“It’s beautiful.”
“You would say that because I know how much you love old buildings and castles.”
“You don’t like it, Vi?”
“It’s not that I don’t like it. What I am is ambivalent. Taylor wants me to take over the kitchen once the hotel is up and running, but I’m still not certain that’s what I want to do.”
“Why not? Is it that you don’t believe you have enough experience to be the executive chef?”
“Maybe not now, but I’m certain I will be in a couple of years.”
“Don’t play yourself, Viola. You went to one of the top culinary schools in the country and graduated at the top of your class. And you’re talented enough to have secured a position at a Michelin-starred restaurant. Women executive chefs are still as scarce as hen’s teeth, while you’re dragging your feet about whether you want to become involved in your family’s business.”
“I don’t know if I have the personality to supervise a commercial kitchen. Besides, I need more experience. Right now, I’m waiting to be promoted from a line cook to sous-chef.”
“Stop making excuses, Viola.”
“I’m not making excuses, Sonja. Running a kitchen is a daunting task and at this time in my life I don’t feel confident enough to become an executive chef.”
“Do you realize how many times you’ve complained about your tyrannical boss who gets his jollies off browbeating his staff?”
A beat passed. “I suppose too many times,” Viola admitted. “But I’ve learned to tune him out.”
“You shouldn’t have to tune him out, Vi, when you’re not obligated to stay on once Bainbridge House opens for business. I’m looking forward to the grand opening when you and your brothers gather in front of the mansion for a ribbon-cutting ceremony—you in your chef’s whites with Bainbridge House, Viola Williamson, Executive Chef embroidered on your coat.”
“Why do you make it sound so over-the-top?”
Sonja smiled. “Because it would be. Food critics will be lining up to eat at Bainbridge House, and then writing about the food and service. And I’m willing to bet there will be articles in cooking magazines about you being an up-and-coming chef to watch.”
Viola laughed. “Maybe I should hire you as my publicist.”
“You don’t need a publicist, Vi. Your dishes will speak for themselves.”
“I’m not going to promise anything, but I’ll tell you what I told Taylor. I’ll think about it.”
“Don’t think too long, Vi. Time will go by faster than you think.” Sonja wanted to tell her friend she’d short-circuited her own career when she opted to marry rather than complete her education. And while she hadn’t been able to make up for the lost years Sonja had made herself a promise to maintain her emotional wellbeing at the same time making her career a priority.
“I know. I can’t believe I’m having second thoughts even though I’ve always wanted to run my own kitchen. My real quandary is giving up my apartment and moving back to New Jersey. You know how much I love living in the Village.”
Sonja did not want to debate with Viola that moving across the river paled in comparison to the possibility of making a name for herself in a male-dominated field. “I know, Vi, but you have to think of yourself as a role model for not only women, but particularly women of color who want a career in culinary arts.”
“I’ve never thought of myself as a role model, but you always know what to say to bring me back to reality.”
“I learned it from you, my friend. When we first met, I was still healing emotionally. You listened to me go on and on about my ex and what he’d done to me. Then you told me that I had to stop blaming myself for someone else’s negative behavior.”
“I had a similar experience with a guy I’d believed was the love of my life. When I found out he was cheating on me I told him it was over. He pleaded and begged, said that it would never happen again. I forgave him over and over until I realized he would always be a serial cheater. The only way I could get over him was to go into therapy. It took more than six months for me to completely exorcise him not only from my life but also my head.”
Sonja was slightly taken aback with her friend’s revelation. Viola rarely talked about her past relationships. She’d mentioned occasionally dating yet never admitted to having had a serious relationship. “Fortunately, I didn’t have to lay on a therapist’s couch because I had you to give it to me straight, no chaser.”
“I know there are times when I’m a little too candid for my own good, and that’s when Taylor has accused me of not having a filter.”
“I’ve concluded it is better to speak up rather than remain silent.” Sonja knew she wasn’t the same woman who’d fallen under the spell of a much older man and married him. She didn’t hate men. She was just wary of their motives. However, it would be different with Taylor. They would be friends.
She chatted with Viola for few more minutes and then ended the call.
Last summer Taylor’s sister had hosted a Sunday brunch buffet at her apartment and Sonja had been amazed with what she’d prepared. The gathering was small—less than a dozen people—and included Viola’s waitstaff coworkers, her roommate’s colleagues and her neighbors. One of her neighbors that had taken an interest in Sonja, and everywhere she turned he was only a few feet away. Then he’d asked if they could go somewhere later that evening for drinks. She had turned him down politely with the excuse that someone was coming to pick her up at six. Of course, he didn’t believe her and offered to walk her down to the street. She was hard-pressed not to laugh at his crestfallen expression when she got into the car with Jaime. Her cousin had proved invaluable when it came to discouraging men attempting to come onto her.
She retrieved her camera, booted up her laptop and downloaded the photos she’d taken at Bainbridge House. Sonja had described the mansion as having a little dinge, which did not in any way diminish the graceful beauty of the architecture.
She had just enlarged the photos of moldings in the library and the smaller ballroom when her phone rang. Glancing at the screen she saw Taylor’s name. She tapped the speaker feature. “I hope you’re driving hands free.”
His deep laugh caressed her ear. “I’m not driving. I’m home.”
“How did you get there so quickly?”
“Stamford is only thirty miles from Inwood.”
“That’s all?”
“That’s it. Should I interpret your emoji to mean that you’ve accepted my salary offer?”
Sonja bit on her lip to keep from laughing. “Yes.”
“Good. Send me your email address, and I’ll have Patrick send you a list of documents he’ll need for your personnel file. I know he’ll want a résumé and unofficial copies of your college transcripts. He’d wanted to ask for letters of recommendation, but I told him I’d vouch for you. He’s setting up payroll for direct deposit so he will need your banking information. I’m projecting your start day will be the first week in May. Meanwhile, I’ll search for hotels in the area and instruct Patrick to set up a corporate account for you. It will be the same with the leased car. I’ll arrange for it to be delivered to you the day you check into the hotel. You’re going to need a credit card for anything that’s business related. Just make certain to save the receipts because my brother is—excuse the expression—a tight-ass CPA who will go ballistic if he can’t account for every penny.”
“Tight-ass or scrooge?”
“Both. I’m willing to go along with his edicts because Patrick is a genius when it comes to accounting and taxation.”
“Will I get to meet him?” Sonja asked.
“I doubt it. Right now, he’s living in Napa with his fiancée. She comes from a family of winemakers. A few years back Patrick worked for her uncle, who’d begun a startup vineyard on Long Island’s North Shore. Next year will be the first time from the
initial planting that they will get their first harvest. He told me the first vintage probably won’t be bottled for another two years after that.”
Sonja recalled dozens of dusty and cobweb-covered wine bottles in the château’s cellar. “Does he plan to become the vintner for Bainbridge Cellars?”
Taylor’s sigh reverberated through the speaker. “I’m hoping he will. But, if he doesn’t, then I’m going to bring in a wine taster to judge the quality of the wine in the cellar. If he gives it a thumbs-up, then I’m willing to hire a vintner and workers to restore the vineyard and put in new plantings.”
“I just had an idea, Taylor.”
“Talk to me, sweetheart.”
Sonja went completely still, wondering if Taylor had meant to call her ‘sweetheart,’ or if the endearment had slipped out unconsciously. “You’d talked about the gardens and orchard, but have you given any thought to putting in a farm?”
“What type of farm?”
“A vegetable farm. After all, New Jersey is touted as the Garden State.”
“That it is, but who’s going to maintain the farm?”
“Really, Taylor? You hire someone. You’ll save a lot of money if you grow your own produce in greenhouses year-round and offer farm-to-table dining.”
A beat passed. “Do you have any other suggestions?”
“I have a few more.”
“Do you want to tell me about them?”
Sonja smiled when she registered laughter in Taylor’s query. “I’ll wait until I see you again.”
“I’m always open to your suggestions as long as they are within the realm of possibility.”
“Like raising chickens, ducks and sheep?”
“That’s enough, Sonja. I have no intention of operating Old MacDonald’s farm.”
“Why not? You’ll have stables for horses, so why not house the chickens, ducks and sheep in the barn? There’s nothing better than fresh chicken and duck eggs.”
“Where is all of this coming from?”
His accusatory tone was beginning to annoy Sonja. “Forget it, Taylor.”
“No, Sonja, I’m not going to forget it.”
“We don’t have to talk about it now. The next time we get together I’ll have put everything on paper.”
“Okay.”
“After I hang up I’ll text you my email.”
“Okay,” Taylor repeated.
“I’ll talk to you later.” Sonja ended the call. If Taylor had been willing to listen without prejudice, Sonja would have explained she’d toured the Loire Valley and had stopped to eat at a château offering farm-to-table meals. The owners raised their own chickens and ducks, and the difference between store-bought refrigerated eggs and ones gathered daily were remarkable. It was the same with the freshly picked vegetables and free-range poultry.
As promised, Sonja would write down her ideas, suggestions and recommendations, and present them to Taylor. It wouldn’t bother her if he rejected them—just the fact that he would take the time to listen was enough. She texted Taylor her email address and then returned her attention to the photos she’d taken at Bainbridge House.
A knock on her bedroom door got her attention. She smiled. Her aunt had come home. “Hi, Titi Yolie.” Sonja shifted on the bench seat in front of the table where she’d set her laptop and printer. “Come and see the pictures I took of the mansion.”
Yolanda walked in, sat beside Sonja and slowly shook her head. “That’s what I call wretched excess. I’ll never understand why rich folks in this country felt the need to build these monstrosities.”
“During the Gilded Age, America’s nouveau riche flaunted their wealth to emulate European royalty,” Sonja explained. “They had everything but the titles, while Europe’s landed gentry needed money to run their estates and were willing to trade their titles for cash. It became a win-win when young American heiresses married English nobility to become a princess, duchess, viscountess or a marchioness. Winston Churchill’s mother was an American socialite, Consuelo Vanderbilt married the Duke of Marlborough, and Princess Diana’s American great-grandmother had been a baroness.”
“That’s so tacky. Selling yourself for a title.”
“Word,” Sonja said in agreement. “American heiresses that married into the British aristocracy were referred to as ‘Dollar Princesses.’ Marrying an aristocrat was seen as a way for them to raise their social status.”
“That’s crazy, Sonja. If they are millionairesses, shouldn’t that be status enough?”
“Not for them. They were the daughters of self-made men who didn’t have the social standing of longtime members of high society.”
“Are you saying they were shunned?” Yolanda asked.
“Yes, because they were new and not old money, and they’d believed a title would enhance their position among America’s social elite. Unfortunately for some of these titled princesses they did not have a happily-ever-after. Princess Diana’s great-grandmother divorced her husband, while Consuelo Vanderbilt also divorced her husband.”
Yolanda snorted delicately. “What did they expect when they sold themselves just to be accepted by those that looked down on them because they didn’t have the proper pedigree.”
“You are preaching to the choir, Auntie.”
“Now that you’ve seen the mansion, are you going to accept the commission to help restore it?”
“Yes.” Sonja knew she’d shocked her aunt when she revealed she would have to live in New Jersey. “I don’t want to drive ninety minutes to work, put in six or seven hours, and then sit in a car for another ninety-plus minutes in rush hour traffic, to turn around and do it again the next day.”
“When are you leaving?”
Sonja draped an arm around her aunt’s shoulders. “Not until early May.”
“I suppose that means you’ll be leaving the gallery.”
“Yes. I will let them know that I’ll stay until that time.” Sonja knew that once she become a part of the restoration team, her life and her future would not be the same. She was looking forward to her involvement in the restoration.
“What do you know about the family that built this mansion?”
“Not much,” Sonja admitted truthfully. She would set aside as much time as necessary to research the Bainbridges and hopefully discover Taylor’s father’s connection to the wealthy family that had erected an exact replica of a French château in northern New Jersey.
Chapter Six
Taylor took one last look around the apartment and then left the keys, as instructed by the building manager, on the kitchen countertop. The movers had come earlier that morning and transported the boxes to their van to take them to a storage unit near his mother’s condo. Meanwhile, he’d packed and stored his clothes, personal items and the steamer trunks in the cargo area of the SUV. He’d called Elise to let her know he planned to stop and see her in Belleville before they drove up to Sparta.
His week had begun with him going to Bainbridge House because the security company was scheduled to wire the house and install cameras around the property. Even with a team of eight technicians it had taken nearly a week to set up everything. The caretaker had admitted he felt more secure now that the property was electronically monitored.
Taylor found Elise sitting on the porch knitting, the familiar rhythmic clicking of the needles reminding him of a time when his mother spent her spare time knitting sweaters, gloves, scarfs and hats for his sister and brothers. If she wasn’t knitting, she could be found reading. Although a woman came in three days a week to clean and do laundry, Elise had insisted on preparing meals for her family.
Walking up the porch steps, Taylor leaned over and pressed his lips to his mother’s graying strawberry-blond hair. “Hello, beautiful.”
A flush suffused Elise’s face following his compliment. When the social worker had brought hi
m to the home of Elise Williamson, Taylor had believed she was a princess. He’d been told the tall, slender woman with a pale complexion, wavy reddish hair and sapphire-blue eyes was to become his new mother. She had insisted he call her Mom even though, at six, he knew she couldn’t be his mother because his cousins looked like his aunt, and all of the kids in his class looked like their mothers. His greatest fear was going to school and having this woman come and identify herself as his mother and having his classmates laugh or call him a liar. It was only when he realized he didn’t have to leave the house to attend classes, and that his foster mother had planned to homeschool him, that Taylor’s fears vanished and he was able to call her Mom.
“You should be sweet-talking a young woman around your age instead of your seventy-two-year-old momma.”
“I don’t have time to sweet-talk anyone, Mom.”
She gave him a long, penetrating stare as he folded his body down on a rocker facing hers. “I hope you don’t get so caught up in restoring your father’s property that you forget to relax.”
Stretching out long legs, Taylor crossed his booted feet at the ankles. “I’d wanted to ask you about Dad’s property.”
Elise’s hands stilled. “What do you want to know?”
“When did Dad know he’d inherited Bainbridge House?” He had learned not to ask Conrad about his family because the older man would give him a look that told him that he was prying. It was Elise who had occasionally revealed a few incidents in her husband’s life that he’d loathed talking about.
“It was after his aunt died. He’d talked about owning land in the northern part of the state, but whenever I asked him what he intended to do with it he claimed he didn’t know. A couple of months after he sold his company he took me to see it. I was so shocked that I was at a loss for words. Before that, he’d had the property appraised with the intention of selling it, and because he didn’t say anything I’d assumed he’d sold it.”
“Did he ever live at Bainbridge House?”
“Yes. He said he lived there before his parents’ boating accident. He said he loved riding the horses. And when the ewes had lambs, he would give them all names. He said the caretaker didn’t have to cut grass in the area where the sheep grazed because they were four-footed lawn mowers.”
A New Foundation Page 8
