She turned to find Taylor staring at her. “It’s going to be a while before the chicken is done.”
Taylor nodded. “That will give us time to eat what looks like a still-life prop.”
Sonja agreed with him. She’d arranged the platter to resemble objects for still-life painters. She motioned to the stools at the breakfast bar. “Please sit. I’ll get some plates and forks.”
Chapter Nine
Taylor’s forefinger traced the stem of his wineglass as he stared across the table at Sonja. Sharing dinner with her had exceeded his expections.
He had always been very selective when it came to dating. He knew it stemmed from not knowing the identity of his biological father and feared he could possibly be dating his biological half sister. He was certain he and Sonja did not share DNA because of her father’s military career. She’d said she was born in a hospital near an army installation on the Kentucky-Tennessee border, whereas the year before, his mother had given birth to him in a Newark, New Jersey, municipal hospital.
Taylor did not have what he thought of as a type when it came to a woman. He didn’t judge them by their appearance, but rather their intelligence and ability to hold his attention, and it was a plus if they shared the same interests.
Picking up the wineglass, he took a sip. “I think you missed your true calling,” he said as he smiled over the rim at Sonja.
“And what is that?”
“You should’ve become a chef. Everything was delicious, beginning with the cheese and fruit, and the rice, beans, and chicken were comparable to what I’ve eaten at La Casa Del Mofongo.”
Sonja shook her head. “I like to cook, but not enough to spend hours on my feet cooking for a lot of people. Been there, done that.”
Taylor sat straight. “When?”
“Viola didn’t tell you?”
“Tell me what?”
“That I’d been married.”
He blinked slowly. Although Sonja had said she didn’t have a husband or boyfriend, she hadn’t mentioned an ex-husband. “My sister and I don’t discuss you.”
Sonja gave him a long stare. “I was married while still in college. He—”
“You don’t have to tell me about it if you don’t want,” Taylor said, interrupting her.
“But I do, Taylor,” Sonja said in a quiet voice. If she hoped to have a normal relationship with Taylor, then he needed to know some of what she’d gone through with her ex. “I was twenty when I enrolled in an advanced art history class and got involved with my much older instructor. When I agreed to marry him, I had no idea I would become the quintessential trophy wife. I dropped out eighteen credits shy of earning my degree in order to become the hostess for his friends and colleagues.”
“How long were you married?”
“We lived together for four years. Once I felt I was being smothered I knew I had to get out, so I waited until he was scheduled to lecture at an exhibition in Denver and left.”
“Where did you go?” Taylor asked.
“I stayed with my parents at their retirement home in the Adirondack Mountains and sued Hugh for divorce. He countersued me for abandonment, and I was forced to commute between New York and Boston for court hearings. More than half the time they were postponed when Hugh’s attorney wouldn’t show up or he would have his doctor claim he was unable to appear because of a medical emergency. This went on for two years until he met someone else and decided it was time to let me go. Meanwhile, I’d moved downstate to live with my aunt and uncle. I enrolled at Pratt and finally got my degrees. End of chapter.”
Taylor pushed to his feet, rounded the table, pulled a chair close to Sonja’s and draped an arm over her shoulders. “It’s the end of that chapter and now a beginning of another, sweetheart.”
Sonja rested her forehead against Taylor’s. “I should’ve said ‘end of story’ because that’s a scenario in my past I don’t intend to repeat.”
“Are you talking about marriage, Sonja?”
“Yes.” The single word was flat, emotionless.
Taylor kissed her curls. “Not all men are like your ex.”
“I know that, Taylor. I just don’t want to marry again.”
“What do you want, muñeca?”
Sonja knew this was her opening to talk to Taylor about several ideas she’d thought of for Bainbridge House. “Do you remember when I talked to you about establishing a farm on the property?”
He laughed softly. “How can I forget. You did promise to put everything down on paper.”
“I did before I decided to scrap it.”
“Talk to me, sweetheart.”
Sonja turned her head slightly so Taylor wouldn’t see her grin of supreme satisfaction. His fingers gently stroked the nape of her neck as if she were a purring cat, and the gentleness in his voice indicated he could possibly be receptive to hearing her out. “Have you ever eaten at a restaurant with farm-to-table service?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“If you had, then you’d know what I’m proposing. I haven’t looked at the blueprints of the property, but with more than three hundred acres it wouldn’t take that much for you to erect greenhouses to produce fruits and vegetables year-round. The dining menu could change with the availability of whatever is in season. There’s nothing tastier than freshly picked herbs and greens to accompany a meat, fish or chicken entrée. Sorrel in a salad adds an intense lemony tang. Once you eat a fresh jicama slaw with mango, cilantro and lime you’ll want to order it over and over.”
Taylor’s fingers stilled. “What about chickens?”
This time Sonja did flash a smile for Taylor to see. “There is a distinct difference in eating an egg laid by a chicken earlier that morning and one in a supermarket refrigerated case.”
“What happens to the chickens once they stop laying?”
“You kill and eat them, Taylor.”
A beat passed. “When I asked my mother about Dad growing up at Bainbridge House, he’d told her they had sheep and ducks on the property.”
Shifting slightly on her chair to face Taylor, Sonja met his eyes. “Didn’t you say something disparaging about Old MacDonald’s farm?”
“Did I really?”
“Yeah. And you know you did.”
Wrapping both arms around her shoulders, Taylor pulled her closer. “I’m going to talk to my brother Tariq about your proposal. He’s the vet, and he’ll be responsible for taking care of any and all of the animals on the property.”
“What about the vegetables?”
“After Joaquin restores the garden he’ll have to confer with a farmer about where to set up the greenhouses. I can’t promise you my brothers will go along with what you propose, but I will do my best to try and convince them.”
“I suggest you also talk to Viola about creating a farm-to-table setup. It works so well when held outdoors under a white tent—of course, weather permitting—with long tables and benches, strings of overhead lights, lanterns with flickering votives and music. Depending on the number of guests in any group, you can offer them an alfresco luncheon or dining under the stars.”
“That’s really casual dining.”
“Casual and very chic,” Sonja confirmed. “I’ve toured Italy and France, where I was able to experience farm-to-table dining. During one of my visits to Brittany, I’d checked into a château where I witnessed a late afternoon formal outdoor wedding reception. The groom wore a black wedding morning coat, with a cobalt blue ascot and vest, dove-gray top hat and matching gloves, while the bride was an ethereal vision in Chantilly lace. It was a fairy-tale fantasy in living color.”
“Did you take any pictures?”
“Of course I did. Whenever I go abroad I usually have at least three memory cards because I take so many photos.”
“What do you do with them?” Taylor questioned.
Grinning like a Cheshire cat, Taylor winked at her. “Do you intend to have an exhibition and sell your photos?”
“You got jokes, T.E. Wills?” she asked teasingly.
His grin vanished quickly. “No. And please don’t call me that.”
“Was your modeling career so traumatic that you want to erase it from your past?”
Taylor dropped his arms and eased back, putting some separation between them. “It wasn’t traumatic. In fact, it was very exciting and extremely profitable. I’d rather not talk about that time in my life because it is a reminder of how narcissistic I’d become. For me it wasn’t so much about the money as it was which product would give me the highest visibility. After a couple of years, if I had to describe myself, then it would be jaded. I hated going to photoshoots, fittings and fashion shows where I’d have to change in and out of up to ten outfits within minutes. I knew it was time for me to quit the business when someone touched me inappropriately and I went ballistic. Once I calmed down I apologized, but it was too late because behind the scenes I was labeled difficult to work with.”
Sonja rested her hand atop his fisted one. “Did you ever think maybe you were experiencing burnout?”
“I knew I was, but I’d become so ego driven that I feared stopping. I didn’t want people to forget or brand me as a has-been. Then, there was my mother constantly asking when I intended to go back to college. I kept telling her one more year and after a while she stopped bringing up the topic. My parents couldn’t use the threat of not paying my tuition if I didn’t give in to their demands because I was earning enough in one month to cover a year’s tuition including books and room and board.”
“What did you do with your earnings?”
“I gave them to my father to invest. Dad headed an investment and private equity firm. He had a sixth sense when it came to investing, which made many of his clients extremely wealthy. Dad had instituted a tier system for his clients. The lowest tier was for blue-collar workers who wanted to play the market but didn’t have a lot of money to invest. The middle tier was for middle-income professionals, and the top tier was for wealthier clients. He’d assign his clients to designated teams to concentrate on moving those in the lower tier to the middle and the middle to the top.”
Sonja was intrigued by Taylor’s late father’s business model. “Did it work?”
“Yes, it did. His clients had dubbed him the miracle worker, though he was anything but. Dad always said he did not want to take someone’s savings and squander it. When the news broke about Bernie Madoff’s Ponzi scheme, I saw another side of my father when he talked about hiring a hit man to break every bone in Madoff’s body. This pronouncement shocked everyone because we had never witnessed Conrad losing his temper or raising his voice even when he was angry.”
Sonja had given Taylor a brief overview about her failed marriage, and now she wanted to know about him aside from his modeling career. “How was it growing up with three brothers?”
Taylor unclenched his fist. “It was a lot of fun, considering we spent so much time together. What’s really surprising is we’re not competitive with one another.”
“Who’s the oldest?”
“I am. Patrick is thirty-four, Joaquin thirty-three, Tariq is thirty, and Viola is twenty-eight.”
Sonja gave him an incredulous stare. “Your mother had three children a year apart?”
Throwing back his head, Taylor laughed with abandon. “What can I say? When she and Dad bought the house, Mom said she wanted as many children as they had bedrooms. Once she had Viola she claimed her life was complete because she finally had a daughter. Viola upset the equation because it was no longer two against two whenever we formed teams, and we had to figure out a way to include her. To say she was spoiled is an understatement. Mom spoiled her. Dad overindulged her, and she looked to me to protect her against her other brothers whenever they played tricks on her.”
Sonja smiled. “There must have been a lot of activity in your home.”
“It was whenever we didn’t have classes. Mom had transformed her library into a one-room schoolhouse and because we were so close in age, excluding Tariq and Viola, we were given the same instruction.”
“Why did you choose to become an engineer?”
“By the time I was ten I knew I wanted to build things because I was obsessed with Lego. I had a table in the corner of my bedroom where I’d created an entire town, and then it was a city with bridges and tall skyscrapers.”
“How did your brothers choose their careers?”
“Patrick is a math prodigy. He spent more time at our father’s office than any of us. Once he passed the CPA exam he went to work for Dad. We all knew Tariq would become a vet because he took care of our pets. We had dogs, cats, birds, fish, and a family of rabbits that kept multiplying until Mom finally gave them to various pet shops. Joaquin was an enigma because he couldn’t decide what he wanted to be until he’d enrolled in college. He’d applied for a part-time position at a local nursery, and that’s where his love affair with plants and flowers began. He also fell in love with the nursery owner’s daughter and married her.”
“Are they still married?”
Taylor shook his head. “No. They were married less than two years and even when pressured Joaquin refuses to discuss the reason behind their breakup. As a landscape architect he has a number of celebrities as his clients.”
“Will he also refurbish the golf course?”
The seconds ticked while Taylor appeared deep in thought. “I don’t know. That’s something I’ll have to discuss with Patrick and Joaquin. We have to determine whether having a nine-hole course would be advantageous to guests looking to play several rounds of golf. Perhaps if it could be expanded to eighteen holes, then it could possibly be used as a golf club or for local tournaments.”
“What services do you plan to offer your hotel guests?”
“Bainbridge House will become a full-service luxury hotel with restaurants, lounge facilities, meetings rooms, bell and room service.”
“What about specialty shops, Taylor? And I’m not taking about the standard gift shop.”
Taylor affected a mysterious smile. “What ideas are you hatching in that beautiful head of yours?”
Sonja blushed when Taylor called her beautiful. As the daughter of a black father and Puerto Rican mother she had always thought of herself as an attractive woman of color, but not what she would deem beautiful. “Most luxury hotels have upscale jewelry stores, spas and boutiques. And because Bainbridge House is listed on the National Register of Historic Places you could have an on-site museum shop.”
“And what would we sell at the museum shop?”
Her eyebrows lifted. “Do you mean you, Taylor?”
“No, Sonja. I mean we. If we do open a museum shop, will you assume the responsibility of running it?”
Her pulse kicked into a higher gear when she thought of the possibility of managing what would become an art gallery. “Yes. If that’s what you want?”
“You’re the one making the suggestion.”
Sonja chose her words carefully. “After I catalogue everything, I’d confer with you about what you’d want to exhibit for sale. Wealthy families during the Gilded Age always purchased duplicate sets of china, silver and crystal for their over-the-top banquets with hundreds of guests. You’ll be able to use some of the sets for weddings and retirement dinners, although I recommend purchasing commercial dinnerware, preferably stamped with BH for the restaurants and lounges.”
“I can’t believe you’ve planned all of this out even before you begin going through the crates.”
Sonja wanted to remind Taylor that she was an art historian and that she’d been involved in coun
tless estate sales. “This is not my first rodeo, Taylor.”
“That’s obvious.” He held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “I give up, Ms. Rios-Martin. You are hereby responsible for every glass, dish, knife, fork, spoon, table, chair, lamp and rug on the property. And there’s no need to confer with me about anything you believe you can resolve on your own.”
“Does this mean you’re going to consider opening a museum shop?”
“I can’t commit to anything until I meet with an architectural engineer. We’ll have to reconfigure the entire layout of the first story.”
Sonja wanted to remind Taylor there were endless possibilities when renovating an 86,000-square-foot private residence into a hotel and catering venue. While he’d estimated it would take a minimum of two years to completely restore and renovate the mansion and the outbuildings, she had her own timetable for examining, cataloguing and authenticating thousands of items.
“How many hotels have you put up?”
Taylor lifted his shoulders. “I’ve been involved with a few.”
Sonja stared at him as if he’d suddenly grown a pair of horns. “A few! I can’t believe you let me go on and on about what goes into a hotel other than rooms—”
“Enough, sweetheart,” Taylor said, cutting her off. “I didn’t stop you because I wanted to know what you were thinking. I’ve warmed to your idea of a farm-to-table setup and opening a museum shop on the premises. How many guests can say that they’ve stayed in a historic hotel and had the option of purchasing an original item that once belonged to the owners.”
“I suppose not too many.”
“You suppose?”
“All right,” Sonja conceded. “Hardly any.”
She had visited enough museums and their shops to occasionally purchase a replica of a particular item she just had to have. She had duplicates of Michelangelo’s Pietà and the Head of David in various sizes, and framed reproductions of countless Renaissance Dutch and Spanish painters. Sonja also had begun collecting the work of African American artists from colonial to modern times.
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