All My Tomorrows

by Rochelle Alers

  “Miss Lydia, Kiki hasn’t eaten anything since yesterday afternoon,” the counselor-in-training whispered.

  Lydia washed her hands in a stainless steel sink, then dried them on the towel resting over her left shoulder. “Are you sure about that?”

  “Yes. She didn’t eat last night, and we tried coaxing her to eat something at breakfast.”

  “Leave her with me.” Nodding, the counselor walked out.

  Lydia knelt on one knee. “Come, doll baby.” Keisha went into her embrace, chubby arms encircling her neck. Smiling, she asked, “Is there anything you want to eat, sweetheart?”

  Tightening her hold on Lydia’s neck, Keisha whispered close to her ear, “Ice cream.”

  Lydia’s eyes widened. “Is that your favorite food?” The little girl nodded. “What flavor do you like?”

  “Chocolate.”

  Lydia checked Keisha’s wristband for food allergies. There weren’t any. “I happen to have some chocolate ice cream.” It wasn’t the traditional ice cream Americans favored, but gelato. “I’ll give you some, but first you must eat a little something.” Resting her forehead against Keisha’s, she winked at her. “I’m going to fix you a grilled cheese sandwich with sliced fruit and a glass of milk. Okay?” The child nodded again.

  She placed Keisha on a stool as Etta Mae had done with her many years before. The child was enthralled as she watched the preparations for what would become her impromptu lunch. Half an hour later, Lydia and Keisha sat at a table in the dining hall, eating chocolate hazelnut gelato drizzled with a chocolate cream sauce.

  Lydia reached over and dabbed Keisha’s mouth with a paper napkin before she scrambled off the bench. “Wasn’t that good?”

  Keisha stood up, clapping her hands. “It was the best!”

  Dropping a kiss on the fuzzy braids, Lydia smiled, saying, “I’m glad you liked it. Now I’m going to take you back to your cabin for rest hour.”

  Keisha frowned. “Do I have to go?”

  “Yes, you have to.”

  “But I don’t want to,” she whined.

  “You must play with your new friends, Kiki. Your mommy sent you to camp to have fun. Don’t you want to learn how to swim and make a plate with your name on it?”

  Keisha’s brilliant black button eyes sparkled. “Can I make a plate for you, Miss Lydia?”

  Smiling, Lydia hunkered down until her head was level with Keisha’s. “I’d love for you to make a plate for me, Kiki. But I want you to start eating; otherwise you’ll be too weak or sick to make anything for me. Okay?”

  A slight frown dotted the space between Keisha’s eyes as she appeared lost in thought. “Okay.”

  Negotiating with young children was something she had become accustomed to, because she’d become Aunt Liddie to nearly two dozen nieces and nephews.

  Neil walked into the dining hall as Lydia and Keisha prepared to leave. Lydia nodded to him. “Please finish the gelato while I take Kiki back to her cabin.”

  He smiled, saluting. “No problem. I thought I’d tell you before you run into Ken. He’s on the warpath.”

  Her eyebrows flickered. “Why?”

  “Someone removed the bell’s clapper. He told the counselors that he expects whoever took it to leave it in the barn. But if it’s not returned before dinner, then they’ll be remanded to their cabins after dinner for the next two weeks.”

  She winced. “Ouch.” Extracurricular activities included playing video games, watching movies and television, and listening to music. “What happened to Roger’s threat that they would have to listen to Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Bob Dylan, and the Doors?”

  “Ken said that’s hardly punishment, because the kids might actually enjoy Roger’s music.”

  “I don’t think the kids came to camp to be grounded.”

  “You’re right about that.”

  A faint smile of satisfaction touched Lydia’s lips as she curbed an urge to pump her fist in triumph. She’d won the bet.

  “Thanks for the heads-up.”

  * * *

  Kennedy waited for Lydia to sit on his love seat before settling down beside her. He had slipped a note under her door asking to see her before she retired for bed. Leisurely, he stretched out his long legs, crossing his feet at the ankles.

  “It’s all right if you gloat.”

  A flash of confusion crossed Lydia’s face. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You won the bet.”

  As she shifted and stared at Kennedy’s grim expression, Lydia’s grin was wide enough for him to see her molars. “I tried to tell you, Kennedy. Nobody wants to be startled from their sleep by a stupid clanging bell day after day.”

  Eyes narrowing and realization dawning, Kennedy peered closely at Lydia. “You knew it would happen because you’d gone to sleepaway camp,” he said accusingly.

  “Not only did I go, but one year I took the clapper,” she admitted.

  “You’re kidding, aren’t you?”

  “Nope.”

  “I just can’t imagine you shimmying up a pole.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you seem so prim and proper, Miss Lord.”

  “Prim and proper or female?”

  Kennedy shook his head. “Don’t go there, Lydia. Being female has nothing to do with being physically challenged.”

  She cupped a hand over an ear. “Do I hear another wager coming up?”

  He gave Lydia a long, penetrating look. She was not only beautiful, but also competitive—a trait so apparent in his own personality, a trait he had learned to temper with age.

  He crossed his arms over his chest. “Let me pay up on the first one before we bet again. Where do you want to eat?”

  “You don’t have to take me out.”

  “Why?”

  “Because my favorite restaurant is nowhere near here.”

  “Where is it?”

  “Forget it, Kennedy.”

  “Why?”

  “Because we can’t drive there.”

  “A name,” he demanded softly.

  “Alfonso’s.”

  Kennedy leaned closer. “Where is Alfonso’s, Lydia?” Her name came out like a caress.

  “Mexico,” she said after a noticeable pause.

  He lifted an eyebrow. “Where in Mexico?”

  “Cabo San Lucas.”

  Kennedy closed his eyes. She had selected a restaurant in a region of Baja California that had become a popular playground for those willing to pay any price for absolute privacy and anonymity.

  He opened his eyes. “I’ll make good on the wager.”

  Lydia shook her head. “No, Kennedy. I’m not going to hold you to the wager.”

  His expression stilled and grew serious. “You can’t back out now.”

  “Kennedy, I—”

  “I nothing,” he interrupted quietly.

  Lydia moved to stand up, but was thwarted when Kennedy’s fingers snaked around her upper arm. She lost her balance, and with her breasts heaving she landed heavily on his lap.

  “I don’t want you to take me to Mexico.”

  “I promise not to seduce you,” he said with a wide grin.

  “Don’t flatter yourself, Kennedy,” she shot back.

  “Then, that settles it. We’ll decide on a date at the end of the summer.”

  A flicker of apprehension coursed through Lydia as she met Kennedy’s unwavering stare. The man was actually serious. He hadn’t known her a week, yet he wanted to take her out of the country.

  “I’m not a gold digger, Kennedy, so please don’t confuse me with your other women.”

  Kennedy recoiled as if Lydia had slapped him, as he attempted to control his temper. “What’s with you and the innuendoes about my involvement with other women? There are no other women.” His voice was cold, exacting.

  She closed her eyes. “I don’t want to…” Her words trailed off and were swallowed up by Kennedy as he moved his mouth over hers.

  Lydia’
s heart lurched, her pulse pounded, the tingling in the pit of her stomach tightened until she felt herself slipping away from reality.

  “Stop wiggling, darling,” Kennedy whispered against her parted lips.

  Pushing against the wall of muscle, Lydia was unable to free herself. His heat eased into her thighs, her hips rocking back and forth of their own volition, setting a rhythm in a dance of desire screaming to be assuaged. The hardness pressing up against her buttocks made her aware of where she was and on whose lap she writhed.

  Lydia did free herself from his marauding mouth, her breathing coming in long, deep gasps as if she’d run a grueling race. She closed her eyes and took pleasure in the strong pulsing between her legs.

  “There’s a flag on the field, Kennedy.”

  “For what?”

  “Illegal holding.”

  Smiling, he buried his face along the column of Lydia’s scented neck. “What’s the penalty?”

  Easing back, she gave him a steady, penetrating stare. “A loss of two yards—offense.”

  Circling her waist with both hands, Kennedy lifted her effortlessly off his lap and stood up. “That’s not much of a penalty.”

  She gave him a slow, sexy smile. “That’s because the referee is in a good mood tonight.”

  Kennedy’s large hand took Lydia’s face and held it gently. Lowering his head, he brushed her lips with his. “I hope I’m not penalized for attempting to influence the referee, but are you free next Sunday afternoon?”

  Lydia felt an invisible magnetism pulling her to the man holding her to his heart, a pull she could not resist. She successfully masked the feelings surging through her with a deceptive calmness.

  “What do you have in mind?”

  “Do you like county fairs?”

  Her large eyes crinkled in a smile.

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Will you come with me?”

  Lydia stared at Kennedy staring back at her in silent expectation. She recognized vulnerability in the former superstar football player that hadn’t been there in any of their prior encounters. It was not the first time she asked herself why had he left the NFL when he was at the top of his game. What secret was he hiding from the world? Who or what had affected his life so that he was forced to give up what he’d openly professed was an obsession?

  Lydia knew the answers to her silent queries could only come from the person in question—Kennedy Fletcher. She was not only intrigued by him as an athlete, but enthralled with him as the camp’s sports director.

  Peering up at him through her lashes, she smiled and said softly, “Yes. I’d like very much to go with you.”

  Kennedy emitted a sigh of relief. Although Lydia had agreed to go out with him, he knew she hadn’t completely let go of her distrust of athletes, and she still viewed him as a jock, although he’d left the game four years before.

  Despite a few setbacks in his personal life he was where he wanted to be. He would celebrate his thirty-sixth birthday in three weeks and had accomplished much more than men twice his age. He’d amassed a fortune capitalizing on his face, body, and physical abilities. He’d invested well, well enough to live comfortably, given his current lifestyle, for the rest of his life.

  He’d realized his dream of becoming a professional athlete, provided financial security for his parents, and established a sleepaway camp for children. There had been a time when he planned to marry and hopefully father children, but rejection and vindictiveness ended an impending engagement and his football career.

  “Thank you, Lydia.”

  Lydia smiled when she registered the drawl Kennedy had sought to lose, the cadence leisurely, sensual, and hypnotic.

  “Good night, Kennedy.”

  Shifting slightly, he stood behind her, lowered his head, and trailed his lips along the nape of her neck. “What are little girls made of? Sugar, spice, and everything nice.”

  “…Snakes, snails, and puppy dog tails,” she said, laughing softly and reciting the popular nursery rhyme along with Kennedy. Moving out of arm’s reach, Lydia waved to him. “Good night.”

  Smiling, he returned her wave. “Good night.”

  Lydia descended the porch steps and headed for her cabin, feeling the heat of Kennedy’s gaze on her retreating back. She curbed the urge to turn around to see whether he was watching her. It wasn’t until she closed and locked the door behind that she was able to draw a normal breath.

  Stripping off her clothes, she slipped under a sheet and lightweight blanket, her mind reliving her body’s reaction to the intimacy of Kennedy’s kiss; the harder she tried to ignore the truth, the more it persisted. She was attracted to Kennedy and her vow not to become involved with an athlete had been shattered completely.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The clapper was back several hours after it was removed allegedly by an eleven-year-old female camper. And to discourage a repeat of the incident, John Philip Souza military marches blared from speakers attached to poles around the camp alternating with the clanging of the insufferable bell.

  Kennedy had established a routine of observing every counselor and staff member, monitoring their interaction with campers and supervision of their subordinates. In his role as sports director he was able to make the most of his degree in physical and recreational education.

  Standing on the pier, he watched the fast-moving dark clouds in the distance. Meteorologists had predicted late afternoon thunderstorms for the region. A group of eight-year-old boys swam out to a marker before turning and swimming back to the bank. Three of the six wore life vests.

  Of the one hundred boys and girls who’d been accepted for camp, more than half were unable to swim. Two weeks into the season the percentage of swimmers had increased appreciably.

  Raising the whistle hanging from a chain around his neck to his mouth, Kennedy blew into it, the piercing sound stopping all movement in the water. He pointed to a counselor and made a cutting motion across his neck. Within seconds the campers were ordered out of the lake.

  Reaching for a palm-size pager, he pressed a button. “Get everyone indoors.”

  “Take shelter! Take shelter! Everyone take shelter!” The command boomed from the public address system. Footsteps were muffled in the carpet of grass as all of Camp Six Nations sought shelter from the impending storm.

  Kennedy checked the basketball and tennis courts, making certain no one had ignored the warning. A roll of thunder shook the earth, followed by a deafening crash of lightning as he sprinted toward the dining hall. The sky darkened. It looked like midnight instead of early afternoon. Everything was shrouded in an eerie gunmetal gray seconds before the heavens opened up. Rainwater pasted Kennedy’s shirt to his upper body as he raced inside the nearest structure to escape the storm. Taking off his cap, he shook off the water.

  The mood inside the dining hall was festive, a direct contrast to the dark, ominous weather outside. The brilliance of overhead track lighting, voices raised in song by Jeff Wiggins and his theatrical group, and Lydia and Neil serving steaming cups of beverages beckoned him closer.

  Kennedy watched Lydia top off a mug with a froth of whipped cream. His gaze softening, he stared at the curling ends of a ponytail resting over one shoulder. She appeared slimmer, more delicate in the white T-shirt tucked into the drawstring waist of a pair of loose-fitting houndstooth… pattern pants. This was the first time he’d observed her in the dining hall without her tunic and bandana.

  Neil whispered something close to her ear and she threw back her head and laughed, the sound drowned out by the campers singing a hip-hop version of “America,” with a distinctive Spanish accent.

  Seeing her laugh with such abandon as she threw her head back, arching her neck, sent a quiver of desire rushing through Kennedy. He’d kissed that neck, inhaled the intoxicating fragrance clinging to the velvety skin. His gaze moved lower. The outline of a pair of small breasts was ardently displayed against the cotton T-shirt.

  What was there about Lydia that
made her so damn sexy in a T-shirt and baggy pants? Her face was bare and her hairstyle was better suited for an adolescent, yet despite her youthful appearance there was something fervently womanly about her. At twenty-seven she was hardly a girl, yet a girl-like vulnerability surfaced at times.

  Kennedy hadn’t seen Lydia since the night he’d kissed her on his porch, not even when he took his meals in the dining hall. He’d hoped to find her on her porch at night, but each time he glanced over at her cabin he found it dark and the jalousie windows closed.

  He crossed the room and came up behind her as she turned to fill a tall mug from a coffee urn. “Have you been avoiding me?”

  Lydia froze. She hadn’t heard Kennedy’s approach. A slow smile parted her lips. How had she missed the scent of his cologne? “Don’t flatter yourself, Kennedy.” It was the same thing she’d said to him the night on his porch when he’d promised not to seduce her.

  “Then, why is that we live fifty feet apart but don’t run into each other?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe it’s because I’m the one working.”

  Kennedy stared at her hair. The thick lustrous strands weren’t black but a rich dark brown with reddish highlights. He wondered what her hair would look like spread out over his pillow. The instant the thought entered his head he knew he wanted to sleep with Lydia Lord. And he did not know how he knew, but he was certain they would be good to and for each other.

  “Are you calling me a slacker?”

  Lydia filled the mug, then turned and stared up at Kennedy, her breath catching in her chest. He looked different. His face was darker, leaner, his cheekbones more defined. Her gaze shifted to his head. His hair was growing out. The stubble now curled over his scalp.

  “No,” she said softly. “I wouldn’t know if you were slacking or not, because I would’ve been too busy to notice.”

  Despite working well together, she and Neil still put in long hours. She planned menus days in advance and they prepared the next day’s entrées the night before. She was up at dawn, and usually retired for bed sixteen hours later.