Kennedy felt as if he was losing Lydia. This had begun the night they returned to the camp from his lakefront property. She’d informed him she was experiencing PMS and preferred sleeping alone during that time of the month. He’d wanted to tell her that they could share a bed without making love, but something in her tone silenced him. What he’d shared with her up to that point in their relationship was too new to override her protest.
As soon as he’d conceded to Lydia’s request that they sleep apart because she was menstruating he realized he’d become his stepfather. Although he and Philip Anderson were not related by blood, their personalities were quite similar. Philip always gave in to Diane, even when he knew she was wrong. His adage was: she’ll find out in her own good time that I’m right. And whenever he proved his wife wrong he never said, I told you so.
What if he and Lydia were married, would she deign to move out of their bedroom once a month because she had her period?
Hell no! His inner voice was talking to him again after a four-year absence. The last time he’d wrestled with his conscience was when he’d been faced with the life-altering decision to leave the NFL.
* * *
“I’ll call you when I get there,” she promised, rising on tiptoe to kiss him.
“You have my cell phone number?”
“Yes,” she whispered against his parted lips. “I’ve memorized it.”
Tightening his hold on her body, Kennedy pressed her against the door to her SUV and drank from her mouth like a man dying of thirst. “I’m going to miss you.”
Lydia closed her eyes against his intense stare. “Me too.”
She opened her mouth to his probing tongue moving in and out in a rhythm that sent her pulse racing and her senses spinning out of control, and she knew if she hadn’t been on her menses she would’ve begged Kennedy to take her back to his cabin and his bed.
Somehow she found the strength to pull out of his embrace and tear her mouth from the onslaught of his. “I have to go.”
Nodding, Kennedy opened the driver’s-side door, waiting until she was seated before he closed the door with a solid slam. Leaning into the window, he smiled. “Be safe, darling.”
Lydia returned his smile with her own sensual one. “I will,” she promised as she pushed a button, raising the window.
Kennedy gestured with his thumb and little finger against his ear. “Don’t forget to call me.”
Staring at him through the glass, she nodded, saying, “I will, baby.”
He stepped away from her vehicle and she backed out of the space. Her hand tightening on the gearshift, she shifted and drove slowly away from Camp Six Nations and Kennedy Fletcher.
Moments before turning on to the road that ran around the lake, she glanced up in the rearview mirror to find him standing motionless, as she’d left him. Hot tears pricked her lids, but she blinked them back. She couldn’t cry and drive at the same time.
Was this how it was going to be come summer’s end? Would she feel as if she was leaving a small part of herself once she returned to Baltimore? Could she leave Kennedy without letting him know what was in her heart?
She switched on the radio, surfing stations until she found one featuring country music. A smile softened her expression when she heard “Sweet Home Alabama.” The song reminded her of her sweet Alabama lover.
Kennedy Fletcher, the country boy as he referred to himself, who made her crumble like a flaky biscuit dipped in a bowl of warm molasses whenever he whispered her name in the throes of passion.
Mr. Ken, as the campers referred to him, who presented the perfect role model for young boys and girls who sought success with nothing more than focus, dedication, and hard work.
Darling, as she had begun to think of him, who displayed infinite patience whenever her temper flared without warning.
And last, but certainly not least—lover—a patient, passionate, drop-dead gorgeous, and sinfully sexy man who made her sing in bed although she couldn’t carry a tune.
She stayed on the county road until she saw the sign for I-70. Barring delays on the interstate, she could expect to reach Baltimore in an hour.
As she neared Baltimore’s city limits she’d listened to songs by Keith Urban, Kenny Chesney, Rascal Flatts, LeAnn Rimes, Tim McGraw, and Alan Jackson. There was no doubt Kennedy’s country boy influence was rubbing off on her.
Lydia maneuvered into a parking space in front of her sister-in-law’s upscale full-service salon in a strip mall. Reaching into her purse, she took out her cell phone and punched in Kennedy’s programmed number.
“You made it.”
She smiled. “What happened to hello?”
“Hey, baby,” he crooned like the late Barry White.
Lydia, laughing softly, countered with an Eartha Kitt purr into the tiny mouthpiece. “I arrived safe and sound.” Staring out the windshield, she saw Gloria peering through the vertical blinds. “I’ve got to go, Kennedy. I’ll see you tomorrow night.”
“I’ll be waiting for you.”
She nodded although he couldn’t see her. “Good night, Kennedy.”
“Good night, Lydia.”
Ending the call, she got out of the Pathfinder and walked to the door of Le Chic Tresses, ringing the bell. Fingertips parted the drawn vertical blinds covering the door, and seconds later the door opened.
Gloria Lord, sporting a head filled with graying twists, smiled at her. “Girl, get yourself on up in here.” Glo, as everyone called her, pulled Lydia to her ample bosom. “You know I only stay open this late on a Friday night for family.”
Lydia kissed Gloria’s cheek. “Thank goodness I’m family.” Easing back, she parted her hair with her fingertips. “Take a look at the new growth.”
Gloria wrinkled her short nose. “That’s nothing. You should see some of my clients when they come in asking to pay touch-up prices when they need their whole head relaxed.” She angled her head and stared at her husband’s youngest sister. “Are you losing weight?”
Shaking her head, Lydia placed her handbag on a chair. “I don’t think so.”
Gloria rested her hands on wide hips that had carried four of Dwayne Lord’s babies. “I don’t understand you and Victoria.”
“What don’t you understand?”
“Why is it the two of you cook for a living, yet don’t gain any weight? Look at me. I suck air and still can’t lose a pound.”
Lydia gave Gloria a sidelong glance as she sat down in a chair facing a wall of mirrors. Everyone teased her mercilessly about trying every diet on the market but refusing to give up eating dessert. “The fact that neither Vicky nor I have carried a baby may have something to do with it.”
“Your mama had nine babies and she’s still not overweight,” Gloria complained. She picked up a cape, shook it out, and draped it over Lydia’s shoulders.
“That’s because Mama doesn’t eat dessert.”
“What you trying to say, Liddie Lord?”
Lydia met the stylist’s glare in the reflection of the mirror. “Give up the red velvet and pound cakes. Step away from the coconut custard pie. Try a vegetable or fruit smoothie, Gloria. They’re nutritional, energy-boosting, and many are low in calories. I blend them for the overweight kids at camp.”
“Have they lost weight?”
“Most of them have lost an average of two pounds a week.” The medical staff charted the campers’ height and weight weekly.
Gloria’s round, dark eyes in an equally round, dark face narrowed. “Can you give me some of the recipes? You know I’m willing to try anything.”
Lydia smiled. “Of course.”
Picking up a comb, Glo parted Lydia’s hair into sections. “How’s camp?”
“It’s quite interesting.”
* * *
Two hours later, Lydia unlocked the door to the large white farmhouse with the wraparound porch where she’d grown up with her sisters and brothers. An overhead fixture in the entryway provided enough light for her to navigate t
he staircase to her second-floor bedroom. She passed her parents’ bedroom. No light shone from under the closed door. Even after more than fifty years of marriage, Charles and Etta Mae Lord were still passionately in love with each other.
She walked into the bedroom she’d once shared with her sister Sharon and stripped off her clothes. Covering her hair with a large plastic bonnet, she made her way to the bathroom. Gloria had relaxed her hair, shortened it by two inches, set it on large rollers, then wrapped and pinned it in a doobie hairstyle after she’d sat under a dryer.
She had less than twenty-four hours to reconnect with her family, and she intended to make the most of it. Spending the day away from the camp and Kennedy would give her the space she needed to be objective about her relationship with him.
She had to keep telling herself that what she had with Kennedy was temporary; it was only a summer fling.
* * *
Lydia was up at dawn, showered, dressed, and preparing breakfast, when her mother walked into the kitchen. Etta Mae’s smile faded, her mouth turning downward in a frown as she stared at her daughter’s body in a pair of black stretch capri pants and a matching tank top.
“You’re bad for your business.”
Turning on her heel, Lydia smiled at her mother. “Good morning, Mama.” Seventy-year-old Etta Mae Lord was tall and large-boned without an ounce of excess fat. Her silver hair was stylishly cut to fit her evenly balanced features.
Etta moved closer. “Don’t good morning me, Lydia Charlene Lord.”
An expression of confusion settled into Lydia’s features. Whenever her mother called any of her children by their full names it meant trouble—for them.
“What’s up, Mama?”
“Certainly not your weight.”
First Gloria, and now her mother, had remarked about her weight. Was she that thin? And hadn’t Kennedy mentioned she could use a few more pounds?
“Are you eating, Lydia?”
“Of course I am,” she snapped.
“Don’t take that tone with me, young lady.”
“What’s going on here?” asked a deep male voice.
Lydia wiped her hands on a terry cloth towel. She crossed the kitchen and kissed her father. “Hi, Daddy.”
Charles wrapped an arm around his youngest child’s waist, pulling her close. “Hi, baby girl.” His gaze shifted to his wife. “What’s all the commotion about so early in the morning?”
Etta Mae pointed to Lydia. “Look at your baby, Charles.”
Charles Lord stared at his daughter’s upturned face as her coiffed hair rippled over the nape of her neck. “She looks beautiful.” He winked at her. “I like your hair. Glo really outdid herself this time.”
“I’m not talking about her hair, Charles. Look at her body. She’s nothing but skin and bones.”
“Who’s skin and bones?” asked another familiar male voice.
Lydia pulled away from her father and turned around. Her brother Quintin stood under the arched entrance leading into the large kitchen, cradling a large plastic crate to his chest. He put it down and extended his arms. Except for a few strands of gray at the temples he hadn’t changed at all. At his age of forty-seven, the years had been very kind to Quintin Lord. Tall, slender, and classically handsome, he’d become a much sought after photographer, who had married a woman who’d at one time been his neighbor, and who was now the father of two sons and a daughter.
He wasn’t disappointed when Lydia rushed into his embrace. “Welcome home, kid.”
Lydia brushed a kiss over his smooth jaw. “Thanks. What are you doing here so early? Where’s the rest of your family?” Smiling, Quintin displayed a mouth full of straight white teeth under a neatly barbered mustache. The brilliance of his smile matched the diamond studs in his pierced lobes.
“Mama decided we should gather early because you’re not going to be here all day, and Vicky should be here momentarily. You know how hard it is to coax Chaz out of bed when he doesn’t have to go to school.”
Quintin and Victoria had adopted their middle child as an infant, deciding to name him Charles in honor of his maternal grandfather. Their older son had celebrated his fourth birthday when he’d officially become Micah William Lord. Victoria had given him her father’s middle name.
Victoria, who hadn’t been able to bear children, openly admitted she always wanted three children. Now with ten-year-old Micah, Chaz, five, and eight-year-old Tamara she felt her family was complete.
“Does Tamara know about the party?”
Quintin shook his head as he bent down to pick up the crate. “No. She believes it’s going to be a pre–Fourth of July cookout.”
The young girl had languished in foster homes because no one wanted to adopt an older child. But once Victoria decided she wanted a daughter, Tamara had become her first and only choice.
Lydia found her latest niece quiet and reflective when she wasn’t playing with her brothers or younger cousins. There were times when Lydia found her own family overwhelming, and she could surely understand a newcomer’s reaction to the large boisterous clan whenever they got together as a family unit.
Quintin set the crate on a tall stool at a cooking island as Sharon waddled in holding a hand under her very pregnant belly. A tiny black schnauzer puppy darted around her feet.
Etta Mae pointed at her daughter. “You know the rules, Sharon Ida Lord-Gibson. No animals in my kitchen!”
Lydia caught Quintin’s gaze, nodding. She walked over to Etta Mae and kissed her cheek. “Go sit out on the porch while I start breakfast.” She shot her father a knowing look. “You too, Daddy.”
Charles caught her meaning immediately, hoping to diffuse a confrontation between his dog breeder daughter Sharon and Etta Mae, who liked animals but not in her kitchen.
“Come, dear,” Charles said in a soft tone, cupping his wife’s elbow, “Let’s sit outside while Lydia starts breakfast.”
“Please let me help her,” Etta argued softly.
Charles pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Etta Mae. Lydia doesn’t need your help. She’s used to cooking for a lot of people.”
Etta Mae smiled at her husband with whom she had fallen in love at a high school dance. Charles had given her her first kiss and made her his wife, and in turn she’d given him nine children. She was mother to nine, grandmother to twenty-two, and great-grandmother of five.
* * *
Lydia stared at Sharon. “Why did you bring that puppy in here?”
Sharon eased her bulk down to a chair. “I couldn’t leave Fitzhugh in the car.”
“You should’ve left Fitzhugh home,” Quintin countered.
Sharon’s sherry-colored eyes narrowed as she glared at Quintin. “I can’t leave my baby by himself.”
“Fitzhugh is a dog, not a baby, Sharon. What you have kicking in your belly is a baby,” Lydia said pointedly.
Sharon’s eyes welled up. “You’re just picking on me because I’m fat and you’re skinny.”
Lydia and Quintin groaned in unison. Everyone walked on eggshells around Sharon because of her erratic mood swings.
Orlando Gibson strolled into the kitchen, encountering his wife’s tears. He went to her side, gathering her off the chair. “What’s the matter, honey?”
Sharon buried her face against her husband’s chest. “I’m fat,” she sobbed dramatically.
“You’re not fat, sweetheart. You’re pregnant, and pregnant women always put on weight.”
Orlando had given the NBA fifteen years of his life as a point guard, then retired after marrying Sharon. He’d set up a public relations agency with another former basketball player.
Quintin raised a thumb, gesturing for Orlando to take Sharon out of the kitchen. The ex-ballplayer complied; Fitzhugh followed.
Lydia leaned against a countertop. “What’s up with the family, Quintin?”
Crossing his arms over his chest, he assumed a similar pose. “There are so many changes going on that everyone’s a little on edge. Sh
aron is anxious about having her first child, now that Dad’s retired he’s always under Mama’s feet, and everyone is still upset because you left the restaurant when you were about to make it big.”
Lydia stared at Quintin, complete surprise on her face. “Make it big? Did everyone forget that I was passed over twice for a promotion?”
“You’re young, Lydia. Do you actually think an experienced executive chef is going to allow a twenty-seven-year-old neophyte to show him up? No,” Quintin added, answering his own question.
“Vicky says you’re very good, much better than she’ll ever hope to be. And we both know my wife is no slouch in the kitchen. You need to slow down and stop working so hard, or you won’t last long enough to enjoy it.”
You work very hard. Why do you work so hard when you will always have money? Mariska’s words echoed in Lydia’s mind as if the woman were there with her.
“And I’m afraid I have to agree with Mama about your weight,” Quintin continued, frowning. “Are you feeling all right?”
“I’m fine, big brother. Now, please get out of the kitchen so I can start breakfast.”
“Would you like some help, Madame Chef?” Victoria Lord said as she walked into the kitchen, followed by her three children.
Lydia closed the distance between her and her petite sister-in-law. Bending slightly, she kissed her cheek. “I’d love it.” She smiled at her nephews. “You guys owe me a kiss.” Micah and Chaz shook their heads as they backed away. At ten and five respectively, both thought kissing girls was horrifying.
Tall, willowy Tamara stepped forward. Her resemblance to her adoptive mother was startling, especially their eyes. They were large, dark, and mysterious. They even shared the same chestnut-brown coloring.
“I’ll kiss you, Aunt Liddie.”
Gathering Tamara in an embrace, Lydia kissed her neatly braided hair. “Thank you, beautiful. I love your hair,” she whispered softly.
“Thanks. Aunt Glo did it yesterday.”
“She did a wonderful job.”
Quintin rested his hands on his sons’ shoulders. “Let’s go and unload your mama’s van.”
All My Tomorrows Page 12