All My Tomorrows

by Rochelle Alers

  “We’re cooking for a little more than thirty, so I’d go with grilled London broil in a cilantro mint vinaigrette, grilled veggies, and a salad.”

  Lydia nodded. “What about those who don’t eat beef?”

  “Grilled chicken.”

  She nodded again. “What type of salad? Caesar? Waldorf?”

  Excitement flushed Neil’s normally pale face. “What about a mixed citrus with red onions and escarole?”

  “Good choice,” Lydia said, complimenting him. “I suggest two salads. The other can be apples or pears, walnuts, and blue cheese.”

  “I like your style, Lydia. You’re definitely top-shelf.”

  “It’s not so much what you prepare as it is working with what you have. We have bushels of seasonal fruit that should be eaten before it spoils. We can serve it for all three meals and snacks.” Baskets of fresh raspberries, blackberries, blueberries, and strawberries were stored on shelves in the walk-in refrigerator.

  “What about dessert, Lydia?”

  Tilting her head at an angle, she smiled at him. “What about it, Neil?” she asked, answering his question with one of her own.

  He flashed a warm, open smile…for the first time. “Trifle.”

  Reaching over, she squeezed his hand. “You just earned yourself a gold star.”

  * * *

  Lydia sat down on the side of her bed, a towel wrapped around her damp body. Votive candles flickered, throwing low and short shadows over the walls. She ached, neck, back, and wrists, from spending hours hunched over the laptop entering every description and quantity of provisions in the kitchen after helping Neil prepare dinner. He had concocted a marinade with an Asian flavor that tantalized the palate. She was more than impressed by his trifle. Everything from the pound cake to the whipped cream and toasted almond garnish was made from scratch.

  Neil’s cooking ability was only surpassed by his speed. Lydia hoped his wife would realize that his passion was cooking and not sitting in a cubicle auditing government agencies.

  Her own love affair with cooking began at age four. Etta Mae had sat her on a kitchen stool, hoping to keep her amused. Amusement became curiosity and finally an obsession. Cooking had become as vital to Lydia as breathing. And to succeed in her field had become an all-consuming drive that could only be assuaged by owning and operating her own restaurant.

  She wanted to sit out on the porch and listen to music, but decided against it. In a few hours it would be Sunday. Removing the towel, she lay across the bed and within minutes fell asleep.

  * * *

  Kennedy stared through the screen, watching Lydia walk across the meadow. Although they were living close to each other he’d found it odd that he hadn’t caught a glimpse of her since the night they’d gone to the Roadhouse.

  A slow smile parted his lips as he slipped his hands into the pockets of his shorts. The memory of her soft body pressed intimately to his, the hauntingly sensual fragrance of her perfume, and her exquisite, fragile beauty had lingered. His smiled widened. She was dressed for work. Instead of jeans or a revealing slim skirt, the luscious curves of her body were concealed under a pair of loose-fitting black pin-striped pants and a white tunic; a black-and-white-patterned bandana covered her hair.

  The vibrating motion of the cell phone clipped to his waistband broke into his musings. Peering at the display, he saw his mother’s number. Vertical lines appeared between his eyes. Diane Fletcher-Anderson did not make it a practice to call him this early. He picked up the phone.

  “Good morning, Mama.” The slow Alabama drawl from his youth was back.

  A soft laugh came through the earpiece. “Good morning, son.”

  “How are you feeling?”

  “I’m mighty fine, Kennedy. It’s your father who’s not doing so good.”

  “What’s wrong with Dad?”

  There came a slight pause before Diane said, “It’s not Philip.”

  If it wasn’t his stepfather, Philip Anderson, then that meant it had to be Marvin Kennedy—the man who had fathered him, a man who had rejected him before his birth, a man whom he met for the first time a week after he’d inked a multi-million-dollar contract with a signing bonus to play for the NFL. Closing his eyes, Kennedy girded himself for bad news.

  “What does he want?” A thread of hardness had crept into his voice.

  There was another pause from Diane. “It’s not what he wants, Kennedy, but what he needs.”

  He opened his eyes. “Okay, Mama, what does he need?” The last time Marvin contacted him it was because he needed money. He’d lost his job and the bank had threatened to foreclose on his house.

  “A kidney.”

  “A what?”

  “A kidney, son.”

  On shaking knees, Kennedy made his way over to a cushioned wicker love seat and sat down. He ran a free hand over his face. “He wants me to give him a kidney?”

  “No. He only called to say that his doctor said he’s going to need another kidney.”

  “How much time does he have?”

  “Six to nine months. A year, if he’s lucky.”

  Bitterness welled up in Kennedy’s throat like bile, resentment smoldering with the weight of a soaked blanket. Why couldn’t Marvin come to him? Why did he continue to go through Diane? Hadn’t he hurt her enough over the years?

  “Tell him to call me.”

  “You know he won’t do that.”

  A muscle in Kennedy’s lean jaw twitched as he clenched his teeth. “Either he calls me, or this topic is moot.”

  A soft sigh whispered through the earpiece. “I’ll try to convince him to call you.”

  “You shouldn’t have to convince him, Mama. Just tell him.”

  “You’re both so much alike that it—”

  “Makes you want to scream,” Kennedy said, cutting off his mother and completing her statement. “I’m going to have to hang up because I need to go to work.”

  “How’s the camp?”

  Smiling for the first time since answering the call, he gave Diane an update. “The kids are coming in today.”

  “I think it’s very noble of you to build a camp for less fortunate children, but I still would like to see you married with children of your own. I want a grandchild.”

  “Bye, Mama.”

  “Don’t you dare hang up on me, Kennedy Marvin Fletcher,” Diane warned.

  “Love you a bunch.” He pressed a button, ending the call.

  Getting to his feet, Kennedy reattached the phone to his waistband. Diane Fletcher-Anderson’s call disturbed him more than he wanted to admit. Just when he thought he’d straightened out his life it was about to be torn asunder with the news that his biological father needed a kidney.

  Temporarily dismissing Marvin’s medical condition, he pushed open the porch door, descended the steps, and headed for the kitchen. He needed a cup of coffee—black and very strong.

  * * *

  Lydia felt a presence and her head came up. Kennedy stood on the inside of the double doors. Her gaze moved leisurely from his stoic expression to his strong legs in a pair of khaki walking shorts.

  She smiled. “Good morning.”

  “Good morning.” His expression did not change. The smell of grilling bacon and brewing coffee filled the expansive kitchen. “Is the coffee ready?”

  “Not yet. Which one do you want? Leaded or unleaded?”

  A hint of a smile softened out the sharp angles in his face. “Leaded, please.”

  She took a quick glance at the urn. “Give it a few minutes.”

  Moving closer, Kennedy studied Lydia as she quickly, deftly chopped the ingredients for omelets. “Where’s Neil?”

  “I told him he could sleep in late this morning.”

  “He should be here working, not sleeping late.”

  Lydia’s hands stilled. “I told you I gave him the morning off.”

  “You have no right—”

  “I have every right, Kennedy,” she said sharply, cutting him off.
Turning, she stared at his thunderous expression, but refused to back down. The table of organization in the orientation packet indicated Kennedy shared equal administrative management status with Roger and Grace Evans.

  “When I signed on I was told that I have absolute power to run the kitchen. And I interpreted that to mean on my terms, and that I set up my own schedule.”

  Kennedy was aware that Lydia had only accepted the position if she was given total control. She was talking about absolute power as if it were a divine right.

  “Just make certain he doesn’t slack off on you.”

  “I don’t believe Neil Lane has a slack bone in his body. He proved that last night. He prepared everything.”

  Kennedy was momentarily speechless in his surprise. “He cooked last night?”

  Crossing her arms under her breasts, Lydia nodded slowly. “Everything,” she crooned, drawing out the word into four distinctive syllables.

  “Damn! The dude is good.”

  “Neil is better than good. He’s incredible.” She went back to dicing red, green, and yellow bell peppers. “I decided we take turns cooking last night and this morning because we won’t have a full camp until later on today.”

  “What’s on tonight’s menu?”

  She gave him a sidelong glance. “You’re as bad as Jeff. Do you think of anything else other than food?”

  Kennedy’s lids lowered and he gave her a direct stare. “Yes, I do.”

  “What?”

  “You.”

  Lydia hesitated in dicing for a millisecond, her heart beating a double-time rhythm. Her eyebrows lifted. “You think about me?”

  Crossing his arms over his chest, Kennedy propped a hip against a counter. “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m curious.”

  Moving to the grill, she turned over strips of bacon. “What do you want to know about me?”

  He shrugged a broad shoulder under his navy blue camp shirt. “Why are you working here when you could work at any three- or four-star restaurant?”

  “That’s a long story, Kennedy.”

  Smiling, he angled his head. “Will it take longer than eight weeks to tell?”

  It was Lydia’s turn to smile. Kennedy Fletcher was a study in contrasts—he was smooth, smooth as creamy peanut butter in his demeanor, but about as subtle as a sledgehammer in his pursuit of her.

  “No,” she said softly. Straightening, he moved closer—close enough for her to feel his breath feather over the top of her ear.

  “How long, Lydia?”

  It took all of her resolve not to lean into him as she’d done before, because there was something about the man standing a breath away that made her feel protected, safe. And all of her life men had protected her: her father and six brothers.

  The only exception was Justin. She’d dated him because he was predictable and monogamous. The physical aspect of their relationship hadn’t been extraordinary. Justin never complained, but on several occasions Lydia was left feeling unfulfilled, and whenever she broached the subject with him he blamed it on her hormones or libido. He mentioned her hormones once too often, and it was one of the deciding factors that led to her ending their relationship.

  A mysterious smile curved the corners of her mouth upward. “Not long.” He leaned even closer, his warmth and scent eliciting a shiver of longing. “Probably no longer than twenty minutes.”

  “You’re right. That’s not long. Where do you want to talk?”

  Lydia’s hands stilled; she stared at the kaleidoscope of diced peppers on the cutting board. “You can either meet me on my porch, or we can go for a drive.”

  “What if we go for a walk?”

  Her head came up slowly. “Walk where?”

  “Around the lake.”

  She nodded. “Okay.”

  “I’ll come for you around seven-thirty if that’s not too early.”

  She gave him a long, penetrating look. “It’s not too early.” She’d scheduled Sunday dinner for three in the afternoon, which left her time to relax for the rest of the evening. “I want you to remember something, Kennedy.”

  He blinked once. “What’s that?”

  “It’s not a date.”

  Kennedy successfully stopped the beginnings of what would’ve become a wide grin. “I’ll try and remember that.” He pointed at the urn of percolating coffee. “Is it ready yet?”

  Lydia noticed that a button had changed from red to green. “Yes.” Reaching for a mug stacked on a shelf under a counter, she filled it with coffee. “How would you like it?”

  “Black, please.”

  She handed him the mug, their fingertips touching. Her body tingled from the contact. She watched him bring the steaming liquid to his mouth, watching its shape change as he took furtive sips. Waves of curiosity washed over her, and she wondered how she would react to the pressure of his mouth on hers. How would he taste? Would his kisses be gentle? Persuasive? Forceful?

  For the second time in as many days she turned away from Kennedy, because she did not want him to see the lust radiating from her eyes. If there was something wrong with her hormones it was because they were at that moment raging out of control.

  Kennedy savored the warmth spreading throughout his chest. He had avoided the coffee drinking habit because of its bitter aftertaste. But this cup claimed a rich fruity flavor.

  “The coffee’s good,” he remarked, taking another deep swallow.

  “Thank you.”

  Lydia did not want to concentrate on the man sharing her kitchen, so she busied herself placing sausage links on the grill, turning on the flame under a large pot of water for grits, and placing a pan of biscuits and a tin filled with batter for miniature cranberry and blueberry muffins into an oven.

  She was certain Kennedy heard her sigh the moment two adolescent boys walked in. Roger had offered to give her two counselors-in-training on a rotating basis to put out serving trays, stack dishes in the industrial dishwasher, and clean up after every meal.

  Kennedy set his mug on a counter. “Thanks for the coffee.” Not waiting for Lydia’s rejoinder, he nodded to the two boys and left the kitchen.

  “What do you want me to do, Miss Lydia?”

  She winced at the form of address, but the camp directors insisted every adult’s name be preceded by Miss or Mr.

  “You can begin putting out plates and utensils.”

  Forty minutes later the serving station was filled with trays of breakfast selections ranging from grits, scrambled eggs, bacon, and sausage to waffles, fruit toppings, and sliced melon and fruit.

  By the time the first person walked in, Lydia stood behind a portable stove ready to take requests for omelets.

  Neil arrived in time to man the omelet station, and Lydia returned to the kitchen to begin preparations for dinner.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The buses carrying the campers arrived at eleven-thirty. Wide-eyed stares mirrored their apprehension about spending the next two months away from everything and everyone familiar to them in their young lives.

  Kennedy stood with Roger and Grace, welcoming each camper with a smile and a handshake. He was fascinated by the reactions of the six-year-olds. They huddled together as if close contact with one another would protect them. All wore colored wristbands identifying them by name, age group, allergies, and an emergency telephone number.

  His heart went out to a little girl with a profusion of curly braids crying that she missed her mother. She wouldn’t move as the campers in her group made their way toward the dining hall where a snack awaited them. The impasse ended once her counselor picked her up and carried her. Exhausted from weeping, she laid her head on the counselor’s shoulder, stuck her thumb in her mouth, and fell asleep.

  Kennedy felt a strange numbing comfort despite the telephone call from his mother. Satisfaction shimmered in his eyes. He’d waited a long time for this day. The inspiration to set up a camp for under privileged children came during a fund-raiser in Baltimore
. He’d remained behind after the gathering to sign autographs, and the complaint he heard from parents was that their children had no safe place to play during their summer vacation.

  Kennedy had discussed the possibility of financing a community center with his investment banker, but it was his mother, Diane, who had suggested the sleepaway camp.

  His agent had called the major networks, requesting time for a press conference, announcing Kennedy Fletcher’s untimely retirement from the NFL. He left the game he loved, managed to avoid the media spotlight, and returned to college to earn a master’s and put into motion his plan for the camp. His life was back on track because one of his dreams was now a reality.

  If his focus on Camp Six Nations was unshakable he was not able to make the same claim when it came to Lydia Lord. He liked her because she was a challenge, more challenging than the only woman he had believed he loved enough to sacrifice everything for. But in the end the sacrifice was unwarranted. Nila had left him.

  * * *

  Lydia stood with the administrative staff as Roger explained the camp’s mission to the children lining the many benches in the dining hall. She and Neil had prepared individual snack boxes filled with sliced fruit, cheese, juice, water, pudding, and stone-ground wheat crackers. Later that afternoon they would be served a traditional southern Sunday dinner with regional desserts.

  “I’d like to welcome all of you to Camp Six Nations and what I know will become a wonderful summer experience. I don’t want you to think of yourselves as a group of boys and girls ranging in age from six to twelve, but as one camp, one family. And before you leave here I want all of you to think of your fellow camper as a family member.” Roger had adopted Kennedy’s slogan as the camp’s motto.

  “You will be supervised by a staff whose sole mission is to help you become the best that you can be. All adults will be addressed as Mr. or Miss. Once you settle into your cabin your counselor will review the list of rules that were sent to you with your acceptance letter. I cannot stress enough that each infraction is followed by a consequence. Imagine the fun you’ll have hanging out with me listening to music from way, way back in the day when everyone else is either at an overnight campout, watching a movie, or hanging out at the campfire jamboree.”