A New Foundation

by Rochelle Alers

  Dom opened the door at the same time Taylor alighted from the SUV. Reaching for the case with the cue sticks, Taylor grasped the velvet bag with the bottle and handed it to Dom. “Careful with the prize.”

  Dom opened the bag and smiled. “This Balvenie Caribbean Cask 14-year-old single malt whisky will go nicely with my collection.”

  “Nah, son.”

  “Who are you calling son? I bet I’m older than you.”

  “You,” Taylor countered, smiling.

  “Nah, Taylor. I just celebrated my thirty-fifth birthday.”

  “I’ll be thirty-six in November, so I’ve got a few months on you.” When meeting Dominic for the first time, Taylor realized despite the fact he was graying there wasn’t a single line on his face or around the brilliant dark green eyes. Tall and almost rawboned, there wasn’t an ounce of fat on his lean body. “What I’m going to do is beat the hell out of you, and then I’m going to crack open that bottle and have a few shots and you’re going to join me rather than sit back and admire it on your shelf.”

  Dom laughed loudly. “You talk a lot of shit, old man. Let’s go inside and have a go at it. Better yet, why don’t we crack open this baby and sample it while we play?”

  Taylor gave him a direct stare. “I thought you wanted to add it to your collection. Could it be that you’re afraid I’m going to beat you?”

  “Not really. I’m more than confident that I can hold my own, but when I saw that you brought your own cue sticks I realized you’re no novice.”

  “In other words, you realized you couldn’t hustle me.”

  A flush darkened Dom’s face under his tan. “I don’t hustle folks. I’ve lost some games and won many more.”

  “Okay. Let’s go inside and find out if you’re going to win some and lose many.”

  Taylor had to admit that Dom just wasn’t good. He was an expert. In fact, his eye-hand coordination was comparable to that of Joaquin, who could’ve turned pro if he hadn’t chosen to become a landscape architect.

  They played the best of five, and Dom won three and Taylor two. After each game they took a shot of whisky, and Taylor knew he had to stop; otherwise, he wouldn’t be able to get behind the wheel and drive. “I’m done.”

  “Don’t you want to play one more?” Dom asked.

  “No. What I need to do is sober up before I leave.”

  “I have two extra bedrooms where you could crash.”

  “I don’t want to impose.”

  “You won’t be imposing, Taylor. After all, you do own this cottage.”

  “My family owns it,” Taylor said, correcting him. “I’m going to sit here for a while.”

  “I’m going to the kitchen to make some coffee. You’re not the only one feeling the effects of the whisky. This is the first time I’ve tasted The Balvenie. It definitely lives up to its reputation, and drinking it is a lot more enjoyable than staring at the bottle.”

  “I agree,” Taylor drawled. He rarely drank hard liquor, but when he did it was only from his father’s bar. The soft and lingering notes of toffee and vanilla with a hint of fruit on his palate made the single malt whisky exceptional.

  Dom returned with two mugs of steaming black coffee. He handed one to Taylor. “Drink up, old man. I added a couple of shots of espresso to yours.”

  Taylor smiled. “Don’t push it, son.” He took a sip of the hot brew, grimacing when it burned his tongue. Staring at Dom while waiting for his coffee to cool somewhat, he wondered what had made a supposedly healthy thirtysomething-year-old man live alone on an abandoned estate.

  “I forgot to ask if you wanted milk in your coffee.”

  “No, thanks.” A beat passed. “Do you like living here?”

  Dom stared at Taylor over the rim of his mug. “Yes, because it’s all I know. I was born here, and I’ll probably die here. The only time I left was when I enlisted in the service and then attended college, but like a homing pigeon I came back.”

  Taylor knew very little about the caretaker. “What did you study in college?”

  “I have a master’s in Business.”

  Taylor was surprised by Dom’s revelation. He did not want to believe the man was licensed plumber and had earned a graduate degree yet was content to live on an estate in the role as a glorified maintenance man. It was obvious Dom had his reasons for wanting to live out his life on the Bainbridge property.

  He managed to finish the coffee, and the extra caffeine was enough to clear his head and jolt him into alertness. “Thanks for the coffee,” he said, pushing off the sofa and coming to his feet.

  Dom also stood. “Are you sure you’re okay to drive?”

  “I’m good.”

  “Aren’t you going to take your cue case?” Dom asked as Taylor walked to the door.

  “No. I’m going to leave it here for when we play again.”

  Dom followed Taylor to the door and opened it. “I’m looking forward to it.”

  “No shots,” Taylor said.

  “No shots,” Dom repeated, laughing loudly.

  Taylor paused. “Oh, before I forget. The architectural historian is coming tomorrow, and I want you to give her one of the remote devices for the front gates. Her name is Sonja Rios-Martin, and she has no set work hours. My schedule is filled with back-to-back interviews, so I doubt I’ll get to see her.”

  “No problem.”

  Taylor made it home and once he opened the door to his mother’s condo he cursed himself for engaging in what he thought of an as asinine frat boys’ game. He did not want to believe that he’d waited until thirty-five to do shots.

  Never again, he mused. It would be the first and last time, he vowed as he brushed his teeth and rinsed with a peppermint mouthwash. He stripped off his clothes, leaving them in the hamper, and stepped into the shower stall. Ice-cold water rained down on his head and body before Taylor adjusted the temperature to lukewarm.

  After drying off, he walked in the direction of the guest bedroom and fell across the bed. His last thoughts before Morpheus claimed him were of Sonja as he stood beside her bed, watching her sleep.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Decelerating, Sonja turned onto the private road leading to Bainbridge House. Some of the older trees that had been still bare the last time she’d come to the estate were now resplendently covered with bright green leaves. She drove through the open gates and seconds later they automatically closed behind her. She wanted to get to the house by eight and work nonstop until midafternoon. Maneuvering into the driveway behind Taylor’s car, she shut off the engine. It was obvious she wasn’t the only one planning to begin early.

  Scooping up the tote with her camera, legal pads and felt-tipped pens, and the insulated bag with her lunch in glass containers filled with salad, fruit and bottles of water she got out of the SUV. She climbed the six steps, opened the front door and came face-to-face with a tall, slender man dressed entirely in black: shirt, jeans and boots. Sonja forced a smile she didn’t quite feel because there was something about him that made her uncomfortable. The dark green eyes the exact shade of peridot had deepened to a dark emerald the longer he stared at her. She wanted to ask him if he’d been taught it was impolite to stare.

  “I’m Sonja Rios-Martin,” she said, shattering the soporific spell.

  The man inclined his head. “Dominic Shaw.” He reached into the back pocket of his jeans. “Taylor wanted me to give this to you. It’s the remote device for the front gate. The first button opens the gate. It will close automatically once you drive over the metal plate, but if you want to keep it from closing, then tap on the left.”

  Sonja took the remote device. “Thank you.”

  Dom ran a hand over raven-black hair. “I brought up some crates and put them in the library.”

  She smiled. “Thank you again.”

  “Taylor’s in the back checking
the foundation. Do you want me to get him for you?”

  “Please don’t bother him. I’ll see him later.”

  “I’m going to be in the cellar for most of this morning. So, if you need anything and Taylor’s not available, then just come down.”

  Sonja wanted to tell the man she doubted whether she would need him for anything. He wasn’t what she thought of as handsome, but attractive. There were too many sharp angles in his lean face. “Okay.”

  She walked in the direction of the library, curbing the urge to look over her shoulder to see if Dominic was still staring at her retreating back. There was something about him that was creepy. Taylor had told her that Dom, as he called him, was the only one living on the property, and Sonja deduced that the man had spent so much time alone that he probably resented having to share what had become his private lair. She could not imagine living on a 350-plus-acre property year-round with only sporadic human interaction.

  Sonja entered the library. There were eight crates lining one wall. Unfortunately, none of the crates were labeled with their contents, which meant a guessing game as to what she would find. Setting the tote on a small round table, Sonja took out the materials she needed to begin identifying and cataloguing.

  “Yes,” she said softly after she’d removed the top of the first one. She took out a crystal wineglass protected by Bubble Wrap. Sonja recalled Taylor telling her the late-nineteenth-century mansion was abandoned in the 1960s when the last Bainbridge died at the age of ninety-four, and his father was the last surviving direct descendant of the original owner. She knew bubble wrap hadn’t been invented until 1960.

  She emptied the crate, lining fragile glassware on an oak Mission-style table. One by one she photographed a liqueur glass with transparent enameling, circa 1900; a Daum Frères cameo glass vase, circa 1890; E. Bakalowits & Söhne floral glasses; four Bohemian drinking glasses with purple and gold medallions on the base and two more Bohemian liqueur glasses in a rich ruby color. The minutes stretched into hours as she took pictures of the glassware, listed them on pads, and then carefully rewrapped them and returned them to the crate. Sonja found it odd that there were no complete sets, leaving her to wonder if someone had packed them away without regard to whether they matched. She marked the crate with the date and its contents, and then moved onto another one.

  This one was filled with large flannel bags of velvet boxes she knew contained jewelry. There was a gold, pearl and amethyst brooch; another with parrots bejeweled with diamonds, sapphires, rubies, emeralds and onyx. Her breath caught in her throat when she held a Cartier brooch with large bloodred rubies, diamonds and sapphires. There were more brooches, rings, necklaces, earrings and bracelets with priceless stones set in gold and platinum.

  “How’s it going, muñeca?”

  Sonja turned on her chair to find Taylor in the doorway. She smiled at him. “One down and who knows how many more to go.”

  Pulling over a chair, Taylor sat and brushed a light kiss on her mouth, increasing the pressure until her lips parted. “You look and smell delicious.” He didn’t think he would ever tire of kissing Sonja, inhaling the sensual fragrance of the perfume that was perfect for her hypnotic feminine scent.

  “That’s because you’re biased,” Sonja whispered.

  “Hell, yeah.” He reached out and picked up a pin with a large blue stone surrounded with gold leaves topped with rubies and stems dotted with diamonds. “Someone really liked bling.”

  “Someone was really partial to brooches.” Sonja handed him one completely covered in diamonds designed with an arrow attached at the back of a heart. “This is an amatory brooch.”

  “Amatory as in love?”

  Sonja nodded. “They were jewels representing sentiment and love, common from the seventeenth to the late nineteenth century. Early symbols included the true lover’s knot, and Cupid shooting arrows and flaming hearts like this one.”

  Taylor set the brooch on the table and picked up a diamond-and-sapphire ring. “This must be worth quite a bit.”

  Sonja met his eyes. “I’ve seen enough jewelry to make a rough estimate as to carat weight. The diamond looks to be around two carats and the sapphires flanking the center stone approximately a half carat each, while the platinum setting increases the ring’s value exponentially.”

  Taylor balanced the ring on his palm. “Whoever wore this had a small finger.”

  Sonja took the ring from him and slipped it on her left hand. “It’s a five,” she said, taking it off and giving it back to him.

  “The diamond is not like any I’ve ever seen.”

  “It’s known as an Asscher cut.”

  Taylor peered closely at the ring. “It’s exquisite.”

  “It’s beyond exquisite,” Sonja agreed. “I’m not going to repack the jewelry. I’ll give everything to you for safekeeping until I take them to a gemologist I trust who will give you an honest appraisal.”

  “You can hold on to them for now.”

  She blinked slowly. “Are you sure, Taylor?”

  “Of course I’m sure. I trust you with my life.”

  “That’s a lot of trusting.”

  Taylor couldn’t pull his gaze away from the large brown eyes with lashes that had touched the ridge of high cheekbones as she slept. “It is for me, because I equate trusting to loving.”

  A hint of a smile curved the corners of her mouth upward. “And I believe trust is more important than love because people can fall in and out of love. I’d rather trust you than love you.”

  Sonja had just given Taylor the opening he needed. “Can you love me?”

  “I’m sure I can.”

  Her response was both indifferent and evasive. Do you love me, Sonja?” Taylor saw indecision in her eyes, and that was enough to give him hope that what he felt for her could be reciprocated.

  “Why are you asking me this?”

  “I’m asking, sweetheart, because I need to know.”

  Sonja’s gaze did not waver as she gave him a long, penetrating stare. “If I tell you that I do, it’s not going to change anything between us. Whether you know or admit it, Taylor, you’re a traditionalist. You want a wife, two or three kids, a cat and dog, along with a house in the suburbs with the white picket fence.”

  He struggled not to laugh. “I’m really not crazy about cats.”

  “I’m serious, Taylor.”

  “So am I, Sonja. I admit I’m a traditionalist because I don’t believe in living with a woman unless I’m married to her.”

  “That’s where we differ, Taylor. I lived with a man to whom I was married, and I realized later that if I’d lived with him I never would’ve married him.”

  If she does tell you that she loves you, then don’t put any pressure on her to marry. That must be her decision. Taylor recalled his mother’s words as if she were whispering in his ear.

  “Did you love him, Sonja?”

  She closed her eyes and shook her head, and Taylor felt her vulnerability as surely as if it was his own, because falling in love with Sonja Rios-Martin had allowed him to open his heart to love a woman beyond those in his family.

  “Good.”

  “Good?” Sonja repeated.

  “Yes. Because he didn’t deserve your love.”

  “And you do?”

  “I should hope I do. Remember I told you if we do share a bed, then that decision will have to be yours and yours alone. And it will be the same if you want more.”

  Sonja rested her head on his shoulder. “Should I assume you mean living together and then marriage?”

  “Yes.”

  “I need time, Taylor.”

  “Take all the time you need, sweetheart. You’re not going anywhere, and neither am I.”

  There came a light tapping on the door, and Taylor and Sonja sprang apart. He glanced over his shoulder. “Yes, Dom?”<
br />
  “Your next interviewee just arrived.”

  “Thank you, Dom.” Pushing back his chair, he stood and rested a hand on Sonja’s shoulder. “How long do you plan to hang out here?”

  Sonja picked up her cell phone. “I want to leave around three.”

  “I’ll be here much later than that.” Robbie had called to say he was coming to New Jersey to spend the weekend with his sister and her family in Hackettstown and wanted to set up a time when they could meet. “I’m going to be tied up for the next few days. Is it all right if I come over Sunday morning to let you sample my chicken and waffles?”

  “Of course.”

  Leaning down, Taylor kissed the bridge of her nose. “I love you.”

  “Love you back.”

  “Did I really say that?” Sonja whispered aloud. She did not want to believe she’d admitted to Taylor that she loved him and entertained the possibility of them living together.

  She wasn’t the twenty-year-old coed with stars in her eyes, and she wouldn’t lose her head just because a former top male model and successful engineer had shown an interest in her. At thirty-four, she knew exactly what she wanted and what she would or would not do. In the years following her divorce, Sonja had not had a relationship with a man because she did not trust them not to go from Dr. Jekyll to Mr. Hyde when she least expected. She had dated a few, and those expressing a sincere interest in her were made aware that she wasn’t looking for anything serious, and for her serious meant sleeping together or seeing each other exclusively.

  Taylor said she should take all the time she needed to decide whether they would live together and eventually marry. They had two years, and that was more than enough time for Sonja to know if she’d want to share her life and future with Taylor Williamson.

  “I’m sorry to bother you, but is there anything you need, because I’m leaving.”

  Sonja glanced over her shoulder at Dom. “I don’t think so. Thank you for everything.”

  “Are you coming tomorrow?”