The adults murmured their approval as Alfonso handed the microphone to Lydia.
The campers stood up, stomping and shouting, “Eat! Eat! Eat!” The entire barn was filled with laughter, and before Lydia composed herself enough to speak, tears had filled her eyes and rolled down her cheeks. She removed the white kerchief from around her neck and dabbed her face.
Her shoulders still shaking from laughing, she smiled, saying, “It’s redundant to say I’m a chef. My partner and I have taken our campers on a culinary journey to countries as far away as Morocco and Greece. They may shock you when they ask to go to a restaurant serving couscous, pasticcio, pasta fagioli, or arroz con carne de cerdo rather than McDonald’s or the local pizza parlor.”
Her amused gaze moved slowly over the faces of the campers in hues ranging from creamy white to a deep rich sable brown. “I’m most proud of our campers because of the ease with which they’ve embraced diversity not only among themselves, but also with the international cuisine my partner and I have offered.” Turning slightly, she glanced over her shoulder at Neil. “None of this would’ve been possible without Neil Lane.”
Neil stood up and was rewarded with whistles and shouts from everyone in the barn. A wave of bright color moved from his neck to his face. The beginnings of a smile faded, then widened as the barn door opened and a petite woman with stylishly cut ash-blond hair walked in with two preteen girls whose inky black hair was a startling contrast to hers. She’d come. His estranged wife had brought his daughters to Family Reunion Sunday!
Lydia saw the direction of Neil’s raven gaze and handed him the microphone. “It’s all yours,” she whispered softly.
Neil, who hadn’t been scheduled to speak, cleared his throat. “I’m certain I speak for everyone when I say that we’re blessed to have Lydia supervising the kitchen.” Pausing, he gave his supervisor a forlorn look. “Please don’t forget me when you open your restaurant.” Grinning broadly, he handed off the microphone to Jeff Wiggins.
Kennedy stared at Lydia as she and Neil left to see to the food that would be served following a tour of the camp by the visiting parents. He redirected his attention to Jeff as the drama instructor energized everyone when he talked about the theatrical numbers his drama students were rehearsing. Megan Gallagher followed Jeff, enchanting the crowd with her lilting Irish brogue. She invited everyone to come to the arts and crafts hogan to view the pieces of pottery she had put on display for viewing. After completing her brief presentation, she returned the microphone to Kennedy.
Rising he moved behind the lectern, replacing the microphone on its stand. “I’d like to thank everyone for their attention, and if you would be so kind as to follow the counselors wearing the red wristbands they will give you a tour of our campgrounds. Then, I’d like everyone to gather in the dining hall for Sunday dinner. This is just a reminder for those who came up on the bus, the driver would like to start loading at six-thirty. He will pull out at exactly seven o’clock and not one minute later.”
Kennedy turned off the mike and followed the others out of the barn. He also planned to leave the camp at seven with Lydia. It had been a long time since he’d looked forward to going out with a woman who did not bore him to tears.
Nila hadn’t been as superficially beautiful as the models he’d dated, but it was her intelligence and gentleness that had drawn him to her. He was playing pro ball, involved in product endorsements, traveling from city to city for away games, and he hadn’t wanted any encumbrances in his life at that time.
Whenever he returned to Baltimore he called Nila, and she was always available. Even if she’d had a prior engagement, she canceled it to be with him. She was predictable, accommodating, and faithful—all the hallmarks for a woman who was certain to be a good wife. That was then, and this was now. He was older, wiser, and what he did not want in a woman was predictability.
Smiling, Kennedy put on his sunglasses. Lydia Lord was anything but predictable. He’d found her incredibly sexy, despite her claim that he was the first man who’d brought her to complete sexual fulfillment. She’d become the first and only woman that made him want to lie with her without the benefit of contraception. He wanted Lydia as his wife and the mother of his children.
* * *
Neil pulled his daughters close to his side. “Lydia, I’d like you to meet my wife, Rachel, and our daughters Stacy and Jennifer. Girls, Rachel, my supervisor and mentor, Miss Lydia Lord.”
Lydia removed her latex gloves, tucking them under her apron ties, and extended her right hand. “It’s nice meeting you.” Rachel Lane’s fingers were cool and smooth as they touched hers.
Rachel’s dark blue eyes studied the face of the tall, slender woman whose youthful appearance belied her culinary experience. “It’s nice meeting you, too, Lydia.”
“Is this where you work, Daddy?” asked the younger girl.
Nodding and smiling at his nine-year-old daughter, Neil said, “Yes, baby girl.”
“It’s nice, Daddy.”
He ruffled her inky black hair. “I think it’s nice, too.”
Jennifer Lane had inherited her father’s hair and eyes and her mother’s petite frame. She smiled up at Neil. “I love this camp.”
Stacy tugged on Neil’s arm. “Can me and Jenny come here next summer, Daddy?”
Lydia’s and Neil’s gazes met and fused. Next summer was a long way off, and neither knew what direction their lives would take by that time.
“We’ll see,” he said noncommittally.
“I think I want to become a cook like Daddy,” Jennifer announced, shocking both her parents.
Lydia slipped on her latex gloves. She wanted to finish up with the watermelon boat salad. “Neil, why don’t you give your family a tour of the kitchen while I take care of the fruit salad?”
She was anxious to leave the dining hall and prepare for her evening with Kennedy, and she also wanted to give Neil time to reconnect with his family.
Twenty minutes later, two halves of a large watermelon, cut lengthwise with a serrated border, were filled with balls of cantaloupe, honeydew, watermelon, blueberries, strawberries, kiwi, and white grapes.
Picking up one half, she pushed open the swinging door with her shoulder and walked into the dining hall. The noise level was deafening. She motioned to a kitchen assistant. “Please bring out the other half.”
Pleasant and always cooperative, the teenager took the watermelon from Lydia, placing it on the refrigerated portion of the serving counter. “What else do you need for me to bring out?”
“That’s it,” she replied, smiling. She glanced down when she felt someone tugging on her apron. It was her favorite camper, Keisha Middleton. “Hi, Kiki.”
Keisha touched her hair. “My mommy braided my hair.”
Hunkering down to the child’s height, Lydia ran a finger over her silken cheek. “You look beautiful, doll baby.”
Clapping a hand over her mouth, Keisha giggled through her fingers. “I told my mommy you call me doll baby and she laughed. Do you want to meet my mommy, Miss Lydia?”
She smiled. “Of course I do, Kiki.”
She had met many of the parents during their tour of the dining hall. All of them thanked her for weaning their children off greasy, fat-filled foods. Taking the child’s hand, Lydia followed her across the dining hall, nodding and smiling at the many campers she’d come to recognize on sight.
Kennedy sat at a table with three senior Mohawks and six Senecas. The young boys, ranging in age from nine to twelve, were the first group to participate in the survival training exercise. The sight of Lydia and Keisha Middleton had captured his attention. He stared, unblinking, as Lydia touched the little girl’s face. In that instant the pull of fatherhood nearly swallowed him whole.
He went completely still, unable to pull his gaze away when he saw them walk hand in hand to the table where Keisha’s mother and older brothers and sister sat. He was still staring as Lydia sat next to Mrs. Middleton.
His penetrating gaze li
ngered on the omnipresent bandana covering her hair, the dewy sheen on her bare face, the enchanting tilt of her sherry-gold eyes whenever she smiled, and the lush lower lip he yearned to lick, kiss, and suckle.
“You didn’t answer my question, Mr. K.”
The camper calling his name pulled him from his reverie. He blinked once and turned back to the others at the table. “I’m sorry, Mustafa, I wasn’t listening.”
“I…we want to know if we’re going to have to catch and cook our own food.”
Kennedy affected a mysterious smile. “What do you think? After all, it will be a survival training expedition.”
“Will we have to sleep out on the ground?” asked Angelo Quinn, who’d earned the distinction of being the first camper to pass the rigorous requirements for being a lifeguard.
“You will see in a couple of days.” They were scheduled to hike a mile to a lodge and spend two nights learning how to survive in the wilderness, before returning to camp by canoe. “The only hint I’m going to give you is that you’re going to have to rely on one another for everything.”
“Come on, Mr. K,” one of the younger Senecas drawled. “You have to tell us more than that.”
“No, I don’t,” countered Kennedy, unsuccessfully suppressing his amusement. “The survival exercise will come in handy once we have game week.”
“Yo, Mr. K, you comin’ wit’ us?” asked Mustafa.
“Yo, Mustafa, yeah.” The boys dissolving into a paroxysm of hysterics pounded the table and exchanged high fives. Kennedy was still smiling when he rose and walked out of the dining hall.
* * *
Lydia walked into the kitchen, slowing her pace when she saw Neil sitting on a stool at a counter flipping pages in a notebook. “I thought you’d be out of here.”
His head came up. “I was just going over some recipes.”
Moving closer, she sat down on a stool next to Neil and stared at his distinctive profile. His finely boned features made him appear fragile. But his looks were totally incongruent with his temperament, which was stubborn, determined. He possessed a willingness to sacrifice his job and family to pursue his passion.
“Which ones are you looking at?”
Neil met Lydia’s steady gaze. He liked and respected her professionally. And as promised, she hadn’t screamed or thrown objects. “I was thinking about our all-American menu.”
Reaching up, Neil removed the black skullcap covering his spiky hair. “I’d like to make some suggestions.”
Bracing an elbow on the countertop, Lydia rested her chin on a fist. “Talk to me, Neil.”
“I’d like for us to amend the all-American by offering an entrée and desserts from several regional menus on a daily basis. One night we can offer a New England clambake with various chowders. I’m certain the kids will love Philadelphia cheese steak sandwiches, Buffalo wings, and on rainy days, Manhattan clam chowder for lunch. Pennsylvania pot roast can be a dinner entrée that can round out the Middle Atlantic states.”
Arching her eyebrow, Lydia asked, “What about the rest of the country?”
Neil felt a jolt of excitement. So far his boss hadn’t shot down his proposal. “The South will include Maryland crab cakes, gumbo, jambalaya, hoppin’ John, and fried green tomatoes. The Midwest will feature Swedish meatballs, Kansas City barbecued ribs, sausage and kraut, and Chicago-style deep-dish spinach pizza. The Southwest menu can be vegetable-topped cheese quesadillas, green chili cheese spread, a taco salad, and Navajo fry bread.
“Chicken potpie, kolaches, sourdough bread, chicken with black bean sauce, and marinated grilled lamb can be featured from the West, and pumpkin soup, pineapple salsa, cream cheese and macadamia pie, and ginger-orange shrimp stir-fry for the Pacific Northwest, Alaska, and Hawaii.”
“Are you suggesting we scrap our all-American theme in favor of daily regional dishes?”
“Oh no,” he said quickly. “I just thought we’d add a few more choices to the daily theme.”
“A theme means having a distinctive quality or characteristic. I believe we’ll confuse everyone if we offer a Chicago-style deep-dish pizza when the menu reads Chinese.” Neil glanced away rather than let Lydia see his disappointment. “But I do have a suggestion where we can use your idea,” she said in a soft tone.
Excitement fired his raven gaze, his mood suddenly buoyant. “Talk to me, boss.”
A flash of humor crossed Lydia’s face. “We can modify our lunch schedule to include some of your choices. Keep in mind that our breakfast and lunch dishes require the least amount of preparation.”
“I know,” Neil concurred.
Lydia gave him a long, penetrating look. She did not want Neil to go through what she’d experienced with her last employer—an outright rejection of her proposals. But she also didn’t want to spend more time in the kitchen than necessary. As it was, she spent an average of twelve hours a day at the dining hall.
“What if we compromise?”
“How?” he asked smoothly, with no expression on his face.
“You will become totally responsible for breakfast and lunch. Beginning tomorrow morning, you will supervise the kitchen for the next two weeks.”
He stared at his supervisor, complete surprise on his face. “You…you want me to supervise you?”
A smug smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. “Me and the help. How else are you going to gain supervisory experience?”
Neil hesitated, measuring Lydia’s expression for a hint of guile. “You’re joking, aren’t you?”
There was a moment of silence before she said softly, “No, I’m not, Neil. I never joke about anything that has to do with my job. You’ve risked everything you’ve worked for, and that includes your family, to follow your dream. I’m offering you what I wanted from the first day I walked into the lecture hall at the Culinary Institute of America, and you sit here asking me if I’m joking.
“You’re a talented chef, Neil, and if I had a restaurant I’d hire you. I’m giving you the opportunity to supervise the kitchen because we won’t be at full capacity for the next two weeks. The ten- to twelve-year-old boys will be away for three days, and the girls the following week. What’s it going to be?” she challenged as hardness crept into her voice.
His forehead creased in consternation, Neil contemplated Lydia’s proposition. He wanted to cook, not supervise. In more than twenty years with the General Accounting Office he passed on every supervisory position because he’d always felt uncomfortable monitoring others.
“I need your decision now, Neil.”
The soft feminine voice broke into his musings as a smile found its way through an expression of uncertainty. “Okay.”
A secret smile softened her mouth and lit up her liquid gold eyes. Kennedy had slipped a note under her door earlier that morning to let her know he would pick her up at seven. He’d added a postscript: if possible—please have Neil cover breakfast. The first time she’d stayed over at his house he’d complained about getting out of bed “at the crack of dawn” to return to camp. But when she reminded him that he usually got up early to swim in the lake he countered by saying it was either the cold lake water or a cold shower. His gaze had burned her face, and there was no mistaking his double meaning.
“If it’s all right with you, boss, I’d like to start a little later tomorrow.”
Neil threw back his head, laughter floating up from his throat. Becoming temporary executive chef for two weeks and reuniting with his family had changed his life in less than twenty-four hours.
“Yes, Lydia. Take the time, and don’t forget to relax.”
Slipping off the stool, Lydia wiggled her fingers. “I will.”
* * *
Lydia wrapped narrow silk ribbons around her ankles, tying them neatly in a bow. The three-inch silk-covered sandals were the perfect complement to the halter-style black dress. A knock on the door shattered the silence, and she glanced at her travel clock on the bedside table. It was 6:50.
Risi
ng to her feet, she made her way to the door, while removing the oversize pins from her wrapped hairdo. Peeking through the slats of the jalousie window, she spied Kennedy. She opened the door several inches and went completely still.
The fragrance of his cologne, the velvety smoothness of his clean-shaven jaw, the exquisite cut of a midnight-blue tailored suit caressing the lines of his powerful body made the muscles in her stomach contract.
There was an expression in his dark eyes that pulled her into a force field, holding her captive. He was making love to her without touching. Heat swept up her face, bringing with it a light sheen of moisture. Her breasts grew heavy, the nipples swelling against the fabric of her dress.
“As soon as I comb my hair I’ll be ready.” Lydia did not recognize her own voice. It floated around her like a disembodied specter.
Bracing a hand on the door frame, Kennedy pushed it open, walked into the cabin, closed it, then reached for Lydia. Slowly, methodically he removed the last two pins and her hair fell over her forehead and down around the nape of her neck.
“You’ve cut your hair,” he whispered against her ear.
“A little.” Moving behind her, he tunneled a hand through the mussed strands, massaging her scalp. “You’re too close, Kennedy,” Lydia said, gasping, while attempting to slow down her runaway pulse.
His free arm circled her waist, bringing her hips to his groin. His hand went from her head to a breast. “We’re not close enough, sweetheart.”
Breathing through parted lips, she closed her eyes, going pliant in his embrace. Kennedy’s hardness throbbing against her buttocks electrified her. She managed to swallow the first moan, but the second one slipped out of its own accord. A rush of moisture, which left her legs trembling so much she doubted whether she would’ve been able to stand if Kennedy hadn’t held on to her, followed the flutters that began between her thighs. Her moans became a strangled gasp as she succumbed to the liquid fire bathing the soft core of her body.
Her breasts rising and falling heavily as if in the aftermath of passion would not permit her to move or speak. Lydia closed her eyes and rested her head on her lover’s shoulder.
All My Tomorrows Page 14
