“Why would you say that?”
Reaching for a cleaver from an overhead hook, Lydia picked up a head of celery cabbage. Using a rocking motion, she sliced it into thin strips for stir-frying.
Neil gave her an incredulous look. “I can’t believe you’re sleeping with the man and he hasn’t told you that he owns this place.”
The cleaver fell to the butcher block with a dull thud. It took all of her self-control not to let Neil see her hands shaking. “What! And who told you I was sleeping with Kennedy?”
Taking several steps closer, narrowing the distance between them, Neil placed his hands on her shoulders. “Me and my big mouth.”
“You better tell me…” Her words trailed off. What could she do to Neil if he decided not to tell her?
“Come, sit down, Lydia.” Neil led her to a pair of stools where they usually sat to discuss menus and recipes.
And like a lamb being led to the slaughter, she followed him. Not only were her hands shaking, but also her heart. It fluttered in her chest like a leaf in a storm.
I’ve been sleeping with my boss. The realization twisted her gut. It was compounded because now others were privy to their affair.
Neil ran his hand over his head, removing his skullcap. “I never should’ve said anything.”
Lydia stared him down. “But you did. Please talk to me, Neil.”
“Jill told me she overheard a conversation between Roger and Ken in which Roger told Ken that the final decision rested with him because he owned Camp Six Nations.”
Now it all made sense to Lydia why Kennedy’s name shared the same position as Roger’s and Grace’s on the table of organization. Why he’d picked up the tab for dinner at the Roadhouse. He must have given himself a gold star for getting her into his bed so easily.
“Who told you I was sleeping with him?”
Neil shook his head. “No one in particular. It came down to coincidence. You and Ken were always away at the same time, and I’ve seen the way he looks at you, Lydia, and you at him. The love is there—big time. I only walked away because I didn’t want to say something that would ruin what you have going with him.”
Lydia placed her hand over Neil’s. “There’s nothing to ruin. Kennedy and I are friends.”
“Sure, boss,” he drawled, his voice heavy with sarcasm.
She still hadn’t confirmed or denied to Neil that she was sleeping with Kennedy, and wouldn’t.
“Remember, you’re the boss for the next two weeks.” She’d deftly changed the subject. “If it’s all right with you, I’ll handle dinner.”
Neil smiled. “I’ll take you up on your offer after I cut up the vegetables.” He removed the handkerchief from his neck, looped it around Lydia’s, tying it neatly over the love bite. “That should silence the wagging tongues.”
Seeing the amusement in Neil’s eyes, she laughed. “Thanks, partner.”
He winked at her. “Don’t mention it, partner.”
They slipped off the stools and began preparations for dinner.
* * *
The notion that he’d become like a few of the men with whom he’d played football who took special glee in causing serious injuries to players from opposing teams frightened Kennedy. Their mantra was: if you can’t take the pain, then get the hell out of the game.
He had played the game of love for the second time in his life, and this time it was he who’d inflicted pain. The look on Lydia’s face when he’d accused her of carrying on with Neil Lane was one he would never forget or want to witness again.
Clenching his teeth tight enough to make his jaw ache, he ran a hand over his face. Maybe I’m not cut out for this love thing, he mused. First Nila and now Lydia.
You take women because you do not want to be alone. The words from the fortune-teller stabbed at his conscience. Was she telling him that he was doomed to repeat Marvin Kennedy’s mistakes? His biological father had spent his life loving and leaving a trail of women so numerous he was unable to recall their names or faces. Marvin, who was content not to marry or father children because he didn’t want to feel “trapped,” made two grievous mistakes—he fell in love with Diane Fletcher and got her pregnant. And despite pressure from his and her family to marry Diane, he deserted her and enlisted in the army, becoming a lifer.
Lowering his hand and letting out his breath in an audible sigh, Kennedy walked up the stairs leading into the main house. He looked enough like Marvin to have been his clone, but that’s where the resemblance ended. He had no intention of spending the rest of his life sleeping with nameless, faceless women to assuage his sexual frustration.
As he opened the screen door and stepped into the spacious entryway he swore a solemn vow: Lydia Lord would become the last woman in his life.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Kennedy retook the chair he’d vacated when he went to the dining hall to retrieve the information he needed from Neil. His gaze swept around the table, lingering on those taking part in the three-day survival-training mission.
“People, let’s finish this up.” His sonorous voice, filled with an authoritative edge, brought the conversations floating around the table to an abrupt halt.
Forcing a smile he didn’t feel at that moment, he read from the report that Neil had put together for him: “We will transport the following food items to the fortress tomorrow morning: powdered milk, eggs, dehydrated potatoes, canned beans, fruit, meatless chili, sardines, and hash. We’ll also take vegetable oil, cornmeal, ten five-gallon bottles of water, bottled reconstituted lemon juice, and baking soda.”
“What about meat?” asked the head counselor for the Mohawks.
Kennedy gave him a level stare. “What about it, Kareem?”
“It sounds as if we’re going to have to be vegetarians for a couple of days.”
“The first thing this expedition will teach you is how to overcome your desire for comfort. It is about learning to survive, not filling up on steak and fries. What we are going to do is a modified version originally commissioned by the Department of the Army to train its special forces in all-climate, all-terrain survival tactics.
“My personal belief is that this type of training should be mandatory for campers, hikers, pilots, and others whose vocation or avocation requires familiarity with the out-of-doors. Most times, if someone is stranded, they won’t have one-tenth of what we’re taking. I hope this answers your question, Kareem.”
Kareem nodded. “It does.”
“Speaking of comfort,” Kennedy continued, “I’d like to inform everyone that we will not have to sleep outdoors on the ground.” A series of high-five handshakes followed this disclosure. “But before you congratulate yourselves, hear me out. The place we’ve named the Fortress will have a wood-burning stove and indoor plumbing with cold running water.”
The head counselor for the Seneca boys raised his hand. “I don’t think the boys will complain too much, but the girls are going to freak if they have to shower in cold water.”
“You ain’t lying,” Roger agreed, laughing with the others.
Kennedy lifted his eyebrows. “Now you guys are thinking like men.”
“That’s because we are men,” Kareem said proudly.
“Didn’t you hear me say wood-burning stove?”
Realization dawning, the men nodded. “Anyone want to place a wager that they’ll heat the water?” Roger asked, smiling.
“No!” came a chorus of deep voices from around the table.
Kennedy laced his fingers together on the table. “The food, canoes, life jackets, first-aid equipment, and medical personnel will go up in the truck Tuesday morning. Remember, counselors, that there are no beds or bunks, which means you’ll have to use sleeping bags. Please check all backpacks to make certain your campers pack enough clothes to sustain them for at least five days. And I don’t have to tell you to confiscate all Walkmen and CD players. Each of you will be given a cellular phone programmed with numbers to the camp and state police in case of an
extreme emergency.”
James Bennett, the Seneca counselor, raised his hand again. “Are you going with the truck or hiking up with us?”
Rising to his feet and pushing back his chair, Kennedy clasped his hands together, flexing his massive biceps. “What do you think, Jimmy?”
James held up a hand in supplication. “Oh–kay,” he drawled.
Laughing easily for the first time since witnessing Neil and Lydia together, Kennedy exhaled a normal breath. He had to laugh or joke; otherwise he would return to the dining hall and snap Neil Lane’s neck as easily as he would a pencil.
“We’re done here, folks. Thank you.”
Everyone filed out of the meeting room except Roger. Bracing his hands on the back of a chair, he smiled at Kennedy. “It sounds as if you guys are going to have fun roughing it.”
Nodding, Kennedy returned his smile. “Why don’t you come along with us?”
“I’d consider it if I didn’t have to hike up there.”
“You can always go up with the truck.”
“I don’t think so. There’s no way I’m going to have the campers think of me as a candy-ass.”
Folding his arms over his chest, Kennedy studied the slender, bookish-looking social worker. “But you are a candy-ass, Roger.” He held up a hand when Roger opened his mouth to refute his assessment of him. “You were the one who always bowed out whenever we chose sides for a football game.”
Roger tapped his forehead. “That’s because I’m smart enough not to have you guys open my noggin like a melon, especially you. There was no way I was going to let you tackle me.”
“You still haven’t learned the game. I played offense, not defense.”
“Whatever,” Roger drawled. Like quicksilver, he sobered. “I don’t think I’ve ever asked you this, but do you miss the fame?”
“Don’t you mean the game?”
“No. I meant the fame.”
A hint of a smile softened Kennedy’s strong mouth. “Now, if you’d asked me if I miss the game I’d say yes. Ah, the fame,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m ambivalent about that. I liked what it brought me—money, enough money to fulfill most of what is on my wish list. But then, the flip side was that I had to give up any semblance of a normal life. Most times I felt as if I existed in a fishbowl with everybody watching and waiting for me to mess up. There was one sportswriter who couldn’t find any dirt on me, so he decided to fabricate a story about me and an underage girl in a Kansas City restaurant bathroom. The story was killed because someone at his paper called me before it was printed. That was the ugly side of fame.”
Roger stared at the ex-ballplayer whom he regarded as family. They didn’t share the same bloodline, yet had become cousins once his uncle Philip married Diane Fletcher.
Kennedy had approached him asking his help in establishing a sleepaway camp for underserved inner-city children three years before. His cousin’s enthusiasm was contagious, and before he knew it Roger had agreed to head the planning committee.
Kennedy showed him another side of his personality once he revealed to a landowner the reason he wanted to purchase eight hundred acres of a twelve-hundred-acre plot. Kennedy, aware that the man wouldn’t be able to sell the remaining four hundred acres, offered to buy the entire plot for half the asking price. The elderly man, grateful to unload the property, agreed.
The Camp Six Nations campsite encompassed less than sixty acres, and a developer who wanted to buy a portion of the land to build houses for a retirement community had approached Kennedy with an offer that would become a financial boon.
Roger removed his glasses, pinching the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. He knew Kennedy wanted to provide financial stability for his parents, and he’d done that. He owned an elegant home in Friendship Heights and a vacation retreat twenty minutes from the campsite. He hadn’t squandered his money supporting an entourage of hangers-on and gold-digging women, or on ostentatious jewelry and cars. He’d become an anomaly among the young athletes who had become instant millionaires with a scrawl of their signature.
Reporters and photographers loved him. He was always approachable and accommodating, but in the end they vilified him once he left the game without an explanation.
“How many more items are left on your wish list?”
Kennedy’s expression did not reveal what he was feeling at that moment. “A few.” And one of the few had a name: Lydia Lord.
“Does she have a name?” Roger asked, reading his mind.
“She does.”
Squinting at a speck of lint on his glasses, Roger rubbed the lens over the front of his shirt. “Do you care to share it with me?”
“I can’t.”
“You can’t or you won’t?”
“Both.”
“Why not, Ken?”
“Because I’m not certain it’s going to work out.”
Replacing his glasses, Roger gave him an incredulous look. “You’re kidding, aren’t you?”
“No, I’m not kidding,” he snapped angrily.
“Yo, cuz, don’t jump down my throat. I’m not your enemy.”
“You’re right. I’m sorry, cuz. I’m going to hang out at my place tonight. I’ll see you in the morning.”
“You’ve been hanging out there a lot, Ken.”
“Yeah, I know. I go there when I need to think.”
“It doesn’t pay to think too much.”
“Save the social work spiel for your clients, Roger.”
“You could use a few sessions on my couch. I won’t charge you.”
“If you think I’m going to spill my guts to you, then you’re crazier than I am.”
Roger’s eyebrows shot up. “Are you crazy?”
“Of course,” Kennedy said glibly. “Falling in love is a bitch!”
He walked out of the meeting room, leaving Roger staring at his back. Kennedy knew Roger wasn’t his enemy. He was family, a friend, and business partner. But on the other hand, jealousy and frustration had become his closest friends, living with him day in and day out.
Why, he mused as he made his way to the parking area, whenever his life spun out of control, was a woman at the center of the morass? It had begun with Cassandra lying to her husband that she’d had an affair with him, Nila’s rejection because she said she couldn’t trust him, and now Lydia. Had he just used up his last strike?
He got into his SUV, started it up, and drove away from the campsite without a backward glance. He needed to put some distance between him and Lydia so that he could think objectively.
* * *
Lydia sat in the middle of her bed, Justin’s unopened letter on her lap. She hadn’t seen Kennedy in days, and knew she would not see him again until Saturday.
When she’d returned to her cabin Monday night, his was dark. No light shone through the windows Tuesday night. Wednesday dawned with nervous excitement floating throughout the camp. Twenty-six campers, head counselors, counselors-in-training, and several staff members were hiking to a remote campsite in the Appalachians for a three-day survival training mission. The campers who didn’t take part in this year’s expedition expressed their impatience with not being old enough to go along.
I miss him. I love him, the voice of truth whispered to her, and Lydia choked back the tears blurring her vision. Just when she’d let go of the pain and bitterness making it impossible to open her heart to love freely, the door had been slammed shut with Kennedy’s unfounded accusation that she was involved with Neil. Could he believe that she was sleeping with him and her assistant? Had he dealt with so many fickle, promiscuous women that he’d lumped her into the same category?
She closed her eyes and let the tears flow. She cried until she was spent, then slipped off the bed and went into the bathroom to wash her face. Instead of returning to the bed, she picked up Justin’s letter and went out to the porch. There was still enough daylight to read the typed words:
Dearest Lydia,
I hadn’t reali
zed how much I’d missed you until I saw you Saturday. I know we’ve had our differences in the past, but I’d like to offer an olive branch.
I know you think I’ve not been supportive of you in your quest to go into business for yourself, but nothing could be further from the truth. I understand more than you’ll ever know, because of my own pursuit, not only to achieve business success, but to prove to my family that I can make it on my own, that I don’t have to become a clone of my father, grandfather, and great-grandfather. How many more Dr. Bankses are needed to deify the Banks name in the annals of medical history?
Lydia smiled. “How right you are,” she said, answering Justin’s query. Her eyes scanned the rest of the page before continuing.
I know I haven’t been very demonstrative when it comes to showing my love for you. The fact remains that I do love you—very, very much. And although we haven’t slept together in nearly a year, I want so much to believe that what we share goes beyond our platonic relationship. I’m totally committed to you—in every way. Remember I’ll always be here if you need me.
Write back soon.
Love, Justin.
P.S. HURRY HOME!
Hurry home? What on earth did Justin mean? When she’d lived in Silver Spring it was either her place, or his place in north Baltimore, and never home.
Justin’s letter disturbed her because it was filled with innuendoes. It was the second time he’d confessed to loving her. Justin loved her and she didn’t love him—at least not the way she loved Kennedy. And she loved Kennedy when he hadn’t told her that he loved her. What a lopsided love triangle if ever there was one.
Leaving Justin’s letter on the recliner, Lydia went into the cabin. As soon as she stepped into the one-room structure she felt as if the walls were closing in on her. Why did the space now appear so claustrophobic?
Removing her cell phone from its charger, she picked up a lightweight blanket and returned to the porch. Sinking down to the recliner, she punched in a programmed number. Her call was answered after the second ring.
“Hello.”
Lydia smiled. “Hi, Victoria.”
All My Tomorrows Page 18
