He waited in a long line of traffic before he was able to maneuver out of the parking lot and onto a local road. Then there was only the slip-slapping sound of the tires on the roadway.
I see an older man crying for you.
It’s your father who’s not doing so good.
His mother’s words overlapped Mariska’s. It had been two weeks since Diane’s call and during that time Marvin Kennedy had not contacted him. The prognosis that he would not survive another year unless he underwent a second kidney transplant nagged at Kennedy.
He did not know whether he would be a compatible match, but the percentages were more than likely good because he was Marvin’s only child. Glancing at his watch, he noted the time. It was ten o’clock in Smoky Junction.
He stared out the windshield, a look of determination on his face. He knew Marvin wouldn’t call him, so it would be up to him to make the first overture.
CHAPTER TEN
Kennedy stood in front of a wall of glass overlooking the patio, a cordless phone pressed to his ear, listening for a break in the connection. Apprehension and frustration dogged him.
He was apprehensive because he feared losing a woman he had fallen in love with, a woman with whom he wanted to share his life and his future.
And his frustration stemmed from a man with whom he shared a bloodline, a man staring death in the face in less than a year if he did not get a much-needed kidney transplant.
Lydia fell asleep before they arrived home. She hadn’t stirred even when he’d carried her into the house, undressed her, and put her into bed. He’d stood there, watching her sleep, while the image of her thick dark hair flowing in graceful curves over her shoulders, generously parted lips, and delicately carved facial features that made her appear feminine and fragile was imprinted on his brain.
At first he’d thought her pull was merely physical, but after spending the day with her, Kennedy knew it went beyond anything they’d shared in bed.
As the phone on the other end rang, his thoughts shifted back to his father. He did not love Marvin, nor did he hate him, because he regarded him as a stranger.
“Hello,” came a familiar voice through the earpiece.
His stepfather had answered the phone.
“Hi, Dad. How’s it going?”
“Everything’s good. If you’re calling to talk to Diane, then you’re going to have to call her tomorrow. She’s out bowling with her girlfriends.”
Kennedy smiled. He was glad his mother was out enjoying herself instead of moping around the house worrying about Marvin. “I just called to say hello,” he half lied. He wanted Diane to give him Marvin’s number.
He lingered on the phone. He and Philip talked about baseball standings and the older man’s golf handicap, and Kennedy brought Philip up to date on the activities at Camp Six Nations. He hung up after a promise from Philip to let Diane know he’d called.
He replaced the telephone in its cradle and made his way toward the staircase leading to the master bedroom and Lydia.
* * *
“Where the hell have you been?”
The rosy feeling of love and loving faded with the acerbic question. Lydia glanced over her shoulder, not certain to whom Neil had spoken.
Realizing they were the only ones in the kitchen, she folded her hands on her hips as an expression of disbelief froze her features. “Say what?” The what exploded from her mouth like a torpedo.
The flush suffusing Neil’s face receded, returning to its normal pallor with Lydia’s defensive stance. He lowered his head and stared at the toe of his shoes. “I’m sorry I came at you like that,” he apologized.
“Why?” she snapped, still smarting from his unorthodox greeting.
His head came up. “You haven’t heard?”
“Heard what, Neil?”
“Last night’s dinner was a complete disaster. Well, not all of it.”
Two deep lines of worry appeared between Lydia’s eyes. “What are you talking about? We prepared everything in advance. All you had to do was put the trays in the oven.”
Neil’s gaze darted nervously back and forth as he focused on a pot hanging from an overhead rack. “Something went wrong.”
Lydia shook her head slowly. “Don’t tell me you burned the food.”
Running a hand over his spiked hair, the assistant chef bit down on his lower lip, nodding. “The chicken, ham, macaroni and cheese, and corn bread were unsalvageable.”
Now Lydia knew why instructors and executive chefs threw tantrums whenever a chef overcooked a dish. Undercooked was salvageable, burnt wasn’t.
And at that moment she wanted to scream, curse, and throw something. If Neil had worked for her she knew she would’ve fired him on the spot. She’d stood on her feet for eight hours without taking a break to prepare Sunday dinner, and it probably took less than an hour to ruin it.
She lowered her hands. “Didn’t you check the thermostat?”
“I thought I had.”
“You can’t think, Neil,” Lydia admonished tersely. “You have to know.”
“I can’t even think straight right now. I’d called my wife and asked her to bring the kids to camp for Family Reunion Sunday. She said no, because bringing the children would mean seeing me. And she doesn’t want to see me again until we meet either in her lawyer’s office or in divorce court.” His eyes blazed with sudden anger. “She has no right to keep my children from me.”
Lydia chewed the inside of her lower lip. She did not want to become a participant in Neil’s marital dilemma, nor did she want to work with someone who was currently an emotional basket case. She needed dependability and stability.
“What do you want to do, Neil?”
A muscle quivered at his jaw. “What do you mean?”
“You can leave and handle your business, or you can stay here and do the job you were hired to do. You’re a very talented and competent chef, which means I shouldn’t have to supervise you twenty-four-seven. I understand you have personal problems, we all do, but I’m not going to turn into Dr. Phil and hold your hand whenever you have an emotional meltdown.
“I’ve accepted the responsibility of running this kitchen, and that is something I will do either with you or by myself. Let me know what you intend to do before I close down the kitchen tonight.”
Not waiting for a comeback from Neil, Lydia turned on her heel, walked out of the kitchen and dining hall, and into the blinding sunlight. She didn’t see the tall figure in front of her as she collided against an immovable object.
A pair of strong hands caught her upper arms, steadying her. “Careful, darling.”
“I’m sorry, Kennedy. I didn’t see you with the sun in my eyes.”
He dropped his hands, smiling. “That’s all right. I was just coming to see you.”
“I suppose it’s about Neil and last night’s dinner.”
Kennedy’s smile faded as he stared at Lydia’s scowling expression. “He told you?”
“Yes, he did.” She threw up both hands. “I don’t understand what went wrong. I’d prepared everything in advance, which meant all he had to do was heat the food. There is nothing complicated about turning on an oven, checking the temperature, putting trays on a rack, and closing the door. I’m a chef, Kennedy, not a babysitter.”
Kennedy heard the frustration and pain in her voice. He and Lydia had returned to the camp before dawn and retreated to their respective cabins. He’d gotten a call from Roger at six-thirty, asking to see him.
Easygoing, laid-back Roger Evans strung together four-letter words Kennedy hadn’t thought possible when he related Sunday afternoon’s dining catastrophe. After Neil announced he’d burned the food, the campers’ silence was eerily frightening. One child began crying that he was hungry, then the others joined in chanting, “We want food.” Roger and Grace remedied the impending insurrection once they called a local restaurant to order enough pizzas and other side dishes to feed 125 people.
“It’s all right, Lydia.” Kennedy�
�s voice was soft, comforting.
“It’s not all right,” she shot back. “What’s going to happen Saturday?”
“What about Saturday?”
“I have to go home.”
“Is everything all right?”
She nodded and offered a smile she did not feel at that moment. “Yes. My brother just adopted a young girl, and everyone’s getting together to welcome her into the family.”
Kennedy experienced a rush of envy. While Lydia had her brothers, sisters, nieces, and nephews—a large extended family that gathered for holidays and special occasions—he only had his mother and stepfather. There was no sister, brother, grandparents, aunts, or uncles. He did claim a few cousins on Marvin’s side of the family, but he’d never met them.
“Will you be back in time for Family Reunion Sunday?”
“I’m coming back late Saturday night. Right now I don’t trust Neil to handle the kitchen with guests coming.” She’d changed her original plan to return early Sunday morning.
“Why not?”
Lydia paused, choosing her words carefully. She was Neil’s direct supervisor, not Kennedy. “He’s got a few things on his mind he needs to straighten out.”
Kennedy lifted a questioning eyebrow. “And if he doesn’t?”
“Then I’ll handle it.”
“How, Lydia?”
“In my time, and in my own way, Kennedy,” she added defiantly.
Their gazes met, fused, a tension vibrating between them like static electricity. The seconds ticked off. “Just make certain you do. Everyone is allowed only one fumble in my game,” Kennedy warned in a dangerously soft tone. A lethal calmness filled his eyes before his lids came down.
Lydia blinked once, then stared at Kennedy’s broad shoulders as he turned and walked away. She was in the same position even after he’d disappeared over a rise.
Why did he seek to undermine her authority with Neil? Did he not believe she could successfully supervise her assistant? Were his doubts based on her age? Gender? And what did he mean about his game? He’d talked as if he were lord and master of Camp Six Nations. Wasn’t he, she thought, a summer employee like herself—or was he something more than he represented? The camp season was nearing its halfway mark, which meant she had a little more than four weeks to uncover who the real Kennedy Fletcher was.
The instant she turned to go back to the dining hall, she vacillated. She really did not want to know Kennedy that well, because once the camp season ended she wanted no shadows across her heart. The fortune-teller had predicted she would have two men in her life vying for her love, and one thing she knew was that the camp’s sports director would not be one of them.
* * *
It was Monday; the food theme was Mediterranean. Lydia had excluded Italy because she devoted one night entirely to Italian cuisine. This Monday her entrées included Moroccan couscous with lamb and seven vegetables; rice pilaf; assorted lamb kebabs with marinades from Greece, Turkey, and Tunisia; beef and okra stew from Egypt; Greek-style roast chicken with oregano and lemon; and another chicken entrée from Lebanon, roast chicken with rice stuffing. Soup selections included lentil, lamb, and bean and meatball, which were the perfect complement for Neil’s sesame bread rings.
Closing her menu book, she glanced over at Neil, who was engrossed in preparing the dough mixture for the bread rings. “How do you feel about me making sanbusak to go along with the spinach pie for appetizers?”
Neil shut off the industrial mixer. “Please translate.” He’d found himself asking her to translate the names of the foreign dishes quite a few times since becoming Lydia’s assistant.
Lydia, deciding not to dwell on Neil’s shortcomings, smiled at him. Although she’d never burned a dish, she had made enough mistakes as a student and an apprentice to elicit the wrath of her instructors and bosses.
“Little pastries filled with cheese or meat.”
Neil’s interest was piqued once he heard “pastries.” “What kind of cheese and meat?”
“Feta and minced lamb. The feta is blended with eggs, fresh or chopped mint, and white pepper. The meat is mixed with olive oil, finely chopped onions, cinnamon, allspice, toasted pine nuts, and freshly ground salt and pepper.”
“Baked or fried?”
“The cheese is usually baked and sprinkled with sesame seeds, and the meat-filled pastries are deep-fried.”
Neil, always open to trying a new dish, nodded. “Let’s do it.”
“You’re going to have to mix another batch of dough without the yeast.”
Closing the distance between them, Neil extended his little finger. “Wanna bet the kids call the sanbusaks beef patties?”
Lydia shook her head. “No, because I know they are.” She and Neil had made miniature Jamaican beef patties for Caribbean night and they disappeared so quickly she thought everyone had inhaled them.
Lydia had taken a huge risk presenting the camp with her regional dishes, aware that most people usually ate what was most familiar to them. However, her proposal was successful because the campers always came to the dining room ravenous. And because presentation was a key component in cooking, she made certain all of the dishes were appealing.
She’d learned to gauge how much of each entrée and side dish was needed to feed one hundred children and twenty-five adults, and most nights there were little or no leftovers. Glancing at the clock on the far wall, she noted the time. It was time to put the meats in the oven. She loaded the chickens on several spits, leaving them for Neil to secure on the rotisserie.
Lydia turned her attention to a large uncovered bowl. Tabouli, a Mediterranean salad made with bulghur, tomatoes, fresh herbs, and lemon juice, had become an instant favorite. Several times a week she’d found a note taped to the kitchen door: Miss Lydia, please make the salad with the little bumps. They weren’t familiar with bulghur.
She’d honored their requests and planned to make tabouli, gelato, melon and fresh fruit cut into funny shapes, low-fat ice-cream sandwiches, sodas, sundaes, and parfaits until the camp season ended.
* * *
The door leading into the kitchen opened slightly and a kitchen assistant leaned in. “Miss Lydia, you’re wanted in the dining room.”
Lydia smothered a sigh. She wanted to finish the task of cutting up the meats and vegetables for the following night’s Chinese theme.
“Who wants me?”
“Mr. Roger.”
“Tell him I’ll be right out.”
Moving over to the stainless steel sink, she rinsed her hands, dried them on the towel slung over her shoulder, and walked out of the kitchen to find everyone standing. Within seconds they launched into Mase’s 2004 comeback rendition of “Welcome Back.”
Lydia covered her face with her apron and laughed until tears rolled down her face. She was still laughing when Roger came over and patted her on the back.
He signaled for silence, and the assembly sat down. Although his mouth was smiling, his deep-set eyes were serious. “I don’t know what the kids did to Mr. Neil to make him angry yesterday, but I’ve had a long talk with them and whatever it is they’ve all promised not to do it again.” He gave Lydia a sly wink. “I know I speak for everyone when I say we much prefer your pizza to what we were forced to eat yesterday.”
“It was mad nasty!” yelled a girl sitting in the back.
“Word,” a boy confirmed at a nearby table.
Lydia had to admire Roger’s attempt to publicly vindicate Neil. Her gaze swept over the sea of young faces staring at her. Just for an instant she met Kennedy’s gaze and averted hers.
“Mr. Neil and I are very sorry about yesterday, and we hope it will not happen again. It’s not easy cooking for so many people day after day. We work very hard to prepare different dishes because when you grow up and travel to other countries that don’t have fast food restaurants on every corner, you’ll be able to order and eat dishes that you’ve become familiar with.
“Next Sunday is the first of our
two Family Reunion Sundays, and Mr. Neil and I have planned a very special dinner for your family members.” She flashed a demure smile. “Before I go back to the kitchen, I’d like to thank you for your song.”
Her gaze strayed back to Kennedy. He nodded and smiled his approval. She acknowledged him with a perceptible nod before she retraced her steps.
* * *
Kennedy speared a forkful of Greek salad. Roger had informed him that he’d met with the campers earlier that morning to smooth over their ruffled feelings about their aborted southern-style Sunday dinner. Not wishing to openly blame Neil, and as a certified social worker, Roger spoke to them about compassion and forgiveness. The campers listened intently, then drew their own conclusions: the dinner was ruined because Miss Lydia hadn’t been there to cook it.
Chewing thoughtfully on a kalamata olive, Kennedy had to agree with the campers. If Lydia had been there they would’ve eaten their favorite dishes instead of tasteless pizza with cardboardlike crusts.
But the fact remained she wasn’t at the camp because she was with him. Spending time away from the camp with her was something he wanted to experience again. He wanted to take her to his lake house, and for a few precious hours pretend they were a couple.
Not waiting for dessert, he picked his tray off the table, emptied it, and walked out of the dining hall. The sun had dropped lower in the sky, taking with it the heat of the day.
Thrusting his hands into the pockets of his walking shorts, Kennedy made his way toward the lake.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“I’m going to miss you, darling.”
Lydia pressed her forehead to Kennedy’s shoulder. “Don’t be so dramatic. I’m only going to be away for a day.”
Resting his chin on the top of her head, he buried his face in her fragrant hair. “Why don’t you wait and leave in the morning? It’s much safer than driving across the state at night.”
Easing back in his embrace, Lydia stared up at the man whom she had come to love despite her resolve not to become involved with him. “I have to leave tonight.” Her hairstylist sister-in-law, Gloria, had promised to keep her salon open in order to touch up Lydia’s much-needed chemically relaxed hair.
All My Tomorrows Page 11
