A Mother's Love by Ruth Wind Page A

way would not have seemed like so much, but Kyra had always been desperately shy. She’d never had a very large circle of friends. Her mother had passed on three years ago. It wasn’t that Kyra was cold, but even as a child she’d been a little different, shy and too smart, and her mother had been odd, so she’d dressed Kyra in a very conservative way. In an ordinary American high school, she’d stood out in all the worst possible ways.
    And look how the circle had turned. Now Kyra was the mother who had a daughter. And for Amanda, Kyra would do what her mother had not done: the baby would have a wide social net, full of time to meet people and discover hobbies. Dance lessons, perhaps. Or soccer. Or art. Or maybe she would even like computers.
    She took a sip of her ale. A daughter!
    It wasn’t entirely real. It wasn’t an entirely happy situation. At the heart of it, though, she felt a real glimmer of something.
    Onstage the trio dug into a reel, and the room went crazy. There was dancing, something like the Irish dances she’dseen but not quite. The man next to her, ancient and jovial, leaned in and asked if she’d dance with him. She nearly refused before she remembered that she was supposed to be experiencing life. “I have no idea what I’m doing,” she said.
    â€œYou’re American!” he said and laughed. “Come, lovely, and I’ll give you a spin.’
    Kyra waded into the midst of the villagers, wishing fiercely that Africa were here, that the whole thing hadn’t come about for such a sad reason. A plucking pain fluttered around her chest, but with conviction she also knew that Africa would want Kyra to do exactly these things: wade into life, up to her neck.
    So she danced and went back to her seat and drank of her ale, then watched Dylan some more. He flirted with everyone, but especially with her—or was that just her perception? At the break he brought his friends over to introduce them. “This is John,” he said, gesturing to the drummer.
    He bowed and said something long and cheery that might as well have been Martian for all that Kyra understood. “Nice to meet you,” she said.
    Dylan laughed. “He said you’re a fine-looking woman and what are you doing with me?”
    â€œWell, I’m—” she began, about to deny that she was here with him. But she was, wasn’t she? “He’s a charmer, isn’t he? How could I refuse?”
    The two laughed. At the edges of the circle, the singer gave her a look she assumed was meant to make her swoon, heavy-lidded and smoldering. “An American,” he said to Dylan. “Would have thought you’d learned your lesson about strange women.”
    Something sharp and dark crossed Dylan’s face, but he held to the smile. “This is Wyn,” he said. “And he’s sure he’sthe man of the hour at all hours, but he sings well enough that we put up with it.”
    â€œPay him no mind,” Wyn said, holding out a long white hand.
    â€œI’m surprised you don’t sing,” Kyra said to Dylan. “You have a beautiful voice.”
    He threw an arm around her, murmuring quietly, “You’re a gem, you know it?”
    â€œSo,” she said, “are you.”

CHAPTER SEVEN
    D YLAN SAID , “C OME , my lovely, I’ll walk you back to your room.”
    â€œI’m sure I can find my way,” Kyra said. “It’s only a block.”
    The fan lines around his eyes crinkled. How was it even possible this man had never married? “I insist.”
    She nodded. They stepped into the night, quiet and still, with a moon shining now through the clouds. The streets were wet, reflecting the cold light, and Kyra felt a shiver walk down her spine. For a moment she paused, listening. Far away was the sound of the sea, crashing on the rocks near the shore, but nothing else. A wisp of wind rustled her hair, and