A New Foundation

by Rochelle Alers

  Within that time frame Joaquin would’ve fulfilled his contracts and could begin to redesign the gardens, and Tariq could purchase horses for the stables.

  A sixth sense told him that Viola would eventually supervise the kitchen because she’d never been one to let her brothers exclude her from any of their joint plans. And he was okay with Patrick’s role as CFO of the foundation, because no one else would monitor the bottom line like his certified accountant brother.

  Conrad had made Elise promise to carry out his wish to restore his ancestral home, and Taylor had promised his mother he would see it to fruition.

  Sonja checked the dining area table for what seemed the umpteenth time before realizing old habits die hard. She’d set the table for two with cloth napkins, water goblets, wineglasses and a vase of daisies as the centerpiece. She had also lit jars of scented candles and set them on tables in the living and family rooms.

  As Hugh’s wife, she had presided over so many dinner parties that one blended into the next until she’d lost count of how many she’d hosted in the four years they’d lived together. Her then mother-in-law would come by and check on how she’d set the table, and then lecture her in a too-sweet soft voice that a spoon or fork wasn’t in its proper place. After a while she’d come to resent the presence of the passive-aggressive woman who doted on her only son.

  It was only after Sonja freed herself of the invisible shackles of her husband and mother-in-law that she had come to the realization that Hugh hated his controlling mother, but rather than confront her as a fortysomething-year-old adult, he’d transferred his resentment onto his wife. The day Sonja worked up the courage to put whatever she could carry in a bag and climb into the back seat of a taxi to take her to the nearest bus station was the moment she’d taken control of her life. She had boarded a bus from Boston to Burlington, Vermont, where she checked into a motel for the night. The next day she’d called her mother let her know she’d left her husband and asked her to take the ferry and pick her up. Within minutes of the ferry docking and her mother alighting from the car Sonja did something she rarely did. She cried. Somehow she’d worked up the nerve to free herself from a man who’d controlled every aspect of her life from morning to night. Her mother also cried when she saw her because Sonja was a former shadow of herself. She had lost weight she could ill afford to lose. It taken her nearly a month to plot her escape, and during that time she had been so stressed out that Hugh would uncover her plan that she found it hard to eat more than a few forkfuls of food at any given time. And if Hugh noticed her weight loss, he did not mention it because of his preference for waiflike models.

  And that night, once she’d settled into the guest bedroom at her parents’ lakefront home, Sonja cried inconsolably. While the tears were cathartic, it would be a long time before she’d completely rid herself of the man. In her naïveté she had replaced her father with Hugh. He’d initially been her protector, but whenever she sought to exercise a modicum of independence he’d quickly quash it. Sonja had overlooked it until it was apparent he did not want to be challenged but obeyed, without her questioning his motives. He’d referred to her as his “little wife,” and that was what she’d become because it was easier to acquiesce than argue with him.

  Sonja shook her head as if to rid it of her past. It was now time for her to concentrate on the present and her future. When she awoke earlier that morning she’d found herself completely disoriented, and it had taken a full minute before she realized where she was. She knew she wasn’t in her regular bedroom because of the sunlight coming in through the windows. Her Inwood apartment had southern exposure, and the sun didn’t fill the space until the afternoon. She’d lie in bed, staring up at the ceiling waiting for the butterflies in her stomach to go away, because at that moment she was a butterfly emerging from the cocoon and becoming free—freer than she’d ever been in her life.

  Sonja hadn’t realized it until now, but Taylor Williamson had become the hero in one of her romance novels. He unknowingly had offered her something she wasn’t consciously aware that she needed—independence.

  Once she knew Taylor had hired her, she’d called her mother to let her about her new position and that she would have to take up residence in a hotel to be closer to the work site. Maria congratulated her, while reminding Sonja that she was entitled to every good thing coming her way because she’d worked for it. Sonja knew her mother was talking about overcoming a toxic marriage to return to college to complete the courses needed to become an architectural historian.

  She smiled. It had taken twenty-four hours for Sonja to fall in love with her new home. All of the units were connected; however, fenced-in backyards provided privacy from her nearest neighbors. The second-story balcony was the perfect spot for her to sit and enjoy her morning coffee, while offering unrestricted panoramic views of a forested area in the distance. She was looking forward to witnessing the change of seasons. The master bathroom had a soaking tub, oversize shower stall with twin showerheads and a double vanity. This would be her personal retreat, where she could spend as much time as she wanted without someone knocking on the door to ask when she was coming out. Her uncle’s two-bedroom apartment had only one bathroom.

  The kitchen was a cook’s dream—eye-level ovens with a warming drawer, microwave, double sinks, and a stovetop with six burners and a grill. The built-in refrigerator and freezer was large enough to store meat and perishables for months at a time.

  The intercom buzzed, startling Sonja as she glanced at the clock on the microwave. It was minutes before six o’clock. Taylor had sent her a text indicating he would arrive at her house around six. Walking over to the wall, she tapped the button.

  “Yes?”

  “This is the gatehouse. There’s a Mr. Williamson here to see you.”

  “Please let him in.”

  She didn’t know why he’d asked to be announced when he had a remote device that would allow him access onto the property. Leaving the kitchen, she walked to the door and opened the inner one. Her pulse quickened when she saw Taylor get out of his vehicle and walk around to the rear. He removed a hand truck and loaded it with two steamer trunks. With wide eyes, she stared at the logo on the luxury beige and brown trunks. The monogram with quatrefoils, flowers and LV were recognizable as the Louis Vuitton brand. He balanced another carton on top of the trunks.

  She opened the outer door and allowed Taylor to enter. The familiar fragrance of his cologne wafted to her nostrils as he moved past her. He’d exchanged his ubiquitous jeans, tees or sweatshirts, and boots for a pale blue linen shirt, navy slacks and black leather slip-ons. Her heart rate kicked into a higher gear when he smiled at her. It was the same apparent smirk he’d affected when modeling. It seemed to say I see you looking at me, and do you like what you see?

  Hell, yeah, her inner voice said. Not only did she like what she saw, she also liked him. Sonja knew she had to stop denying that she liked and wanted Taylor for more than friendship. She’d had a few guy friends before and after her marriage, and now it was time for her to acknowledge that she wanted a relationship with someone willing to accept her and her imperfections, and for her it would be the same with him. Sonja wasn’t looking or asking for declarations of love, but rather respect. She wanted and needed a man to respect her and for him to treat her as his equal.

  “Do you still want me to take the trunks upstairs?” Taylor asked, hoping Sonja didn’t notice the huskiness in his voice. He’d promised her they would remain friends, but now he wasn’t certain he would be able to keep his promise.

  Sonja nodded. “Yes. I can’t believe someone would use luxury trunks rather than file cabinets to store paperwork. If I wanted to buy one of these today, the price tag would be more than forty thousand.”

  “That’s crazy,” Taylor spit out. “I’d rather donate forty thousand dollars to my favorite charities instead of a single piece of luggage.”

  “You
’re preaching to the choir, Taylor.”

  He gave her a narrow look. “How do you know the price tag?”

  “I spent a month in Italy on holiday at the beginning of the year. Instead of going to museums, I spent most of my time eating in restaurants off the beaten track and browsing through countless shops. There is a Vuitton shop in Milan’s Galleria Vittorio Emanuele II. That’s where I saw the trunks. I was told if I live in the States and wanted to purchase one, then it would be a special order.”

  He slowly shook his head. “No, thank you.”

  Taylor tried not to stare at Sonja and failed miserably. He couldn’t pull his gaze away from the wealth of curls framing her face and ending above her shoulders. When he’d met her at The Cellar he’d thought of her a seductress in red. If he had to give her a label, then it would be chameleon. She was able to smoothly transition from a seductress in red with a profusion of waves framing her face and makeup accentuating her best features to a fresh-faced ingenue while affecting a ponytail, jeans and running shoes. Tonight she’d changed again when she’d selected a tangerine-orange sheath dress, black ballet flats and a subtle hint of makeup. Smoky taupe shadow on her lids complemented her large brown eyes, and the orange lip color contrasted beautifully with the gold undertones in her complexion. And her curly hairstyle reminded him of a doll—the nickname with which her uncle had tagged her.

  He set the carton of wine on the floor and sniffed the air, smiling. “Something smells delicious.”

  Sonja closed the door, locking it, and then flashed a mysterious smile. “I know how much you liked the dishes at La Casa Del Mofongo, so I decided to make arroz blanco, frijoles rosados, pollo asado and flan for dessert.”

  “I understood flan, and that’s about it. And I’m not ashamed to say that I could eat Spanish food every day.”

  “I’m serving white rice, pink beans and roast chicken. Instead of a salad, I’ve decided to prepare a cheese and fruit platter. By the way, have you ever eaten pastelón?”

  He shook his head. I don’t think so. What is it?”

  “Puerto Rican lasagna. My mother gave my aunt the recipe and she in turn gave it to me. I’ll make it for you one of these days.”

  “I suppose I’m going to have to up my game when cooking for you.”

  Sonja rested her hands at her waist. “Are you talking about a throwdown, Taylor?”

  “Not quite. But I can’t have you show me up.”

  “Who taught you to cook?”

  “My mother. In fact, she taught all of her children because she claimed once we left home she wanted us to be totally independent, and for her that translated into the ability to put a meal on the table.” He paused. “I’m going to take these trunks upstairs, then we can talk about cooking for each other.”

  Taylor pulled the stair-climbing hand truck up the staircase and down the hallway to the smaller bedroom Sonja had claimed as her office. He noticed she had already put her personal touch on the space. She’d placed a laptop and printer on the desk, and framed photos occupied every flat surface. He peered closely at one with Sonja, her brother and her parents when she’d graduated college. There were others of her uncle, brother and father in uniform. Then there was another one with Sonja holding a baby in a christening gown. Not only was she titi, she was also a godmother. He left the trunks on the floor next to the desk, returned to the first floor and joined Sonja in the kitchen.

  “It looks as if you’ve done more shopping.” Bottles of red, white and rosé were stored in a wine rack on the countertop.

  Sonja turned and smiled at Taylor over her shoulder. “Yes, I did. Thank you for the wine. I didn’t know whether you were bringing anything.” Not only had she visited the wine shop, but also the florist and a craft shop where she’d purchased scented candles, bundles of potpourri and framed prints with pressed leaves and flowers for the bathrooms. She’d also stopped at the variety store to pick up an ample supply of paper clips, folders, notebooks, legal pads, rubber bands, sticky notes, a stapler, tape and a desk organizer caddy.

  “I must admit your house now looks like a home.”

  Sonja met his eyes. “It’s the little touches that make a house a home.” The supermarket had a section with plants and live flowers, and she’d selected a combination of potted ferns and succulents.

  “You’ve done well, Sonja.”

  She affected a graceful curtsy. “Thank you.”

  Taylor winked at her. “You’re welcome. I’m going to put the case of wine in the pantry, then I’m going to wash my hands.”

  “I’d also bought a case. It looks as if we have enough to last for a while.”

  “Don’t forget, you’re going to live here for at least the next two years.”

  “You’re right, Taylor.”

  Sonja wanted to ask Taylor if she would be obligated to stay if she completed her project before the lease expired. Would he allow her to continue to live in the condo, or would she be forced to find another residence? Thinking about where she would live in a couple of years meant she was projecting. She hadn’t even begun working, and now she was planning her future once her tenure with the restoration ended.

  Opening a drawer under the countertop, she took out a bibbed apron and slipped it over her dress. The rice was done and so were the beans, and she’d placed them in the warming drawer. Meanwhile the timer on the oven indicated the chicken needed another twenty-five minutes before she could remove it and allow it to rest before carving. She retrieved the platter with a variety of cheese and fruit from the lower shelf of the fridge and set it on the breakfast bar.

  “Wow! It’s like a work of art.”

  Sonja’s head popped up as Taylor returned to the kitchen. “One can do wonders with cookie cutters.” She’d cut strawberries, cantaloupe and honeydew into stars, balls and triangles, and cheese into balls and cubes, alternating each and placing them around a small cluster of white, red and black seedless grapes.

  Taylor moved closer to her. “They look too pretty to eat.”

  “Pretty or not, we have to eat them or they’re going to spoil.”

  “Have you taken a picture of it?” Taylor asked.

  She laughed softly. “No. I have no desire to become a food blogger.”

  “Well, you should start, because once I concoct my dishes I’m going to upload them to your phone.”

  Sonja gave him a sidelong glance. “I thought we weren’t going to compete.”

  “It’s not a real competition. I just want to keep track of the dishes because I don’t repeat one too often.”

  “If it’s not real, then it must be fake. Real or not, wannabe Wolfgang Puck, it’s on. I just want to warn you that I come from a long line of incredible cooks, and when my dishes beat yours I don’t want to see any tears.”

  Taylor cradled her face. “I never figured you for a trash talker.”

  Sonja felt his breath feather over her cheek, his mouth mere inches from hers. She’d been totally unprepared the day before when he’d kissed her. It had happened so quickly that she did not have time to react. “What are you doing, Taylor?” Her query was a whisper.

  “Something I shouldn’t be doing.”

  “And what’s that?” Her voice had dropped an octave.

  A hint of a smile tilted the corners of his mouth. “Deciding whether I should kiss you. If I do, then that negates our promise to be friends.”

  “And if you don’t?”

  “Then I will spend the rest of my life wondering how you taste.”

  Sonja lips parted in a mysterious smile. “How long do you expect to live, Taylor Edward Williamson?”

  His smile did not slip as his eyebrows lifted slightly. “Probably ninety-five or maybe even one hundred.”

  Going on tiptoe, she brushed her mouth over Taylor’s. “I’m not going to let you wait—” Her words were cut off in midsentence
when Taylor deepened the kiss, caressing her lips until they parted under his. “How do I taste?” Sonja whispered.

  Taylor groaned deep in his throat. “Yummy.”

  “Just yummy?”

  “Nah, sweetness. Delicious.”

  Resting her palms against Taylor’s chest, Sonja eased back, breaking off the kiss. Taylor said if he kissed her, then their promise to remain friends would no longer be valid, but what he hadn’t known was that she wanted more than friendship. Although she’d vowed, once her divorce was final, that she would never become involved with a man with whom she would work closely, Sonja was no longer a vulnerable starry-eyed coed who had succumbed to her erudite professor. She wasn’t that twenty-year-old wooed by a much older man and married to him at twenty-one. What she hadn’t known after their living together for four years was that she would have to plan her escape, and then wait another two years of court appearances with escalating legal fees for her to obtain her freedom.

  That was then and this was now. She’d achieved her career goal and was now a part of a team responsible for restoring a historic house she predicted would be written about and photographed for architectural and travel magazines. Her becoming involved with Taylor would be very different from her involvement with Hugh, because she was ready for a mature relationship where they could relate to each other on equal footing. And she had no intention of marrying Taylor, because their relationship had an expiration date. Two years.

  “You’re going to have to let me go so I can check on the chicken.” Although her voice was steady, normal, it wasn’t the same with her heart rate. It was beating so hard and fast she could feel it against her ribs.

  Taylor pressed a kiss to her forehead before releasing her face. Sonja exhaled an inaudible sigh as she walked to the oven and opened the door. The roaster had turned golden brown. She inserted a digital thermometer into the thigh to monitor the bird’s internal temperature. To allow the skin to crisp, she had periodically basted the bird in its own juices during the roasting process until it was close to doneness. The thermometer registered 170 degrees. Sonja added another twenty minutes to the timer. The temperature needed to read 180.