A Mother's Love by Ruth Wind Page A

then she sat up and threw her arms around them both. “Too late. It already happened. I was coming in here to tell you that I wasn’t sure we should get married under false pretenses.”
    â€œYou don’t have to say that, Kyra.”
    Kyra laughed. “You don’t have to say that, Dylan. I want to marry you even if I love you more than you love me.”
    Between them, Merry started to unmistakably cackle, her fingers in her mouth. “Um mum lum,” she said.
    And they tumbled together sideways, the baby on Dylan’s tummy. “We each have two lives to live,” she said, thinkingthis, too, would be part of the tale they unwound for Merry as she grew—the extraordinary tale of how her mommy and her daddy in heaven brought together their very best friends to make a family for their daughter.
    A tear rolled from her eye, and she looked up to see Dylan, too, was thinking of his best friend. “We’ll never forget them,” he said.
    â€œNo,” Kyra agreed.
    On Dylan’s tummy, Merry did a tap dance of joy. “La alala,” she sang. “La la la la la la lah!”
    There would be challenges, Kyra knew. Scary things and new things and things she didn’t have sense enough to expect, but all she had to do was practice, day in, day out, loving them.
    She kissed them both.

DAUGHTER OF THE BRIDE
    Janice Kay Johnson

 
    Mom, thanks for being patient, supportive, a great listener and my best friend. Every time I write about difficult mother/daughter relationships, I realize anew how lucky I am. This one is for you, with love.

CHAPTER ONE
    W HY ON EARTH WOULD her mother call and suggest lunch on a weekday? With the phones ringing and lines waiting at the counter, Leila Foster had been too busy to demand an explanation.
    But of course she’d had to say yes, even though, as the shift supervisor of the Records unit at the police department, Leila tended to eat at her desk in case she was needed. Mom hadn’t returned a single phone call all week. Hearing from her at all was a relief.
    Now that the worst of the rush had passed and Leila was free to take her purse from the drawer and remind everyone she would be out for lunch, she couldn’t help feeling apprehension.
    Leaving two clerks—technically, records information specialists—in charge, Leila hurried down the broad hallway lined with framed oil portraits of decorated, in some cases long-dead, law enforcement officers and police chiefs. She almost resisted the temptation to glance into the Major Crimes unit.
    Almost.
    But the door stood open, and her head turned, and—wouldn’t you know—he was at his desk and looked up at that precise instant. He either checked out every singleperson who passed outside the detective squad room or else he sensed her and only her.
    He was Mark Duncan, a Major Crimes investigator who had asked her out a couple of times. Well, three times. And once, when in bafflement she’d asked him why, he’d bent his head and demonstrated. Briefly.
    She didn’t like to think about that kiss and absolutely refused to do so today. She gave an oh-so-casual nod, as if barely noticing him, and walked on.
    The other women in the Records unit were appalled that she’d said no to Detective Mark Duncan. “Are you crazy?” was how Rachel had put it.
    No, she wasn’t crazy. Yes, she knew he was incredibly good-looking and sexy. She couldn’t pretend, even to herself, that she was immune to his tall, rangy body, craggy, tough face or eyes the color of a chilly winter sky. But his physical blessings—yes, that was a good description—didn’t make up for the fact that he was not at all the kind of man who interested her.
    Kind and reliable —those were her watchwords, taught to her by the kindest, most reliable man in the world, her deceased father. She ignored the cramp of grief she felt, progressing inexorably to her conclusion