A Mother's Love by Ruth Wind

thingssettled, figured out what was next, then she could have a nice breakdown. Maybe, she thought, wrapping a paisley scarf around her neck, they could have a memorial service. On a beautiful overlook.
    The idea made her feel sniffly again, and she refocused. Pub. Dylan. Don’t trip like an idiot going downstairs.
    He waited by the door, chatting to the girl who ran the place. When he heard Kyra coming down the stairs, he looked up and grinned, taking her in from head to toe. “Beautiful,” he said.
    â€œThank you.”
    â€œI’m on—” he glanced at his watch “—now.”
    Wielding a big umbrella, he pulled Kyra close and they dashed up the street, hips bumping, water splashing over their feet. Ducking into the pub, Kyra smoothed her hair hopelessly. It was getting curlier and curlier by the minute. “I’m going to look like a sheep by the time I get out of this place,” she growled.
    â€œBlack sheep? I like the sound of that.”
    She widened her eyes. “You are a terrible flirt.”
    He grinned, that wicked, wicked twinkle back in his eye. “I thought I was pretty good.”
    A voice from the front of the room yelled, “Jones! Chat her up later. We’re waiting for you.”
    Dylan took Kyra’s arm just above the elbow, half proprietary, half comforting, and lifted a finger to the unseen caller. “Will you be comfortable at the bar? Or would you rather a table?”
    Africa would say the bar, and Kyra saw a spot that looked right onto the stage. “I’m okay at the bar.”
    â€œHave a beer. Enjoy yourself.”
    Kyra nodded. Dylan left her and dashed toward the littledais in the corner of the room to join a tall man, all brooding beauty and long hair, dressed like a troubadour. The lead singer, no doubt. Though maybe Dylan sang, too. He had a lovely voice. A stout man with a hat on stood with an enormous drum on his hip. Dylan hit the stage, grabbed a fiddle he plugged into a speaker, and without fanfare they began to play.
    Kyra made her way to that empty spot by the bar and settled gingerly on a stool, her purse clutched in her lap. In her life she’d never gone much to clubs or bars, and this seemed heady and strange and—
    Well, exciting. The lights were low and there was a crowd of ordinary-looking people—mothers and grandmotherly types mixed in with tattooed youth and men with caps on their heads and the usual couples. A little of the tension eased out of her body.
    And there was Dylan, fiddling so gorgeously and with so much pleasure it was impossible not to smile. The singer, in his poet sleeves, glowered and glowed and danced like an enchanted being. The drummer flipped a baton of drumsticks back and forth so fast his hand was a blur, then slowed to pound dramatically, sweat beading up on his brow.
    The bartender leaned in and yelled, “What’ll you have?”
    She looked wildly for some idea of what might be orderable and spied a tap. “Newcastle?”
    â€œHalf-pint, then?”
    Kyra nodded. When it was delivered, she paid him by simply pulling out a five-pound note and putting it on the bar. He brought back change and went off to wait on someone else.
    It felt like a victory to have ordered a beer in a faraway land, and to toast herself, she lifted the glass and took a deep swallow. It was delicious.
    And on some level she knew this would be woven into the story she would tell the baby someday. That she’d come, fearful and shy, to have a beer and listen to a handsome man play Celtic songs.
    Hard on the heels of that thought came a sense of wonder. She was in Wales! In a pub in a tiny village she had not even known existed before today, listening to music played by one of the most devastatingly sexy men she’d ever met.
    How amazing!
    As the music unwound the knots in her neck, more wonder slid into the places usually occupied by worry and fear. For most people, sitting here this