A New Foundation

by Rochelle Alers

Viola took Taylor’s phone off the console and programmed Sonja’s number. “I think you’re going to like Sonja. And don’t get your nose out of joint, because I’m not trying to hook you up with her—she’s currently not into dating,” Viola said quickly.

  Taylor stared straight ahead as traffic began moving again. He’d lost count of the number of times Viola had attempted to set him up with a few of her friends. The year before, he’d read her the riot act, and she finally took the hint that he’d never had a problem asking a woman out. But he hadn’t been in a relationship for a while—not since he’d dated an attorney exclusively until she decided to reconcile with her ex-husband.

  “She sounds like someone I could get along with.”

  “You two are like bookends.”

  “Why would you say that?” Taylor asked Viola.

  “Both of you are laser focused on your careers.”

  Taylor wanted to tell Viola that he’d had to make up for the five years when he’d dropped out of college before deciding to return to complete the courses he needed for his degree. He accelerated as he entered the tunnel and twenty minutes later he maneuvered up to the curb in front of the four-story apartment building along a tree-lined street in the West Village. Viola lived in a two-bedroom apartment in a renovated building with a doorman and rented the extra bedroom to a nurse that worked the night shift at a local hospital.

  Viola unbuckled her seat belt, leaned over and kissed Taylor’s cheek. “Thanks for the ride.”

  He patted her short curly hair. “Anytime, kid.”

  “I’ll try and see you when you come in Saturday.”

  “Don’t stress yourself if you can’t get out of the kitchen.” Taylor had taken the train down from Connecticut and into Manhattan a week after Viola had been hired at the restaurant. He’d wanted to discover why the establishment had earned the prestigious Michelin star and was more than impressed with what he’d ordered. The Cellar opened for dinner Tuesday through Saturday, and reserving a table was highly recommended.

  “Just send me a text when you arrive, and whenever I get a break I’ll come out to see you.”

  Taylor knew it was useless to argue with Viola, because once she set her mind to something, she was like a dog with a bone. “Okay.” Viola grasped the handles of her tote and opened the passenger-side door. He waited until she walked into the lobby of the building and then programmed the navigation app for the best route to Stamford, Connecticut.

  During the drive he thought about how his supervisor would react to his resigning within weeks of getting a promotion. Not only would he leave the firm, but also he had to make plans to relocate from Connecticut to New Jersey. The decision wouldn’t be an easy one because he liked his job, but when he had to weigh it against not leaving or undertaking a family project the latter won out. He owed everything that he’d become to Conrad and Elise Williamson and for Taylor it was family above all. He tapped the screen on the dashboard and activated the Bluetooth for his mother’s number. She picked up after the first ring.

  “I just got a text from Viola that you dropped her off.”

  Elise was overly protective when it came to Viola. Initially, she’d been apprehensive about her daughter living alone New York City, fearing she would become a crime statistic. “Mom, you’re going to have to stop pressuring Viola to check in with you. She’s not a child—she’s a twenty-eight-year-old woman living and working in the city that is now her home.”

  “I know, Taylor, but I can’t help it. You don’t know how many times I’ve blamed myself for homeschooling all of you. Perhaps if I’d enrolled my children in traditional schools where they were able to interact with other kids or signed you up for sleepaway camp and had other kids for sleepovers, then I wouldn’t be so overprotective.”

  Taylor did not remind his mother that he and his siblings did not have sleepovers because they had one another. “Don’t beat up on yourself, Mom. You did a fantastic job raising us. Just try and ease up on Viola. I know you’re selling the house, and I’d like you to ask your Realtor to find a rental for me within a ten-mile radius of Bainbridge House.” Taylor estimated it would take at least two years for the main house suites and guesthouses to be completely refurbished, and he intended to make one of the guesthouses his permanent residence.

  “You don’t need a rental because you can live in my condo for as long as you want. I’ve already furnished it. I plan to live here until closing.”

  “Do you think you’ll be able to sell the house before you leave for your cruise?”

  “Hopefully, yes. I have another four months and the Realtor reassures me he will be able find a buyer by that time. If not, then I’ll close it up, take the cruise and deal with selling it once I return.”

  The 5000-square-foot farmhouse built on four acres with an in-ground pool and tennis and basketball courts would be perfect for a large or extended family. It was where Taylor had learned to swim, shoot hoops and play tennis. He and his brothers and sister had not needed a day or sleepaway camp during the summer months when they cooked and played outdoors from sunrise to sunset. The Williamson kids agreed they’d had the best childhood possible. They had also grown up with pets ranging from dogs, cats, birds and fish, plus a family of rabbits that kept multiplying until Elise decided to give them to pet shops.

  “Thanks for offering your condo. I recently got a notice for a lease renewal, so the timing is perfect.” Before he vacated the apartment he would have to pack up the furnishings and ship them to a New Jersey storage facility.

  “You don’t have to thank me, Taylor. You know there isn’t anything I wouldn’t do for my children. When I see you next month I’ll give you a set of keys and the remote device for the gate. I’ll also put your name on the management list in case you’re approached by security. Better yet, the next time you come down I’ll take you to see my new home.”

  Although Elise had dropped hints about Bainbridge House, she had been completely mum when it came to her purchasing the two-bedroom unit in a gated community with amenities that included indoor and outdoor pools, tennis courts, an on-site concierge for laundry, dry cleaning, recreation center, supermarket and coffeeshop. Conrad’s death had left Elise a very wealthy widow. He had also established a trust to restore Bainbridge House with the proceeds from the sale of his investment company totaling more than a half billion dollars.

  “Okay. I’ll talk to you later.”

  “I love you, Taylor.”

  “Love you, too, Mom.” It didn’t matter that she hadn’t given birth to him—he couldn’t have loved her more even if she had. She was soft-spoken, patient, affectionate and fiercely protective of her children. Elise, aware of the traumas her sons and daughter had experienced before being placed in foster care, made certain all had been in therapy, individually and as a family group. The sessions had allowed them to work through their unresolved issues while at the same time forming and tightening the bond as a family unit. This is not to say Taylor and his siblings didn’t have their squabbles, but as they grew older they learned to settle their differences without spewing hateful words with the intent to hurt one another.

  Taylor groaned under his breath when he saw the traffic signs indicating delays on the New York State Thruway. Slumping lower in the seat, he turned on the satellite radio, tuning it to a station featuring cool jazz. The melodious sound of a tenor sax filled the interior of the SUV as he recalled the events of the day. He had reunited with Joaquin and Patrick, who’d flown in together from California, and Tariq, who had driven up from Alabama earlier in the week.

  Tariq was on spring break from Tuskegee University where he was enrolled in postgraduate courses in veterinary medicine and had planned to spend the time with their mother. Patrick and Joaquin would fly out from Newark International at the end of the week. Patrick had delayed his return to go over the trust their father had set up for the restoration project in which Conrad
had named his accountant son the executor.

  Elise was ecstatic once Taylor agreed to assume responsibility to restore her late husband’s ancestral home to its original magnificence. He planned to focus on the exterior before the interiors. It wasn’t only the château that needed work but also the guest cottages, vineyard, orchards, stables, formal gardens, a bridle path, and a nine-hole golf course all of which were in poor condition.

  Taylor had been forthcoming with Viola when he told her Elise had dropped hints about inheriting property from her husband she’d wanted to share with her children. She’d finally revealed that not only was Bainbridge House listed in the National Register of Historic Places, but a trust had been established more than seventy years ago to cover property taxes and salaries for future generations of resident caretakers.

  Taylor estimated it would take at least two years to completely renovate the house, barns and outbuildings, and hopefully by that time it would be ready to become a successful family enterprise.

  Chapter Two

  “Do you still want me to pick you up at nine?”

  “Yes,” Sonja told her cousin, estimating her dinner meeting with Taylor Williamson shouldn’t go beyond two hours.

  Sonja alighted from the car and made her way down the staircase to the below-the-street dining establishment that had operated once as a speakeasy during Prohibition. This would be her second time eating at The Cellar. The first had been two years ago when Viola was hired as an apprentice chef. The restaurant had just earned a Michelin star, and if it hadn’t been for her friend setting up a reservation for her she would’ve had to wait three weeks for a table. The food, ambiance and professional waitstaff were exceptional.

  If Viola hadn’t asked her to meet her brother, Sonja knew she would’ve spent the day sleeping late and watching her favorite movie channel, because she’d just had the week from hell. It had taken more than a month for the gallery owners to decide what they wanted to exhibit after they’d purchased the contents of a home in the Hudson Valley during an estate sale. Their constant bickering had worn on Sonja’s fragile nerves, and she’d found herself leaving the gallery several times a day to walk around the block. The indecisiveness ended when Sonja became the mediator and there was consensus to exhibit a limited collection of crystal and silver pieces. They had belonged to the descendants of a Dutch shipping merchant who had amassed a sizeable fortune when New York was still a British colony. His subsequent descendants continued the family passion for purchasing crystal and silver for generations.

  The restaurant’s solid oaken doors with stained glass insets opened, and she exchanged a smile with the maître d’. The slightly built man wearing all black inclined his head. “Good evening. Welcome to The Cellar.”

  “Thank you. I have a reservation for seven.”

  “Your name, miss.”

  “Martin. However, the reservation is under Taylor Williamson.”

  The maître d’ beckoned to one of the hostesses at the podium. “Please show Ms. Martin to Mr. Williamson’s table.”

  She followed the young woman into the dining room with round tables covered in white tablecloths, with seating for two, four or six. Lit votives, bud vases with fresh flowers, Tiffany-inspired sconces and gaslighted fireplaces created an ambience that was inviting and intimate. She savored the mouthwatering aroma of grilled meats from a tray carried by waiter balanced on one shoulder as he passed her.

  The hostess stopped at a table at the same time a tall man rose to his feet. Sonja felt as if someone had caught her by the throat, cutting off her breath, when she recognized the man staring down at her. She had never met any of Viola’s brothers so there was no way she would have been able to connect Taylor Williamson with T.E. Wills.

  Recovering quickly, Sonja extended her hand and her voice. “Hello, T. E.—Sonja Rios-Martin,” she said, introducing herself. He took her hand, cradling it gently in his much larger one.

  “It’s just Taylor now.”

  Taylor pulled out a chair, seating her. He lingered over her head and she inhaled the subtle scent of his cologne. Sonja curbed the urge to give him an eye roll when he retook his chair opposite her. T.E. Wills was to men’s fashion what Tyson Beckford was to Ralph Lauren’s Polo brand. His image had graced the covers of countless magazines while he’d also become a celebrity spokesperson for a men’s cologne and a popular luxury automobile. Despite his public persona, very little was known about his private life. It is was if the mystique had enhanced his popularity and marketability.

  She met the large dark eyes with her own curious stare. His complexion reminded her of the color of autumn leaves that had turned a shade of brown much like black coffee with a splash of rich cream. To say her friend’s brother was a beautiful man was truly an understatement. It was as if Michelangelo had carved David from onyx rather than marble and had been branded the Nubian Prince. Taylor’s royal blue suit appeared to have been expressly tailored for his tall, slender physique. He looked and smelled delicious, and she wondered if he was wearing the cologne he’d been paid to endorse.

  “Does it bother you if folks call you T.E. Wills?”

  Taylor lowered his eyes. “No, because that is my past and that’s something I can’t erase.”

  A slight smile parted her lips. Modeling may have been his past, but Taylor still had the ability to elicit gawking. “Viola told me you’re a structural engineer.”

  He gave her a direct stare again as the corners of his mouth lifted in what passed for a half smile. “I am. And she told me you’re an architectural historian.”

  Sonja nodded, smiling. “That I am,” she said proudly. “You design and build structures, while I write about the history of architecture, and help to restore and preserve historical buildings.”

  “What made you decide to become a historian?”

  She was preempted from answering as a waiter approached the table. He handed Taylor a binder. “Would you like to order a cocktail before I take your dining selections?”

  Taylor accepted the binder containing a listing of wines and liquors. He was glad for the man’s interruption because it gave him time to concentrate on something other than his sister’s friend. Everything about her screamed sophistication—the shoulder-length dark brown wavy hair framing her round face, barely there makeup highlighting her best features and the pearl studs in her ears that matched the single strand around her long, graceful neck. He’d noticed men staring at her when she’d passed their tables and he was no exception. He didn’t know if it was the sensual sway of her hips as she walked, the way the vermilion sheath dress under a matching peplum jacket that hugged her curvy, petite body, or her full lips outlined in the same red shade. But it was her sexy mouth that had garnered his rapt attention. He knew staring at her was impolite, but it had taken all his self-control to lower his eyes.

  Taylor glanced at the beverage selection before handing Sonja the binder. “Would you like me to order something for you from the bar?”

  A beat passed. “Yes. I’d like a glass of Riesling.”

  He signaled for the waiter standing a comfortable distance away from the table. He ordered Sonja’s Riesling and a merlot for himself. Taylor shifted his attention to Sonja, and he watched her as she studied the menu. He’d arrived at the restaurant earlier than his appointed time because he knew if he couldn’t find a parking spot close to The Cellar he would be forced to park in an indoor garage nearly a half mile away.

  Taylor always looked forward to coming into Manhattan, and whenever he spent time in the city he chided himself for giving up the apartment in a Brooklyn brownstone to move to Stamford once he’d secured a position with the Connecticut-based engineering and architectural firm. The alternative had been taking the subway to Grand Central Station and then the Metro North to Stamford, and in the end he decided moving would offset having to spend close to ninety minutes, barring delays, each way commuting to an
d from work.

  He’d grown up in Belleville, New Jersey, and it wasn’t until he was twelve that his father would occasionally take him into his Manhattan office. He would spend the time reading or staring out the skyscraper’s windows at the New York City skyline. Then he’d been too intimidated by the number of yellow taxis and pedestrians crowding streets and sidewalks to leave the office unaccompanied.

  After he’d been accepted as an incoming freshman at New York University, he had fallen in love with the city that exposed him to people and neighborhoods he’d seen on television or read about in books and magazines. He hadn’t realized how cloistered his life had been up until that time.

  “Do you come here often?” he asked Sonja as she studied her menu.

  Her head popped up. “No. Whenever I eat out it’s usually in my neighborhood.”

  “And where’s that?”

  “Inwood.”

  Taylor smiled. “Have you ever eaten at La Casa Del Mofongo?”

  Sonja’s smile matched his, bringing his gaze to linger on her straight, white teeth. He’d warned his sister not to attempt to hook him up with any of her gal friends; however, Sonja definitely could have been the exception. Everything about her demeanor radiated poise—an attribute he looked for in a woman he found interesting.

  “More times than I can count. My aunt and uncle eat there several times a month.” She paused. “So, how are you familiar with La Casa Del Mofongo?”

  “I attended college with guys from different New York City neighborhoods, and on weekends we would take the subway uptown and occasionally into Brooklyn and Queens to eat at different restaurants. La Casa Del Mofongo became one of our favorites.”

  “I try to go on weekdays because it’s always very crowded on weekends.”

  Taylor angled his head. “How long have you lived in Inwood?” Culturally diverse in Upper Manhattan, Inwood was one of the most affordable neighborhoods in New York City’s most expensive boroughs. The few times he’d eaten at the restaurant he’d thoroughly enjoyed the delicious Caribbean-inspired dishes and live Latin music.