All My Tomorrows

by Rochelle Alers

  Kennedy’s gaze moved with an agonizing slowness over her face, lingering briefly over her mouth before it eased lower to the pristine white tunic and apron and down to her black pin-striped pants and leather clogs.

  “Medium-well.”

  She held his gaze. “Would you like anything else from the grill?”

  “What do you have?”

  “Hot dogs, kielbasa, and butterflied lamb.”

  “Give me one of each.”

  Lydia deftly caught the grilled meats between a pair of tongs, placing them on Kennedy’s plate. “Hungry, Mr. Ken?”

  Forcing back a smile, he winked at her. “Starved.”

  “Good. Then you should try the side dishes.” She dismissed him without another glance, smiling at a counselor. “What can I get for you, Robin?”

  * * *

  Lydia sat on the edge of the pier next to Kennedy, her bare feet dangling in the water. The sun had begun to set and the sky was the same color as the bloodred oranges she used for her orange gelato.

  Kennedy pulled his knees to his chest, clasped his arms around his legs, and stared at the small houses across the lake. Three sun-browned, towheaded children ran and jumped into the lake, frolicking like baby seals. “I bet they learned to swim before they could walk.”

  Lydia felt something brush her toes. She pulled her feet out of the cool water, leaned back on her hands, and stared at the young swimmers. “You’re probably right. None of them are wearing life jackets.”

  An overhead screeching sound drowned out the children’s laughter, and Lydia and Kennedy glanced up to find a circling red-tailed hawk.

  “He’s probably looking for his dinner,” she said softly.

  Straightening his legs and lying on his back, Kennedy stared up at the emerging constellations in the summer sky. “Speaking of dinner. Everyone liked eating outdoors.”

  Lydia glanced at Kennedy. He was so still he could’ve been a statue. “I wanted to make certain the grill was working before we have our family reunion gathering tomorrow.”

  “Two more Sundays, then it’s over.” There was a wistful quality in his voice.

  “It’s been good, Kennedy.”

  “Yes, it has.”

  “Did you know it would be this successful?”

  Kennedy pondered her question. “Why would you ask me that?” He’d answered her question with one of his own.

  She shifted her hips and faced him. “What made you come up with the idea to set up a camp?”

  He sat up without using his arms to propel him forward. “Who told you? When did you find out?”

  “Someone told someone else that they overhead Roger mention that you owned the camp. I found out the day after your birthday. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  His eyes burned her face with their intensity. “Would you have slept with me if you’d known?”

  She shook her head. “No. I would never sleep with my boss.”

  A knowing smile softened the sharp angles in his bearded face. “That’s why I didn’t tell you,” he drawled, returning to his reclining position.

  Lydia rolled her eyes at him. “So, you knew all about me even before I got here. Whose idea was it to put me in the cabin next to yours?”

  “Roger’s. I may have financed the camp, but Roger and Grace run it. I didn’t know you’d come on as a volunteer until Roger called and told me that he’d accepted the last two wait-listed campers. I’ll admit that I was very curious about the woman who would work a twelve-hour day for no pay.”

  Lydia moved close enough to feel Kennedy’s body heat seeping into hers. “I sold my condo and moved back home, so financially I’m not doing too badly. I was going to use the proceeds of the sale to furnish the restaurant if it had been approved.”

  “Put your money in tax-free municipal bonds for our children’s college fund.”

  She went completely still. “What!”

  “I’ll finance the construction of your restaurant.”

  Lydia sprang off the pier as if a wire had jerked her up. “I can’t take your money.”

  Closing his eyes, Kennedy rested his head on folded arms. “Why can’t a husband underwrite the expenses for his wife’s business venture?”

  “Because it’s my business venture, Kennedy.”

  His jaw tightened. “It’s not your money or my money, your business venture or my business venture, your children or my children. It’s ours, Lydia.”

  “I told you I wasn’t a gold digger,” she mumbled under her breath.

  He opened his eyes, glaring at her. “If you keep running off at the mouth, then I’ll have my attorney draw up a prenuptial agreement. If we split up, then you can walk away with whatever you brought to the marriage, and I’ll take the rest.”

  Eyes narrowing, she thrust her face close to his. “I believe in death, not divorce.”

  Reaching for her hand, Kennedy held it firmly, as laughter rumbled in his broad chest. “I take that to mean that we’ll be together for the rest of our lives.”

  “Yes, it does.”

  He tightened his grip on her fingers. “I want you to look for property where you’d like to build your Lady Day. Check with the zoning boards to make certain they’ll approve your parking accommodations, ingress, and egress.”

  “You’re really into real estate, aren’t you?”

  “I picked up what I know from my dad. He’s an underwriter, but he has a nose like a hound dog when it comes to real estate. When I got my signing bonus his advice was not to squander it on cars, jewelry, or women, but invest in property.”

  “It sounds as if you’ve been a good son.”

  “Not as good as I’ve been obedient. Speaking of children. What was that comment about me and Mustafa?”

  “Do you want him, Kennedy?”

  Kennedy repeated Lydia’s query to himself, his heart pounding against his ribs like the rumble of a runaway freight train. She had read his mind. There was something about Mustafa that pulled at his heart the way no other child he’d ever met had done. During his pro ball days, he’d visited schools, hospitals, and community centers to distribute toys, sign autographs, or present a check during a photo-op, meeting thousands of boys and girls who looked up to him as if he were an immortal being with superhuman powers. Not one of them, not even those with terminal illnesses, had touched him like Mustafa Johnson.

  Holding his breath until he felt his lungs laboring, Kennedy let it out slowly “Yes, darling. I want him.”

  Lydia knew the state would have to conduct an exhaustive search to ascertain whether Mustafa had any surviving relatives who could possibly want to adopt him.

  She rested her head on Kennedy’s shoulder. “Then you should have him. I know someone who can help you with the legal paperwork. Her name is Caroline Bennington. She’s the sister of a family friend who handled all of my brother’s adoptions. Once she wades through all of the bureaucratic red tape, we might be able to finalize everything before the end of next year. Meanwhile, you can always petition social services to become a foster father.”

  Kennedy was so overwhelmed with emotion that he couldn’t move, speak, or swallow. He’d fallen in love with an enigma, a woman who would continue to challenge, shock, and amaze him.

  Two weeks into the camp season he had known he had to rescue Mustafa from the foster care system. He was prepared to become a single father, but having Lydia in their lives completed the family unit.

  “Are you certain you want to start out with a ready-made family?” he asked, recovering his voice.

  Lydia nodded. “It’s no longer an oddity for couples to marry and become a blended family. I’ll never be able to take the place of Mustafa’s mother, but you can be the father he’s never had.”

  “I’ve seen you with Keisha, darling. I know you’re going to be a wonderful mother.”

  “I hope so. I’ve had enough practice babysitting my nieces and nephews.”

  “How long do you want to wait before we make Mustafa an older brothe
r?”

  A secret smile stole its way over Lydia’s face. “Not too long.”

  Rising slightly, Kennedy peered down at her, the tenderness in his expression making her heart turn over in love. “You want to start right away?”

  Her eyelids fluttered. “Why not? If I’m going to build or renovate a place for Lady Day, then I project that should take at least a year. Which means you’d better be a straight shooter, darling, or we’re going to have to wait until after we open the restaurant. If I have a baby before our grand opening, then I’ll only serve dinner Tuesday through Sunday and add brunch on the weekends.”

  Kennedy stood up, offered his hand, and pulled her to her feet. “That sounds perfect. Speaking of babies, would you like a demonstration to see how straight I can shoot?”

  Closing her eyes, Lydia shook her head. “No, Kennedy. There’s no way I’m going to become your baby mama before we’re married.” She opened her eyes. “Besides, you said we wouldn’t sleep together until we’re married.”

  “I’ve changed my mind.”

  “No!”

  “Please, baby.”

  Folding her hands on her hips, she rolled her eyes at him. “Look at you. Mr. Fine-ass, Superstar Juggernaut begging a woman for her stuff!”

  The last word was barely out of her mouth when Lydia found herself lifted off her feet, the darkening sky spinning overhead. She managed one shriek, before falling into the lake with Kennedy.

  “You didn’t!” she screamed once she recovered her breath.

  Kennedy, treading water, began swimming toward the opposite bank, Lydia in hot pursuit. They splashed each other until tiring, then floated back toward the pier.

  Kennedy pulled himself up before reaching down to pull Lydia up. The white T-shirt she usually wore under her tunic was pasted to her upper body. His eyes widened when he saw the distinct outline of a pair of dark nipples showing ardently through the fabric of her bra and shirt.

  He removed his camp shirt and pulled it over her head. “You were showing too much of your…stuff.”

  She wrinkled her nose at him. “Hanging out with you is dangerous.”

  He flashed a wide grin. “There may be some truth in that statement, but you have to admit, being dangerous is a lot of fun.”

  Picking up her sandals, she leaned against Kennedy and slipped them on. “Good night, darling.”

  He stood on the pier, bare-chested, watching her walk. “Good night, Lydia.”

  After she’d disappeared from his line of vision, he sat down again. In less than a year he would become a husband, and a year later possibly a father.

  He exhaled a long sigh of contentment. He would complete every entry on his wish list before turning forty.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  An underlying excitement reached a fever pitch even before the buses arrived for the final Family Reunion Sunday. Lydia and Neil were up before dawn. Working silently side by side, the chefs marinated, basted, and baked chicken tenders, egg rolls, mozzarella sticks, mini–chicken cordon blue, and cheese poppers.

  The eclectic menu featured finger foods: oven- and deep-fried chicken, Buffalo wings, sliced smoked salmon, succulent roasted chicken, spare ribs, tiny triangular finger sandwiches, and a platter of imported and domestic cheeses.

  Neil had offered to man the carving table, slicing leg of lamb, turkey, and rib roast. He had outdone himself, baking pans of fluffy Parker House rolls and biscuits and a variety of fruit pies.

  Lydia checked off the trays on a printed list—a rice medley, roasted potatoes and vegetables, stuffed cabbage, sausage and peppers, and baked ziti—as they were transported from the kitchen to an area where the counselors had erected a large tent to shield everyone from the brilliant summer sun.

  * * *

  Kennedy walked into the kitchen and found Lydia sitting on a stool, eyes closed, the back of her head pressed against a wall. Lines of worry furrowed his forehead.

  He touched her arm and she opened her eyes. “Are you all right?”

  She flashed a tired smile, her gaze caressing his face. He’d shaved off the short beard. “I’m trying to catch a few winks.”

  Wrapping his arms around her shoulders, he pulled her head to his chest. “What time did you get up this morning?”

  “Four.”

  It was almost one, which meant she had been on her feet for nine hours. “Come, Lydia. I’m taking you back to your cabin.”

  Pushing against his chest, she pulled away from him. “For what?”

  Kennedy glared at her. “So you can catch a few winks in bed instead of on a stool.”

  “I’m not going to bed in the middle of the day.”

  An expression of determination tightened his jaw. “Either you go back to your cabin under your own steam, or everyone will see Mr. Ken carry Miss Lydia under his arm like a football. It’s your choice.”

  “You’re delusional,” she drawled, rolling her eyes at him. “You can’t carry me like a—”

  Kennedy never gave her the chance to say “football,” when he gathered her off the stool with one arm and held her effortlessly against his side. “I said you had a choice, darling.”

  She pounded his back. “Let me go.”

  “Are you going to your cabin?”

  She knew she was no match for his superior strength. “Yes,” she said between clenched teeth. “This is what I meant about losing my independence,” she whispered under her breath.

  Kennedy set her on her feet. “I’ll walk you,” he said firmly.

  Untying her apron, Lydia placed it on the stool she’d just vacated. “Bully,” she snorted under her breath, pushing past him and walking toward the double doors.

  “Keep walking, Lydia,” he drawled as he stared at her ramrod-straight back.

  She made her way out of the dining hall and into the blazing sunlight. The smells wafting from the serving tables tantalized her olfactory senses, making her mouth water. A crowd had lined up, waiting to be served, while those who had plates filled with food sat on benches under the tent, or on the grass, eating and drinking.

  Stopping, Lydia turned and faced Kennedy. “I’m going to my cabin, but can you bring me a plate?”

  He gave her an incredulous look. “You haven’t eaten?”

  She shook her head. “I never eat when I’m cooking.”

  “You don’t even sample?”

  “Never.”

  “Damn it, Lydia! No wonder you’re so tired and can’t keep your eyes open. You’re hungry!”

  Lydia glared at Kennedy. “Just bring the food.”

  Turning, she headed for her cabin as he made his way over to the serving area.

  Lydia didn’t know when Kennedy walked into her cabin with a napkin-covered plate; she was totally unaware that he’d lain beside her for three-quarters of an hour, listening to her breathing as she slept.

  She slept through the afternoon, into the night, not waking until streaks of light pierced the cover of darkness the following day. Her nap had become sixteen hours of deep, dreamless, uninterrupted sleep.

  * * *

  Lydia realized she was undergoing her own separation anxiety the closer it came to the end of Camp Six Nations’ inaugural summer. Many of the campers had begun acting out, and the social workers went into crisis mode as they attempted to ease the transition as the campers prepared to go home, some to less than stable environments.

  Megan Gallagher had erected an exhibit with pieces of pottery and painted clay masks festooned with ribbons and feathers reminiscent of those Lydia had seen in Venice during Carnival. Keisha had given her a plate decorated with her name and image in slip trailing—a liquid medium for drawing on ceramic ware. Keisha had signed her name with the date on the reverse side.

  The survival training had honed the skills of the older boys and girls once they engaged in canoe and swimming competitions. They played a sophisticated version of a scavenger hunt with items hidden throughout the campground. The team who came up with the most was declared th
e winner.

  * * *

  Twelve hours before buses were scheduled to transport the campers back to Baltimore and Washington, D.C., everyone gathered in the playhouse for an awards ceremony followed by a theatrical program under the auspices of Jeff Wiggins. The day would conclude with a luau.

  Lydia sat in the rear, staring at the man to whom she’d pledged her future as he took a position behind the podium. If he’d changed in eight weeks, so had she. He’d kept his promise not to make love to her, but that did not stop him from coming to her cabin after the camp settled down for the night to climb into bed with her.

  These were the times when they talked—about everything. Kennedy shocked her once he disclosed the extent of his wealth. He’d admitted to receiving a signing bonus, but hadn’t told her of other incentives, which included a percentage of ticket sales. Spectators came to the stadium to see him run. Not only was he fast, but unbelievably strong, strong enough to shake off any player’s attempt to dislodge the ball or take him off his feet. She’d told him how she wanted to decorate Lady Day and the signature dishes she believed would become an instant favorite with diners.

  Bringing her attention back to the present, she watched Grace pin a blue ribbon inscribed with One Camp, One Family, on each camper’s T-shirt as they all filed into the playhouse. Grace completed the task, then nodded to Kennedy.

  Picking up the handheld microphone, he tapped it lightly. “Welcome to what will become our last night at Camp Six Nations. When you board the buses tomorrow that will take you back to your homes, I want you to remember that it will not be good-bye, but later. Next year we’re going to do it all over again—bigger and better.” The campers cheered wildly.

  “I want the counselors to come up here and give out the awards to their campers, and before we close this afternoon’s program, Mr. Jeff and his aspiring actors and actresses will entertain us with their extraordinary theatrical talent.”

  The counselor for the six-year-old girls and boys took the podium, giving awards to every camper: best swimmer, most improved swimmer, most congenial, best sense of humor, best dressed, and all-around camper. Every camper in every group was a winner.