All My Tomorrows Read online

  Lydia knew she was no match for Kennedy’s superior strength, so she relaxed her fingers. A sense of calm settled over her and she resisted an urge to lean against him.

  She found herself swept up in the bucolic landscape as Kennedy identified the many buildings that made up Camp Six Nations: the playhouse, the arts and crafts hogan, the chapel, the infirmary, and the dining hall. Several buildings close to the lake were filled with life jackets, canoes, kayaks, and several motorboats that would be used for water skiing. A baseball diamond, basketball and tennis courts, and a soccer field were set up in an area three hundred feet from the camper cabins.

  “Do you want to see inside the dining hall?”

  Lydia glanced at her watch. It was now 1:50. “Do we have time?” She was fanatical about being punctual.

  “Yes. The meeting is scheduled for two, but Roger is allowing extra time for latecomers. Even with printed directions this place is not that easy to find.”

  “It is out of the way,” she concurred. If she had made a wrong turn, she would’ve wound up in Pennsylvania.

  Kennedy affected a mysterious grin. “Don’t you want to see your kitchen?”

  Returning his sexy smile with one that silently shouted blatant sensuality, Lydia said, “Lead the way.”

  She followed Kennedy into a space filled with tables, benches, and cafeteria-style counters. Gleaming stainless steel waste receptacles were positioned in every corner. He flipped a switch and tracks of overhead lights flooded the building in brilliant illumination.

  As Kennedy stared at her, Lydia made her way through a pair of swinging doors. She hadn’t realized how fast her heart was beating until she felt the warmth of another body close to hers. The pristine state-of-the-art kitchen contained industrial ovens, grills, a walk-in refrigerator/freezer, a dishwasher, and gleaming pots, pans, and utensils.

  “What do you think?”

  She shivered as his moist breath feathered over her ear. He’d come up behind her without making a sound. “It’s incredible.”

  And it was. The kitchen rivaled any in some of the world’s finest hotels, restaurants, and culinary schools.

  “You approve?”

  Shifting, she smiled up at Kennedy and gloried briefly in the shared moment. “It’s more than I expected.”

  Kennedy wanted to tell Lydia she was more than he had expected. Roger and Grace had shared her curriculum vitae with him. A single glance confirmed that Lydia Lord was overqualified. However, Grace alleviated his concern once she told him that Lydia’s plans included setting up her own business and that she would volunteer her services to the camp as her way of giving back to the children in Baltimore and D.C. neighborhoods.

  It had been nearly four years, but she was the first woman whom he thought enough of to want to know more about—much more than he had gleaned from her personnel file.

  He stared at the wall clock at the far end of the kitchen. “I think we’d better start back.”

  Lydia knew Kennedy was right, and it was with great reluctance that she walked out of the building where she would have the final word on what would be prepared. Her imagination was operating at warp speed when she thought of the dishes she planned to offer.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Lydia and Kennedy walked through an expansive entryway and into another room, encountering curious stares from a group of men and women sitting around a large round table.

  Roger Evans stood up, adjusted a pair of round black wire-rimmed glasses on the bridge of his nose. “Now we can begin.”

  Lydia elbowed Kennedy in the ribs. “We are late,” she hissed between her teeth.

  Smiling, he cupped her elbow and led her to the last two remaining chairs. “Relax, darling, it’s not as if they can start without us.” His da-ha-lin’ came in three syllables instead of two. Whenever he was completely relaxed, his speech pattern reverted to the slow deep-southern drawl he’d grown up with in his hometown of Smoky Junction, Alabama.

  Lydia wanted to tell him she wasn’t his darling and that she did not like being late. Forcing a smile and nodding at the others seated around the table, she let Kennedy seat her. She sucked in her breath as his shoulder brushed hers when he reached up and removed his baseball cap. Stubbles of dark hair dotted his well-shaped head. It was obvious he’d recently shaved his scalp.

  A serving table against a wall groaned under enormous platters of sliced fresh fruit, vegetables, bread, condiments, chicken cutlets, thinly sliced roast beef, ham, turkey, bowls of potato, and macaroni and three-bean salads.

  Roger, a bespectacled Jimi Hendrix look-alike, sat down and nodded to his wife. They were definitely throwbacks to the seventies. Grace exemplified the quintessential flower child with her waist-length straight salt-and-pepper hair, pale face, colorful beaded necklace, ankle-length skirt, and tie-dyed T-shirt.

  Her laser-blue eyes crinkled in a friendly smile. “Because of the lateness of the hour I suggest we eat while discussing business.”

  Kennedy leaned closer to Lydia. “Will you forgive me if I fix you a plate?”

  The intoxicatingly sensual fragrance of his body swept over her. Did he not know how potent he was? He should’ve been labeled X-rated, hazardous material, and highly contagious. She wasn’t an ingénue when it came to the opposite sex, but there was something about the ex-ballplayer that disturbed her more than she wanted to be.

  Lydia wasn’t looking for someone to replace Justin. All she wanted to do was spend the summer testing the limits of her culinary creativity, and at the end of eight weeks she would know whether she would be ready to go into business for herself.

  She wanted to open a restaurant on the lower level of an office building in downtown Baltimore not far from the Inner Harbor. After mulling over a name in her head for several weeks, she decided she would call it Lady Day in honor of Baltimore native Eleanora Fagan who later achieved fame as Billie Holiday.

  Shifting on her chair, she met Kennedy’s stare. His high cheekbones, chiseled jaw, and firm upper and lower lip were so undeniably masculine that she wanted to look away, but couldn’t. There was a mysterious shimmer in his deep-set dark eyes that held her mesmerized. His likeness had appeared on the covers of GQ, Sports Illustrated, Time, and Esquire—all within a twelve-month period. Ken Fletcher had become the media’s latest heartthrob and role model for America’s youth.

  He’d lent his face and body to designers in magazine layouts for Gianfranco Ferre, Façonnable, Dolce & Gabbanna, and Hilfiger. A televised interview with sportscaster Bob Costas revealed his refusal to endorse advertising for liquor, cigars, or cigarettes.

  Whatever Kennedy Fletcher’s reason was for hiding out at a campsite in the Appalachian Mountains was of no consequence to Lydia Charlene Lord.

  Her eyes narrowed. “You may bring me a plate. But don’t think I’m going to let you off the hook that easily. I don’t like being late.”

  A slow, sexy smile flattened his upper lip against the ridge of his teeth. “I suppose I’ll have to come up with something a bit more noble to receive complete absolution for what I believe is a mere transgression on my part.”

  Jaw dropping slightly, Lydia felt a wave of heat suffuse her face as Kennedy pushed back his chair and made his way to the buffet table. He had just reminded her that he was not a dim-witted jock.

  Her gaze swept around the table as she waited to be served. Most of the administrative staff appeared to be in their thirties and forties. The camp director husband and wife team of Roger and Grace was the exception. The man on her left tapped her arm to get her attention.

  “Hi. I’m Jeff Wiggins, drama and musical theater.”

  She flashed a friendly smile. Jeff looked like a West Coast surfer: rakishly long sun-streaked hair and eyebrows and a deeply tanned face. “Lydia Lord, chef.”

  Jeff cocked his head at an angle. “I detect a slight southern accent. Where are you from?”

  “Maryland. And you?”

  “Hawaii.”

  Her eyebrows lifte
d. “You came all the way from Hawaii to work here?”

  Whatever Jeff was going to say was preempted by Kennedy’s return. Balancing several dishes, he set two plates in front of Lydia. One was filled with melon wedges and sliced pineapple and the other with turkey, julienne carrots, and potato salad.

  “I brought you two plates. Am I forgiven now?” he whispered close to her ear.

  She rolled her eyes at him. “You wish.”

  Successfully masking a frown, Kennedy took his seat. Lydia Lord was a challenge—a beautiful, stubborn, intriguing challenge.

  * * *

  Lydia forced herself to concentrate on Roger Evans and not on the man sitting on her right. Although she had averted her gaze, she still remembered everything about Kennedy: the fabric of his shirt stretched over his chest and shoulders, his large, well-groomed hands, and his smell. The scent of his cologne wrapped itself around her like a sensual protective cloak. She found his presence disturbing and exciting.

  Roger’s evenly modulated voice broke into her thoughts. “Instead of Grace and me waxing eloquently about everyone’s experience and credentials, I’d like each of you to introduce yourselves and give an overview of what you propose to offer the campers. Ken, we’ll begin with you, then Lydia, Jeff, and so on.”

  Kennedy’s features were composed as he stared at the people with whom he would spend the next two months. “I’m Ken Fletcher—” A spattering of applause interrupted his introduction. Lowering his chin, he stared at the crudités on his plate.

  He had hoped that after four years since his retirement from pro football, he would be granted a modicum of anonymity, could become a private citizen, that he wouldn’t be besieged by autograph seekers or photographers while working in a remote area of western Maryland.

  His head came up. “I’m Kennedy Fletcher,” he repeated, “sports director, not ballplayer.” He stressed the last two words. “I’ve set up a program with a dual focus on individuality and teamwork. Each camper will be given the option of selecting another sport besides the required swimming and water safety. They will be taught the importance of competitiveness rather than aggression and violence. The result should build stronger minds and bodies.”

  Lydia took in the expressions of those sitting around the table. Kennedy had everyone’s rapt attention, especially the women. Flushed cheeks, heaving bosoms, and longing stares said it all—they were enthralled with him. She did not know whether it was his superstar status, his looks, or his voice, but whatever it was she knew what they were experiencing because she felt it, too. However, she had a distinct advantage because she could feel his heat and also smell him. His cologne hinted of sandalwood, bergamot, and another unfamiliar scent that blended sensuously with his natural masculine aroma.

  “The theme for the sports program will be “One Camp, One Family,” Kennedy said, concluding his overview. Nodding, he turned to Lydia. “You’re up next.”

  A smile softened her mouth as her gaze swept around the table. “I’m Lydia Lord, and I’m responsible for supervising the kitchen. What I plan to do is offer everyone a respite from the usual institutional cuisine. Because Camp Six Nations’ mission is to celebrate diversity, I’ve established themed menus for each day of the week to expose our campers to different foods and cultures.

  “Sunday dinners will be southern and the following days will include Italian, Mediterranean, Chinese, all-American, Caribbean, and Tex-Mex. I believe—”

  Applause and whistles filled the room, stopping her delivery. Several exchanged high-five handshakes. She felt the rock-hard muscle in Kennedy’s shoulder as he leaned into her.

  “Hot damn, darling,” he whispered, grinning. She wrinkled her nose at him. The expression may have been cute on another woman, but on Lydia it was downright sexy.

  She held up a hand. “Because this is a camp catering to children I want to make certain they are offered meals that aren’t loaded with calories, fat, additives, and preservatives. There will also be dishes set aside for those with dietary or religious restrictions.

  “Breakfast selections will be whole-grain cereals, fresh fruit, yogurt, and baked goods. Lunch will include a salad bar and beverage choices. A midafternoon snack of cookies, homemade ice cream or gelato, and seasonal fruits will be available for the children, and smoothies, iced coffees, teas, lattes, and cappuccino for adults.”

  This announcement elicited another round of applause, and Lydia felt a warm glow flow through her. She’d worked diligently on her proposal, but she had not anticipated that it would be met with that much enthusiasm.

  The uncertainty and self-doubt that had lingered after her resignation evaporated like a drop of water on a heated skillet. Even after Victoria insisted that she possessed the talent to rise quickly in the culinary world, the doubt had remained.

  She felt elated by her new objectivity. “I’m certain that my staff and I will make the most of our training and experience to make Camp Six Nations’ first season a memorable one. Thank you.”

  Jeff sat up straighter, clearing his throat. “Now, what can I say to top lattes?”

  “You can’t.”

  “Don’t even bother.”

  “Forget about it.”

  Jeff appeared shocked by the comments coming from the people sitting around the table, but recovered quickly, saying, “You’ll eat those words once you see my would-be thespians rocking the house.”

  He lowered his voice to a James Earl Jones timbre, smiling at everyone’s reaction, and crooned about putting on a hip-hop version of West Side Story.

  Artisans, an interdenominational minister, a team of social workers, medical personnel, and a recent culinary school graduate, who would become Lydia’s assistant, spent the next two hours recounting their experience and how they would affect the lives of the campers.

  A camp calendar, outlining camp regulations and daily activities, was distributed along with a schedule of personnel hours and their days off. Lydia’s rotation was six days on, then two half days off. Her first days off would be a Friday and Saturday. A delivery of produce and meat was scheduled for the following morning. Sorting her papers, she rose to her feet. The man assigned to assist her headed her way.

  Tall, lanky, with raven-black hair cut in a buzz style, he flashed a warm smile. “Neil Lane. I loved your presentation.”

  She took his hand, surprised when he brought it to his mouth, kissing her knuckles. She drew in a sharp breath. “Thank you, Neil.”

  Neil tightened his grip. “Can we go somewhere and talk?”

  Her eyebrows lifted. “Now?”

  He released her hand, seemingly embarrassed that he’d held it longer than was necessary. “It doesn’t have to be right now.”

  “I still need to unpack and settle in. Why don’t you come by my cabin in a couple of hours?”

  Glancing at his watch, Neil said, “What if I come by around seven?”

  Lydia nodded. “Seven is good.”

  He smiled. “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome. I’ll see you at seven.”

  Turning to gather up the orientation material, Lydia met Kennedy’s gaze over the ash-blond head of the physician’s assistant, who clung to his arm as if he were a lifeline keeping her from drowning.

  Lydia acknowledged his plea by lifting her eyebrows before turning and walking out of the main building. If Kennedy wanted her to rescue him from his admirer, then he was out of luck. Superstardom came with an astronomical sacrifice: anonymity.

  Temporarily dismissing all thoughts of Kennedy Fletcher, Lydia made her way to her cabin. It was crucial that she unpack and make the small space feel like home. Her mother lectured her constantly about being too rigid, aggressive, and uncompromising, but what Etta Mae Lord did not understand was as the youngest in a family of nine children, Lydia had learned at an early age that if she wanted to be heard and acknowledged, then she had to assert herself.

  Unlike most of her single girlfriends who trolled clubs for potential husbands and her pas
t involvement with Justin notwithstanding, business success topped her wish list, not marriage.

  * * *

  Lydia lay down on one of the two cushioned recliners she always stored in the cargo area of her SUV. She had managed to unpack, add personal touches to the cabin, shower, and change into a pair of comfortable walking shorts and a tank top in record time. She’d thought about driving into town to find a grocery store to stock the small refrigerator with bottled water and yogurt, but decided against it because of her appointment with Neil.

  Sighing audibly, she closed her eyes. The delicate wind chime hanging from the porch ceiling swayed and tinkled in the light breeze. She’d become captivated with wind chimes after seeing Body Heat, the film noir featuring Kathleen Turner in her screen debut.

  The hauntingly beautiful sound of an acoustic piano accompanying Brenda Russell as she crooned “Piano in the Dark” came from the speakers of a portable stereo unit sitting on the floor. Lydia had ordered the complete Time-Life Body and Soul CD series more than a year ago, yet hadn’t taken the cellophane wrapper off a single compact disc.

  Now she would take the time to relax, listen to music, and catch up on her reading. She’d asked her attorney to keep her posted on the negotiations to rent space at a construction site that would contain several office buildings and an underground mall. The project was scheduled for completion in early spring next year.

  She opened her eyes and sat up straighter when she registered a soft tapping sound. “Please come in and sit down.”

  Neil opened the porch door and lowered his lanky frame down to the other chair. His near-black gaze swept around the porch, cataloguing everything. The music, the delicate sounds from the wind chime, and the flickering votive candles in a three-tiered, brass candleholder added a delicate touch to the rustic structure.

  He smiled. “You’ve settled in nicely.”

  Lydia nodded. “I’m trying to make it feel a little like home.”

  “Everyone is going into town in about half an hour to hang out and get better acquainted. I hope you’ll join us.”