny, with barely enough room for two people. She put the dish on the stove.

“Put the tea on the tray there and bring it into the other room.”

Kyra saw the tray, already laid with spoons and napkins and a dish of sugar cubes and a ceramic pitcher of what she presumed must be milk. She didn't see a teapot. “Where is it?”

“Right there,” Emma said, pointing in exasperation.

It was nestled beneath a knitted red sweater, only the nozzle or spout sticking out. How was she supposed to know? But without a word she carried it into the other room and put it on the table.

Dylan smiled up at her, those dazzling eyes alight. Gently he touched her hand. “Well done,” he whispered. “Remember, it'll be worth your while.”

Just then, the baby let loose a little mewling cry. Kyra turned, feeling both terrified and excited—she was awake! Without a second thought, she headed for the crying infant, tea and Emma and even Dylan simply forgotten.

She reached the cradle before Emma, who had hurried out of the kitchen. “I've got her,” Kyra said.

Emma's jaw went up. “Go on, then, pick her up. If you run to her every time she cries, you'll be spoiling her.”

“But you—” She clamped her lips around the contradic
tion. Heat stole up her cheeks, but she turned toward the baby and put a hand on her tummy gently. “Shh, honey. It's okay.” The baby cawed, shoving a tiny fist half in her mouth. “Does that mean she's hungry?”

“Sometimes, but she ate not an hour ago. Maybe she's filled her nappy.”

Kyra looked at the older woman. “Will you show me how you change her diaper?”

“Lord, haven't you ever done it?”

Kyra thought of her isolated childhood. An only child born to an eccentric and extremely religious mother, Kyra had not even been allowed to work in the capacity of baby-sitter. “I never really had a chance,” she said simply. “Luckily there's you to teach me.”

Emma softened. “All right, then. Here's what we do.”

The baby had indeed filled her diaper, and Emma frowned. “That's not looking right,” she said. “Too dark.”

“How do you know?”

“You get to where you know all sorts of things. No new mother would know this.” Pursing her lips, she pressed two fingers into the baby's skin. “A mite jaundiced still, I think. If we had a bright day and she could get into the sunshine, it would help, but—” Briskly Emma refastened the snaps along Amanda's little jumper and picked her up. “I think she's all right.”

The baby cooed, peering over Emma's shoulder at Kyra, who held out a finger for the baby to grasp. “You're a beautiful girl,” she said. “You are.”

Emma bounced gently, all her softness like a pillow for the tiny body.

“May I hold her?” Kyra asked.

“Sure, sure.” With confident movements, Emma handed
the baby over. “There you go. Just be firm in how you hold her. She's not going to break, you know.”

Trying to be conscious of everything at once, Kyra gathered Amanda close, forgetting for one second to uphold the floppy head, which rolled sideways sharply before Kyra caught it. The baby jerked, frightened, maybe hurt, before arms flailed out and she burst into wailing tears again.

“Oh, I'm sorry, baby. I'm so sorry.” Kyra pressed her cheek into the little face, but Amanda was inconsolable once more, raging against Kyra with the force of a gale. Tears stung Kyra's eyes, and she abruptly handed the baby back to Emma. “You take her,” she said and rushed out of the cottage.

D
YLAN HEARD THE BABY
screech, then the door slam—Kyra, he was sure—and glanced out the window to see her storming away down the rocky bluff, her hair flying like wings around her head.

He chuckled at the long, boyish stride, as unstudied and sturdy as that of a teenager, and put down the teapot. On the way to the door he gave his mother a wink. “You must admit she's trying hard.”

Emma inclined her head, neither yes nor no. “She can't go running away every time things don't go right.”

Dylan had another theory—that Kyra was essentially shy and found it difficult to bumble about in front of strangers. Taking a cap from the rack, he ducked into the freshening wind coming off the waves, smelling a storm in the distance. A fishing boat made its way northwest to the harbor, shifting up and down like a cartoon. He didn't see Kyra until he cut between the rocks to the small, pebbled beach.

She sat with her knees clasped to her chest. The wind flung her curls every which way and swept the edges of her skirt back from her feet in ripples of thin pink and purple fabric. The white curve of her cheek showed something so bereft Dylan wanted to wrap her up close, hug away that loneliness he recognized.

Though he made plenty of noise, she didn't turn. “Go away. I'm just sulking for a minute. This is hard.”

He settled beside her on the flat rock. The hem of her scarflike skirt flew over his knee, and he left it, touching the thin fabric with one finger. For a long time he didn't say anything, giving her room to vent if she needed to. When she still didn't speak, only stared out at the waves starting to churn a little in the wind, he said, “You've nearly got my mother eating out of the palm of your hand.”

“That won't last long.” She turned her head and put a cheek on her knees. “Do you really like that casserole?”

“Kedgeree,” he said, grinning. “I do. It's my favorite. We grew up on it.”

“Ugh. I hate fish. I don't eat meat, but I hate fish.”

“You gave a command performance.”

That brought a hint of a smile to her face. “Thanks.”

He looked back to the waves. Tossed a rock, then another, toward the line of foam.

“You said ‘we' grew up on it,” Kyra said. “Do you have brothers and sisters?”

“I do. Five of us, all told. Three of them live around here, and one's gone to Australia, sort of a reverse wander.”

“You're the youngest?”

He cocked a grin her way. “I am not. Were you thinking I was so charming I must be the wee one?”

“So which is it?”

“Oldest.”

Kyra frowned. “That doesn't feel right. Your mother treats you like a younger son. Solicitously.”

“I left home for a long time. Nearly fifteen years. I didn't come home until three years ago.”

“Where did you go?”

“All over. I'm an engineer, an expert in big construction, roads and bridges. I lived in Malaysia and Australia and Latin America and California.” He tossed a rock, thinking of the tangles of bright pink flowers and mild weather. “I quite liked California.”

“Why did you come back?”

He shrugged. “My father died. Then I met someone and thought I was going to marry her.”

“And?”

“It didn't work out.” He frowned, looked at her. “I don't usually tell people that.”

“People often tell me things they don't tell anyone else.”

“Do they, now? Well, to make it a little more fair, you should tell me something you don't ordinarily tell.”

She smiled, and he loved the teasing light that suddenly appeared in her fey eyes. “I don't think so. You're too much already.”

A bolt of something hot went through him. “Am I?”

Color brightened her cheekbones, and she looked away, but after a second or two something magnetic, something rich and hot between them, made her raise her head. Wind blew hair away from her face. He was suddenly aware that her toes were bare, her sandals akimbo on the sand, that their arms were within millimeters of touching, that her skirts curled around his knee.

He told himself he should not do it, but he raised a hand and captured a long skein of hair in his fingers. A curl bent around his knuckles much the same as the skirts shaped themselves to his knee. She didn't move, only watched him with that stillness, her eyes full of things he couldn't read.

The moment stretched like something out of a fairy tale, the soft blue-purple of the clouds behind her, the luminosity
of her brow, the line of her collarbone, dusted so appealingly with those freckles. He knew he would remember this, whatever else spun out between them; his mind fastened the sand into place beneath her feet and the scent of water and the taste of possibility in the air.

He bent in close, caught in the
something,
in the
whatever,
in the
never-never-ness
of her sitting there on the rock like a mermaid. She didn't move away. Her chin lifted the slightest bit, and he tucked his hand around the back of her skull gently, so gently, and angled his head. Their lips met.

Soft. Such a rich softness, he thought, plump lips with give and pliancy to them, and he smelled something female on her cheek…and that's all it was. Pressing and releasing. And then again.

And one more time.

This time they both parted their lips just the slightest bit, and it was an opening like a flower, the barest smoothness of inner lip, the lightest suggestion of her tongue, of his, nearly touching, then not. A shiver rushed down his spine—he had not kissed like this in…forever. Ever.

After a moment she angled herself gently away, and Dylan, slightly dizzy, lifted his head. There was somberness in her eyes. Wariness, too.

It was as if the air around them sparked. To lighten the strangeness, Dylan winked. “You're a sly one, trying to get off the hook like that.”

“Pardon me?”

“Getting out of answering my questions.”

“Oh, that.” She nodded, pulling her skirt off his shin as she stood. “We should go back.”

“You need to relax a little, Kyra. With the baby, I mean.”

Her eyes showed terror. “I know! But I don't know how!”

“Let's go practice. Stop worrying so much.”

“Maybe,” she said with a catch in her voice, “I'm just not cut out for this. Maybe I have no mothering talent.”

He smiled gently. “Or you have no practice.”

“Practice,” she said more to herself than to him. She grabbed her shoes and put them on. With squared shoulders, she headed up the hill.

Dylan let her lead, feeling a sweet and dangerous liquid moving through his limbs.
Be careful,
he told himself.
Be careful.

 

E
MMA WAS IN THE
rocking chair when Kyra poked her head around the door. “I'm sorry I panicked,” she said. “Can I try again?”

“You can't be running off when you're on your own, you know.”

“I know.” Kyra folded her hands. “I'm sorry.”

The older woman stood, Amanda cradled in her fleshy embrace. “Just tuck her close to you, sweet,” she said and shifted the baby into Kyra's arms. “Yes, like that.”

Kyra half expected the baby to start crying again, but she simply looked up at her curiously, somehow quizzically. “Hi, again,” Kyra said.

Amanda blinked big blue eyes.

“Sit down, Kyra,” Emma said. “Be comfortable.”

Kyra moved carefully over to the rocking chair and settled into the cushioned seat. In this position it seemed easier, her elbows falling into place at her sides, the baby braced against her upper arm, her bottom against Kyra's belly. In yoga there was a teaching that said,
Find the ease in the pose.
The injunction calmed her. Ease was in feeling how a baby needed to be held. Close but not rigid. As she relaxed, the baby relaxed, too.

Kyra began to hum under her breath, a song she had been singing under her breath as long as she could remember. It must be something from her childhood, but she had no idea what. Amanda gazed upward, moving legs and arms in a curious way, one that Kyra suddenly realized was just exploratory—
What does this thing do?

She laughed and put her palm against the sole of the baby's tiny foot. “That's your foot,” she said and gently pushed. “Push back.”

Amanda pushed back, her eyes lighting up when Kyra playfully pushed a little more, bending the tiny knee. “That's it,” she cooed. “This is your ankle and this is your leg and this is your tummy.” Everyone said babies this small didn't smile, but Kyra would have disagreed. As she worked her way up the tiny baby body, ending with kisses to the tiny fingers, Amanda wiggled happily, her eyes shining, her mouth curled into a baby smile. “You like that, don't you?”

Amanda wiggled all over and Kyra laughed.

“Looks like you're getting the hang of it,” Dylan said.

Kyra looked up, and a bolt of high-voltage electricity blasted through her chest. He was so very, very sexy, with that rakish hair and the vivid eyes and his—oh, that kiss!—skilled mouth. Way too much for her, she told herself. “I think she likes this game.”

“You relaxed.”

Kyra nodded and lowered her gaze gently back to Amanda, who made a funny sound—
ack!
—that made Kyra laugh. “You silly. What was that?”

“It's Welsh,” Dylan said.

“Oh, really.”

“It means ‘I need my uncle Dylan to cuddle me right now.'”

“Ah.” Kyra grinned. “That can be arranged.”

He bent over and scooped the baby out of her arms. It was a fast, sure gesture that lasted no longer than a second or two, but Kyra felt every detail—his forearm against her ribs, a whisper of his black hair brushing her mouth, his scent of sea and rain washing down her body like water, soaking her every pore.

She pressed her hands to her thighs, smoothing her skirts, and jumped up. “You can have the chair.”

“That's all right. Sit.” He had Amanda braced against his left arm, her bare legs dangling over his forearm, and without any fanfare he began to sing in a strong, vibrant voice. “If she were mine and loved me well, Life would be naught but pleasure…”

Kyra blinked, and for one luxurious moment she gave herself up to the lure of Dylan Jones. That liquid voice, his strong tanned hands, the power in his corded forearm, the movement of his throat as he sang. She let herself soak in every detail—the breadth of his shoulders, the loose clasp of his denim jeans over narrow hips, the tumble of wavy hair over his brow.

But the real appeal was the cheery tenderness, the calm knowing he showed in handling the baby. He was fond of her. He knew what to do. He was utterly natural, a born father.

His kiss came back to her, and unbidden came a vision of what it would be like to kiss him if both of their chests were bare, if he was naked, if he—

Kyra realized she was leaning forward, the ring finger of her right hand against her lips so her tongue could rub over it, since it couldn't rub over whatever parts of Dylan she was thinking about. With a jerk, she pulled her hand down and
folded it tightly together with the other one, trying not to be aware of his body—or her own, which felt distinctly as if she really had been standing there with her breasts and bare belly pressed into the skin of his torso.

Good grief.
What was wrong with her? This was just not her style at all!

It was probably the shock, she told herself, a need to make love and affirm life after a sudden and untimely death.

“Do you like her name?” Kyra asked. “Is Amanda the right name for her?”

“It's pretty,” he said and gave her a little smile. “But maybe Thomasina is even prettier. Thomasina Amanda?”

Kyra scowled. “No. There is no flow to it.”

“True enough.”

“What would Thomas have wanted her to be called?”

“Now there I have no clue. Tommie?”

The baby
giggled.
Kyra laughed. “Say it again.”

“Are you Tommie, little girl? Tommie?”

As if she were trying to speak, the baby said, “Ack, agi, ag, ag.”

Dylan looked at her. “Tommie it is, I think. But maybe it should be Amanda Thomasina formally.”

Kyra stood and kissed the baby's cheek. “Tommie, girl, you're going to be full of surprises, aren't you?”

As if answering, she turned her head and gurgled.

“Wow,” Kyra said, a hand over her heart. “Who knew they could snare you like this?”

Dylan nodded. “Who knew?”