Mugs overflowed with liquid refreshment and plates groaned under monstrous portions. Conversation was practically nonexistent as the camp’s staff consumed copious amounts of food.
Lydia was impressed with the presentation and taste of what was commonly referred to as the Roadhouse “Monstrosity.” Although she preferred oven-fried chicken to the deep-fry method, she approved of the taste.
Neil held up a chicken leg, garnering her attention. “Soybean veggie oil,” he mouthed. Nodding, she confirmed his assessment. The soybeans added a sweet, flavorful essence.
Jill emptied her glass of red wine and extended it to Neil for a refill, her bare shoulder pressed intimately close to his. Lydia wondered if the chatty, flirtatious physician’s assistant was aware of Neil’s marital status. He’d admitted to being separated, not divorced.
Mind your business, Lydia Lord, the voice in her head chastised her. What Neil did with other women was not her concern. She knew spending eight weeks with the same people twenty-four-seven was temptation of the highest order.
“Have you decided on a dessert menu, Lydia?” Jeff asked, dabbing the corners of his mouth with a napkin.
Redheaded, green-eyed Megan Gallagher, a renowned potter, stared at Jeff in disbelief. “How can you talk about more food at a time like this?” she asked in a distinct Irish brogue. “Ye must have a belly like a bottomless pit.”
A rush of blood darkened Jeff’s face under his deep tan. “I happen to have a serious jones for desserts.”
Megan looked perplexed. “Who is this Jones person?” A chorus of chuckles and sniggles followed her query.
“I could’ve said feenin’,” Jeff teased, flashing a wide grin.
“Me sister is married to Liam Feeney,” Megan announced proudly.
The staff laughed uncontrollably, fists pounding the table while others hiccupped, trying to hold their breath. Tears rolled down many of their cheeks.
Lydia, laughing as hard as the others, dabbed at her damp face with a napkin. Kennedy’s motto of “One Camp, One Family” was evidenced by the camaraderie cementing the group who’d met for the first time only eight hours before.
“I’m with Jeff,” Grace announced. “What are the desserts?”
All gazes were directed at Lydia, who had affected a mysterious smile. “You’ll have to ask Neil about that.”
Eyes wide, mouth gaping, Neil struggled to come to terms with what he’d just heard. It was apparent Lydia wanted him to be responsible for the dessert station. How, he mused, did she know his passion was to become a pastry chef?
Recovering quickly, he cleared his throat. “In keeping with Lydia’s idea of themed menus, I plan for the desserts to be representative of each region. Tiramisu for Italy, flan for Latin America, baklava for the Mediterranean, and of course sweet potato and apple pie for the good old U. S. of A.” Hard pressed not to smile, he stared at Lydia, who acknowledged her approval with a slight nod.
During their discussion of popular restaurants, Neil had stressed which ones served the best desserts, which led Lydia to believe he would eventually become a patisserie.
“Speaking of dessert, would anyone like any?” Kennedy asked, reaching into the pocket of his slacks for a credit card. No one accepted the offer, and he signaled a waiter for the check. It had taken a little more than two hours for them to devour everything on the table.
As if on cue, everyone stood up, thanked Kennedy for dinner, and filed out of the Roadhouse several pounds heavier.
Lydia followed the others into the parking lot, breathing in the pungent odor of burning mesquite wood. She looked up at a star-filled sky with a near-full moon. The nighttime temperatures in this part of the state were at least ten degrees cooler than Baltimore, and the absence of the oppressive humidity was most noticeable.
Jeff headed toward her, Megan following. “Let Ken know that I’m going back with Megan. I told her I would give her a crash course in American slang.”
She smiled. “A couple of months of BET and MTV music videos will give her all she needs to understand our vernacular.”
As she watched the camp staff getting into trucks and cars, Lydia thought about the campers scheduled to arrive in another two days. Would some of them have trouble adjusting to living in the woods for two months? Would they bemoan the loss of their music videos and games that bombarded them constantly during their waking hours? How many, she wondered, would complete the eight-week season?
The last thought hadn’t completed itself when she felt a presence behind her. How was Kennedy able to move so quietly for a man his size? She knew he weighed over two hundred pounds, and stood at least six four, maybe five.
“Do you need a ride, miss?” he whispered close to her ear.
Lydia shivered as much from the timbre of his voice as from his moist breath sweeping over the side of her neck. Smiling, she said, “As a matter of fact I do.”
“Where are you going, miss?”
“Camp Six Nations.”
Kennedy moved closer, resisting the urge to touch Lydia. He wanted to touch her again, and not under the pretense of dancing with her. “I’m not familiar with the place,” he teased softly.
Turning, Lydia tilted her chin and stared up at him. The lights ringing the parking lot cast shadows over the upper portion of his face. “I’ll show you where it is.” There was a hint of laughter in her voice.
A half smile parted his mouth. “I’ll take you, but only if you allow me to take a slight detour.”
“Where?” A slight frown appeared between her eyes.
“I need to stop at an all-night convenience store to pick up some bottled water.”
“I need water, too,” she said quickly.
Reaching for her elbow, Kennedy led Lydia to his Range Rover. He unlocked it with a remote device, then spanning her waist with both hands, lifted her effortlessly and set her down on the passenger-side seat.
Lydia secured her seat belt and adjusted the hem of her skirt. The skirt ended above her knees when standing, but rode up considerably once she sat.
Kennedy got in beside her, his warmth and smell nearly overwhelming her as she closed her eyes. His nearness elicited a slow warming heat that began in her face before moving down her body like a swath of slow-moving lava. How was she going to spend the summer with a man whose very presence sent her senses and now her hormones into overdrive?
Biting down hard on her lower lip, she prayed she wouldn’t succumb to the sensual magnetism radiating from Kennedy Fletcher like radioactive waves.
At that moment it did not matter whether he had a wife secreted away somewhere, or a girlfriend waiting for him to come back to her at the end of the summer. What did matter was that Lydia found herself mesmerized by a man she did not want to lust after.
* * *
Kennedy maneuvered into the parking lot of a convenience store several miles off the interstate. Neon lights from another establishment sharing the property flashed the outline of a woman’s body crouched on her hands and knees. He left the engine running.
“Do you need anything else besides water?”
“Yogurt, but only if they carry it.”
He unsnapped his seat belt. “What kind of yogurt?”
“I’ll go in with you.”
Kennedy reached over and covered her hand when she attempted to undo her belt. “No. I want you to stay here.”
“Why should I?” She’d folded her hands on her hips.
“I don’t want to expose you to that.” He pointed to his right. A few men had stumbled out of the Doll House, one losing the contents of his stomach. Another unzipped his pants and urinated, while the third weaved and pointed at the ground.
Lydia averted her gaze. “I’ll stay here.”
Kennedy thought he was in for an argument once Lydia rested her hands on her hips and rolled her neck at him. She was safer inside the SUV than outside. It would take only a word or crude remark and he would revert to his football days, knocking down two-hundred-poun
d-plus men like match-sticks.
“What kind of yogurt?” he asked again.
“Fruit or plain. It doesn’t matter.”
“Don’t run away,” he said smoothly, with no expression on his face.
Lydia nodded. She certainly had no intention of leaving the Range Rover as more men staggered out of the club.
The Doll House was apparently a regular Friday night hangout where the predominately male patrons tossed back a few drinks, downed several beers while they were entertained by naked women swinging around poles and executing full splits for their amusement.
A girl Lydia had gone to high school with had become an exotic dancer to earn extra money to supplement her child support payments. Lydia had asked Victoria to hire her as a waitress for her catered parties, but Belinda said she made more money stripping at a club in a seedy, crime-infested neighborhood where most law-abiding people refused to venture out after dark. Belinda swore she would quit as soon as she saved enough money to buy a house for her three children. The last time Lydia ran into her, Belinda was still dancing because some guy she’d dated had stolen her money.
All thoughts of Belinda vanished when Lydia spied Kennedy coming out of the store, balancing a plastic sack atop a case of water. As he came closer she realized he was carrying two cases of water. Most times she struggled with one, while he carried two with no visible struggle. He motioned for her to open the hatch, and she reached over and pressed a button on the vehicle’s remote.
He placed his purchases in the cargo area and came around to sit beside her. “Is there any other place you’d like to go before I head back?”
Lydia glanced at the clock on the dashboard. It was close to eleven. She wanted to get into bed before midnight because she had to be up early for the food delivery.
She shook her head. “No.” Shifting into gear, Kennedy backed out of the parking lot.
“How do you know this area so well?” Lydia asked ten minutes into the return trip. Kennedy had taken a different route back to the camp.
“I have a little place around here.”
Sitting up straighter, she stared at his distinctive profile. “You live here?”
His eyes crinkled in a smile. “Not year-round.”
“If you don’t mind my asking, where do you live?”
He gave her a quick glance. “Friendship Heights.”
Lydia’s left eyebrow flickered. Kennedy lived in one of suburban Maryland’s affluent communities. “Will your family spend the summer in Friendship Heights, or do they plan to join you here?”
“No,” he said after a slight pause. “It’s almost impossible to get my parents to leave Alabama. But, if you’re alluding to a wife or girlfriend, then the answer is no. I have neither.”
“Did I ask you if you were married or involved with a woman?”
Kennedy ignored her sharp tone. “No.”
“Then, why did you tell me?”
“I’m hoping that by being honest and open with you you’ll change your opinion of athletes.”
“My opinion, or the fact that I won’t date them?”
“Both.”
“Does what I think of athletes mean that much to you?”
“Yes.”
There came a deafening silence inside the vehicle as Lydia, stunned by his bluntness, struggled to compose her thoughts. She was aware of her personality, and stubbornness and being opinionated weren’t her most admirable characteristics.
Perhaps she was being unfair to Kennedy. She’d tried and judged him without cause. She’d done to him what so many people did to others outside their racial, religious, and ethnic groups, basing their dislike and mistrust on stereotyping.
* * *
Kennedy slowed at an intersection, looking both ways before accelerating. He’d tried everything with Lydia except pleading with her. That he would never do because of his pride, a pride that was unyielding, a pride that had cost him the love of a woman, whom at one time he had loved more than himself.
“Okay, Kennedy.”
His right foot hit the brake so quickly that the SUV nearly went into a spin. Shifting into park, he turned and stared at Lydia, complete surprise freezing his features.
“What?” The word exploded from his mouth.
Lydia closed her eyes as her heart pumped a runaway rhythm. Counting to three, she opened them. “I’m not saying I’ll go out with you, but then I can’t say I won’t go out with you.”
He leaned closer. “What are you saying, Lydia?”
“I’m saying I’ll try and change my opinion of jocks—athletes.”
Resting his right arm over the back of her seat, he smiled. “What about former jocks?”
“Those, too,” she said softly, peering up at him through her lashes.
Removing his arm, Kennedy shifted into gear. “Good. At least we can start at one and move forward.”
Sinking back into her seat, Lydia felt a new and unexpected warmth ripple through her. When she’d arrived at the camp earlier that afternoon she never would’ve imagined meeting the mysterious, reclusive Kennedy Fletcher.
Not only was he alive and well, he was more drop-dead gorgeous than before. He was also single and not in a committed relationship; the last thought made Lydia smile.
Perhaps she’d judged Mr. Fletcher prematurely. It was apparent he wanted to play, and play she would. She would see what he was offering, then decide whether it was worth accepting. Like the tourism slogan for Las Vegas: what happens here, stays here. The same could be said for Camp Six Nations.
Once they arrived at the camp, Lydia directed Kennedy to leave her water on the porch. “How much do I owe you?” she asked him.
“For what?”
“The water and the yogurt.”
Kennedy shook his head. “Nothing.”
They stood motionlessly, staring at each other for several seconds. She was the first to break the silence. “Good night, Kennedy. Thank you for dinner.”
He angled his head, smiling. “It was my pleasure. Good night, Lydia.”
She waited until he walked the short distance to his cabin before she turned and went inside. Her first day was nothing like she’d imagined it would be.
It was quite remarkable, and she knew Kennedy Fletcher had something to do with that.
CHAPTER FOUR
It was nature’s alarm clock that woke Lydia before dawn, and not her travel clock or the camp bell. The chatter of birds nesting on several trees outside her cabin began calling to one another as soon as streaks of light pierced the night sky, heralding the beginning of a new day. She did not linger in bed.
Sunlight had filtered through the leaves by the time she’d made her bed, showered, and changed into a pair of sweatpants, an oversize T-shirt, and running shoes.
The delivery of meat and poultry was scheduled for seven, canned foods at nine, and produce at noon. Lydia was certain she and Neil would be able to organize the kitchen in time to prepare dinner for the staff and counselors.
The campers were expected on Sunday morning. She planned to have a snack available on arrival, followed by a southern-style Sunday dinner with all of the fixings.
She walked out of the cabin and off the porch. A cool breeze whispered over her face. The weather was ideal for an early morning walk. What she’d regretted most about selling her condo and moving back with her parents was not having access to a twenty-four-hour on-site health facility. She usually took advantage of the heated pool and treadmill.
Heading in the direction of the lake, Lydia realized she wasn’t the only early riser. Wearing headsets, Jeff and Megan jogged leisurely across an open field. She reached the lake, but hadn’t gone more than fifty feet when she saw Kennedy swimming toward the pier.
He hoisted himself out of the water and sat down, his feet dangling in the water. She was transfixed by the play of light over his naked upper body. He truly was an African god come to life. The droplets of water dotting his tanned brown shoulders shimmered like precious
gems on dark brown velvet.
Lydia hadn’t realized she’d been holding her breath until she felt a band constricting her chest. A wave of shame assailed her. What had she become? Watching Kennedy made her feel like a voyeur. Moving quickly, quietly, she walked back the way she’d come, away from Kennedy and away from temptation.
* * *
Perched on tall stools at a stainless steel counter, Lydia and Neil pored over pages of typed items. The pantry, refrigerator, and freezer were stocked with enough food and meat to last a week.
She gave her assistant a sidelong glance. “We need a computerized inventory. There’s no way we’re going to need this much food every week. We’re not going to need a standing order for fifty pounds of onions.”
Neil turned and met her gaze. A network of pale blue spidery veins around his penetrating dark eyes enhanced the paleness of his face.
“Who’s going to do it?”
Lydia sighed softly. “I’ll do it.”
“When?”
“Before dinner.”
“Where?”
“I’ll buy a laptop.”
“Why don’t you use the one at the main house?” Neil asked.
“I could do that, but we’re still going to need a terminal here.”
Pressing the heels of his hands to his forehead, Neil grimaced. “I forgot about that.”
Deep in thought, Lydia chewed her lower lip. “I remember seeing a Staples in a small shopping center not too far from here. Let’s plan our dinner menu and then I’m going shopping for a computer. What do you suggest we prepare?” she asked, a mysterious smile crinkling her eyes.
Neil stared at Lydia, complete surprise on his face. “You want me to put together the menu?”
“Why not?”
His gaze narrowed. “Are you testing me?”
Lifting finely arched eyebrows, she stared at him, her expression deceptively neutral. “Now, why would I do that?”
He shrugged a shoulder. “I don’t know.”
“Are you going to show me what you’ve got, Mr. Neil?” She was going to offer Neil what had been withheld from her: an opportunity to showcase his talent and creativity.
All My Tomorrows Page 4