“Lydia, I…”
Whatever her sister-in-law was going to say dissolved in a spasm of giggles.
“No-o-o-o, Quintin. Don’t. Please don’t.”
“I told you not to answer the phone. Hang it up, darling, and let me…”
Lydia ended the call, heat stealing into her face. It was apparent her telephone call had interrupted Quintin and Victoria’s lovemaking.
The phone rang, startling her. Peering at the display, she recognized the number and answered the call. “Victoria?”
“I’m sorry about that, Lydia. Did you want to talk to your brother?”
“No. I wanted to talk to you. But I can call back another time.”
“Talk now. Quintin’s gone.”
“Are you sure?”
“What do you want to talk about?”
She’d called Victoria because she found her easier to talk to than her own sisters. Her sister-in-law was more objective and less judgmental than Sharon or Andrea.
“I need your advice.”
“What about?”
A flicker of apprehension flickered through Lydia as she composed her thoughts. “I met someone… I’ve met a man.” There. She said it.
Victoria’s soft laughter came through the tiny earpiece. “Are you saying you went to camp and got bit by the love bug?”
Wrinkling her nose, Lydia could not stop the grin spreading across her face. “Big time.”
“Good for you. Who is he?”
Her grin vanished as quickly as it had appeared. “I can’t tell you. Not yet.” Lydia was forthcoming when she told Victoria about her dates with Kennedy, his promise to take her to Cabo San Lucas, his offer to invest in her restaurant, the fortune-teller’s prediction, and Justin’s declaration of love.
“Has your mystery man told you that he loves you?”
“No.”
“Have you let him know how you feel?”
“No.”
“When are you going to tell him?”
“I’m not. He thinks I’m carrying on with my assistant.”
“He thinks?” Victoria asked.
“He saw us together—”
“Doing what, Lydia?” Victoria interrupted.
“Wrestling.”
“What were you thinking about? How do you think you’d have reacted if you saw him with his hands roaming over another woman’s body?”
Lydia reined in her temper. Victoria had chastised her as if she were an errant child. “I get the picture.” She wasn’t certain how she would’ve reacted if she’d witnessed Kennedy with another woman.
“What are you going to do with Justin?”
“Nothing has changed between me and Justin.”
“You’re going to continue to see him although you’re in love with another man?”
“I broke up with Justin before moving back home.”
“Why?”
“He refused to support me when I told him I was going into business for myself.”
“Lydia, you don’t need his support or his approval. Has he ever asked for yours?”
“No.”
“I rest my case.”
Lydia smiled in spite of the disquiet that would not permit her the ease she sought and needed. “Thanks, Victoria, for listening to me bitch and moan.”
“You’re not bitchin’ and moanin.’ You are in love. And love makes all of us a little crazy at times. I fell in love with your brother, yet I wasn’t able to commit because I knew I’d never be able to give him a child. Once I told him of my infertility he said he wanted me for myself, not for the children I couldn’t give him. If your mystery man is willing to support your business venture and take you away, then I’d say he more than likes you.”
A demure smile lit up Lydia’s eyes. “I suppose you’re right.”
“I know I’m right. Now, are you going to go to your man and explain about you and your assistant?”
Her smile vanished. “Of course not. There’s nothing to explain.”
“Agh! You stubborn Lords and your insufferably stiff-necked pride.”
“Sticks and stones may break my bones, but names will never harm me.”
Victoria laughed. “I think you need some adult company right about now.”
“You’re right about that. Thanks for listening.”
“Not a problem. Call whenever you need to talk.”
“I will. Good night.”
“Good night, Lydia.”
Lydia ended the call, leaving the cell phone on the recliner. Rising to her feet, she walked off the porch toward the flickering flames from the oil drum. The campfire storytelling had begun. She found most of the younger campers sitting together on the carpet of grass listening to Reverend Al as he read Fiddlefingers to his enraptured charges.
She sat down and within minutes the spooky tale of Captain Brassbuttons and his colorful crew of ghost pirates mesmerized her, too.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Eight campers gathered around Kennedy as he knelt on the ground angling a convex lens to catch the sun’s rays on a pile of kindling.
“You must hold the lens so that the sun’s rays stay directed over the same spot until the tinder begins to smolder,” he instructed.
“It’s smoking, Mr. Ken!”
Kennedy nodded. The kindling had begun to smolder. “Blow it gently, Tarik.”
Kneeling down, Tarik blew on the kindling until a flame appeared. A loud cheer went up from the other seven. “We won!” they crowed in triumph, pumping their fists in the air.
Kennedy placed several branches on the kindling, waiting until they caught fire. Coming to his feet, he smiled and touched fists with the campers who’d lined up to congratulate their team leader.
The campers, divided into three teams, were adjusting to roughing it in the woods. The Fortress, built in the 1920s, was used as a hunting lodge. The family of the original owner, who’d made his wealth in West Virginia coal mining, abandoned the property because recurrent strikes by the miners bankrupted the company. The furnishings were stolen, and anything saleable removed, leaving only the shell.
Kennedy purchased the property for a fraction of the back taxes, refurbished it, and made certain it did not lose its rustic charm. There was no modern heating system or any beds because he wanted to discourage squatters from taking up residence when camp wasn’t in session.
The day of their arrival was spent sweeping, dusting, and chopping and gathering wood for the massive stove in the middle of the great room and the fireplaces in each of the other rooms. Aching backs and arms and blistered hands from the unaccustomed heavy labor were all but forgotten once everyone bedded down in spaces warmed and illuminated by the fire in the stone fireplaces. One or two commented about the eerie sounds coming from outside the lodge. The distinctive hoot of owls and the howling of coyotes sent all of them burrowing deeper into their sleeping bags.
Kennedy pointed to two brothers. “Juan and Manuel, go take the fish out of the water. Gregory, are you finished cleaning the leaves?”
Gregory popped up like a jack-in-the box. “Yes, sir, Mr. Ken,” he said, uncovering a square of a canvas lined with large fanlike leaves that would be used to cook the fish they’d caught earlier that morning.
Kennedy beckoned another boy closer. “I want you to put more sunblock on your face and arms.” The boy’s face was almost as red as his flaming orange-red hair.
Kennedy’s chest filled with pride. The boys had come together as a team, working and supporting each other in every assigned task. He only had to demonstrate something once and they understood what he wanted from them.
They’d learned to fashion spearheads from small stones they’d sharpened by rubbing them against rough-surfaced rocks. The pointed stones were lashed to the tips of sturdy branches with vines or strips of fabric. They’d sat patiently in canoes until spying a fish, then struck with precise accuracy over and over. They’d attached their catch to a line fashioned by tying shoelaces together.
&nbs
p; Reaching into the pocket of his shorts, Kennedy removed a multipurpose knife. “Now we’ll clean our lunch.”
“No fair, Mr. K,” Mustafa wailed, pointing to the knife. “You said we had to make our tools.”
Kennedy stared at the boy. “Either I use this knife or you won’t eat until you make your own knife. What’s it going to be?”
“Yo, Mustafa, shut up!” shouted a fellow camper.
Kennedy shot the camper a warning stare. “Watch your language.”
“Sorry,” he said, apologizing.
The group sat on the ground, watching Kennedy as he removed the heads, then split and gutted ten largemouth bass. “We’ll bury the heads and entrails for scavengers.”
The fish seasoned with herbs from the camp’s kitchen were wrapped in leaves and cooked over the open fire. Mouthwatering smells filled the air as everyone enjoyed a midday meal of broiled fish and a salad of fresh-picked dandelion leaves, wild onions, and blackberries with a tart lemon dressing.
Propping his back against the trunk of a massive tree, Kennedy kept watch while everyone settled down before heading back to the Fortress. It would be the last night they’d sleep in the mountain retreat.
He’d been so involved with the campers that he hadn’t had time to think about Lydia—at least not until he retired for bed. As he lay in his sleeping bag, everything about her came rushing back as if she were lying beside him.
Even with his eyes closed he still could see the delicate bones in her face, the temptingly curved mouth he wanted to kiss over and over, the length of her lashes that concealed her large gold-brown eyes; still could sense her smell, a sweet haunting fragrance that had become a hypnotic aphrodisiac. He forced himself not to think of her body for fear his own would betray him. The first night he’d lain awake for hours waiting for his flesh to return to a flaccid state.
The expression on her face when she realized he’d seen her and Neil together was one he would carry to his grave. It was an expression of openness, innocence, a plea for understanding, while he’d been too incensed to register it at the time. It said she had done nothing wrong.
His life had come full circle.
Four years ago Nila had walked out on him because she believed he had been involved with another woman.
And now he had walked away from Lydia because he believed she was involved with another man.
When had he become so self-absorbed, believing it had to be either his way or no way?
Did he still believe the hype that had been so pervasive during his football career? That he could have any- and everything he wanted because he was Kennedy Fletcher? Had the feeling of entitlement persisted although he was no longer a sports icon? Had he sought to hold on to Lydia beyond the summer when he’d offered to invest in her business venture?
The questions bombarded him relentlessly, and he knew he had to resolve his dilemma before he returned to the campsite. Lydia wanted to wait until just before the end of the camp season to talk about their relationship. There were three weeks left, and as far as Kennedy was concerned, it was close enough to the end to where their relationship had to be resolved one way or the other.
* * *
Lydia stared at the blinking cursor on the laptop screen, calm and resolute in her intent. A call from her attorney the night before delivered bad news. The building’s owner had rejected her proposal. Now she would have to begin the process all over again. She sulked for an hour before deciding it was time to move forward. And moving forward meant reconciling with her past.
Justin Banks was her past. He’d written her twice, the second letter more passionate and intense than the first.
Her fingers poised on the keyboard, she composed her thoughts, before she typed:
Justin,
I received both your letters. Thank you for taking time from your busy schedule to write.
I’m flattered by your declaration of love and marriage proposal; however, I’m unable to reciprocate in kind. I’d be a liar if I said I don’t have feelings for you. I like and respect you and will always value our friendship. But that is all we have: friendship.
I would’ve preferred telling you this in person because I don’t want to appear cowardly. I’ve always been direct with you, sometimes much too direct, but I implore you to move on, Justin. I have.
This is not about us.
It is about me, me finding my center, me coming to grips about what I want for my future and myself. I’m unable to accomplish this as long as I’m involved with you on any level.
I humbly ask you to respect my wishes.
I remain,
Lydia.
She read the message once, twice, then hit the Send button before she could change her mind. She hadn’t wanted to tell Justin to move on, yet she’d never been able to deal with innuendoes with him. Once Justin received her e-mail she knew he would cease being one of the two men in her life.
Logging off, she put away the laptop at the same time a loud roar came from the direction of the dining hall. It was obvious Kennedy, the Mohawk and Seneca boys, and their counselors had returned.
Neil walked through the swinging doors, smiling. “They’re back.”
She nodded, returning his smile. “I can hear them.”
“They look like lean, mean fighting machines.”
“Three days without snacks will do that.”
Neil washed his hands in a sink with an antibacterial soap, his sharp midnight gaze fixed on Lydia as she lined a large pan with pieces of marinated chicken for the next day’s dinner.
“I just spoke to Kennedy,” he said without preamble.
Lydia’s hands did not falter as she continued filling the baking pan. “What about?” Her voice was calm and neutral as if they were discussing the weather.
“About us.”
She froze, then turned slowly to meet Neil’s direct stare. “What about us, Neil?”
“I told Kennedy there was nothing going on between us. I also told him that I’m attempting to reconcile with my wife, and I’d never do anything to jeopardize that.”
Pulses racing, Lydia tried to control her fragile emotions as a dizzying mixture of hope and fear held her captive. “What did he say?”
“He said, ‘thank you.’”
“That’s all he said?”
“Do you want me to go back and ask him to elaborate further?”
“No,” she said quickly. “Please don’t.”
She would wait, wait for Kennedy to come to her.
* * *
Kennedy stood on the top step, staring through the screen at Lydia as she slept on the recliner. She hadn’t lit the votives or turned on the stereo, leaving the porch in silence and in the shadows.
He felt like a voyeur watching her sleep, but he needed to drink his fill before making his presence known. Opening the screen door, he stepped up onto the porch, holding the door until it closed with a soft click. The sound was enough to alert Lydia that she was not alone. Why hadn’t he noticed she was a light sleeper?
Lydia sat up. She stared wordlessly at Kennedy, her heart pounding a runaway rhythm that left her light-headed. Neil was right. He was leaner, the angles in his face more pronounced.
“Hello.” Her husky greeting shattered the suffocating silence.
Kennedy inclined his head. “Good evening, Lydia.”
She gestured to the matching recliner. “Would you like to sit down?”
“Thank you.”
We’ve become polite strangers. The realization rocked him as he lowered his tall frame down to the recliner. He had no one to blame but himself for the abrupt shift in their relationship.
Lydia pressed her head to the cushioned back and schooled her features not to reveal her inner turmoil. She wanted to crawl onto his lap, curve her arms around his strong neck, while inhaling his potent masculine scent. She wanted Kennedy, but needed him more.
“How was roughing it in the mountains?” She had to say something, anything to break the silence.
“It was good. The boys really enjoyed it.”
“Will the girls go through the same training?”
A slight smile parted Kennedy’s lips. “Yes. I don’t want to be accused of gender bias.” There was enough light to make out Lydia’s face in the shadowed twilight that draped the landscape in a blue-gray veil. “I’ve come to apologize for the comments I made about you and Neil.”
To her surprise, Lydia felt no joy or victory from his admission of guilt. It was her turn to incline her head. “I accept your apology.”
Kennedy stared at her long bare legs under a pair of cutoffs. “I’d like to talk about us.”
“Talk, Kennedy,” she urged softly.
Giving her a long, penetrating stare, he said, “I love you.”
An audible gasp slipped past her lips. Wide-eyed, she stared at Kennedy. He loved her, and she loved him.
I see two men in your life—one who will come to love you very much and one who will pretend to love you. I see confusion, lots of confusion, and some disappointment. You will cry. You will smile.
Why was it she could remember Mariska’s prediction verbatim when she sometimes struggled to remember the ingredients that made up her favorite dish?
Was Kennedy the man who would pretend to love her? Had he admitted loving her because he didn’t want her to stop sleeping with him?
A tense silence enveloped the porch as Lydia wrestled with her conscience as to whether she would be able to reveal to Kennedy what was in her heart, yet something cautioned her not to speak.
Kennedy knew he’d shocked Lydia with his unexpected declaration of love, but he would’ve thought she would say something. Anything. A rejection was preferable to complete silence.
Pushing off the recliner, he stood up. “Good night.”
Lydia did not move when she heard the soft click of the door closing behind Kennedy, sitting in the same position and recalling the events in her life as if viewing frames of film.
* * *
Night covered Camp Six Nations like a quiet, warm blanket, and she took comfort in its darkness. It hid her fears, insecurities, and false bravado. As the youngest of nine it had always been, “look at me,” “listen to me,” “why can’t I go with you?” or “I’m not too young.” She had been so pampered, protected, and overindulged that at thirteen she’d seriously considered running away to seek her fortune. The only time she felt completely secure was in the kitchen. She was in control whether whisking, sautéing, frying, baking, broiling, or braising.
All My Tomorrows Page 19
