A New Foundation

by Rochelle Alers

  “I really like plumbing. I renovated my kitchen, put in a half bath, and updated the toilet and all the sinks in my cottage. Would you like to see it?”

  Pushing back his chair, Taylor stood. “Sure.”

  He left the main house with Dom and walked to the six two-story cottages situated far enough from one another for privacy. Dom opened the door to one and stepped aside to let him enter. Taylor wiped his booted feet on the thick straw mat and walked in. The spacious foyer with a circular pedestal table afforded easy access to the living room furnishings from another era. Taylor took in the overstuffed sofas and chairs covered with busy prints, rough-hewn side tables and built-in shelves filled with books, model ships, bottles of spirits and fragile stemware. There were framed black-and-white photos of couples and groups of people from other centuries, and Taylor wondered if perhaps they were Dom’s relatives. He smiled seeing the billiard table in an area off the living room.

  Dom, noting the direction of his gaze, asked, “Do you play?”

  Taylor’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “Not in a long time.” Conrad had set up a pool table in the game room and had taught all his children to play. There was a chalkboard with a tally, and although he was good Taylor could never beat Joaquin, who demonstrated incredible eye-hand coordination.

  “I know you’re busy, but you’re always welcome to come and test your skills.”

  “Spoken like a true pool shark.”

  A flush darkened Dom’s tanned face. “I’ve been known to make a few dollars to supplement my meager income.”

  “Well, if I’m going to play, then it’s not going to be for money because I don’t like being hustled.”

  Crossing his arms over his chest, Dom leaned back on the heels of his boots. “I wouldn’t mind playing for a bottle of premium scotch to add to my illustrious collection.”

  Taylor pointed to the bottles lining the shelves. He’d noticed some were premium aged scotch. “You play for bottles?”

  Dom nodded. “Not only am I connoisseur of scotch, but that’s the only liquor I drink. I have a few bottles that are at least thirty years old.”

  “That must have cost the loser a pretty penny.”

  “It did,” Dom said proudly. “But I always say if you can’t pay, then don’t play.”

  “I didn’t say I can’t pay,” Taylor countered.

  “When do you want to play?”

  “Since you issued the challenge, you set the date and time, and I’ll let you know if I’m available.”

  “Tonight?”

  “It can’t be tonight because I have a prior engagement.” He had promised to cook for Sonja. “What about tomorrow night? Say, around eight.”

  Dom nodded and extended his right hand. “Tomorrow it is. Shouldn’t we establish the wager beforehand?”

  Taylor shook the proffered hand. “I don’t think that’s necessary. You want a bottle of aged scotch and I want to clean your clock.”

  Dom’s expression shifted from smug to one exhibiting uncertainty. “Are you some kind of clandestine pool hustler?”

  Taylor couldn’t help laughing. “No. I grew up with three brothers, and although we all managed to get along we also were very competitive. And it’s the same with my sister. It has been a while since I’ve played the game, but I’m warning you that I’m not an easy target. Now, I want to see what you’ve done to your kitchen and bathroom because I have to leave and get home.”

  He’d scheduled the interviews for the morning because he needed time to shop for the ingredients for dinner. He’d sent Sonja a text earlier that morning asking if he could prepare dinner at her place. It would save him having to transport hot dishes from his mother’s condo to hers, and she’d quickly replied in the affirmative.

  Taylor had to admit the changes Dom had made to the kitchen and bathrooms were remarkable. The sage-green kitchen cabinets, recessed lights, natural plank flooring and a granite-topped table mahogany doubling as an island combined the elements of modern and rustic with the stainless steel refrigerator and dishwasher.

  He opened the door under the sink, lay on his back and examined the plumbing hookup. Dom had installed a garbage disposal sink. Taylor checked the strainer basket and the rubber gasket preventing leakage between the strainer body and the sink. Dom had also installed a locknut for tightening the joint between the draining circuit and the end piece. He got up and closed the door. He’d seen enough. The pipes for the cold and hot water supply line, spray hose and the shutoff valve had been expertly installed.

  Wiping his hands on the front of his jeans, he nodded. “Very nice.”

  “Do you want to see the bathrooms?”

  Taylor shook his head. “That’s not necessary. I’d like to know if I hire a supervisory plumber, are you willing to work with him?”

  Dom smiled, exhibiting a mouth of straight white teeth. “I’m your man.”

  Taylor patted his shoulder. “That means I’ll have two plumbers.” He needed to interview one more with a license and extensive experience. “I’m telling you this in advance—once I have the entire restoration team, I will have an orientation session where everyone will be introduced to their supervisors. And if anyone has a problem, then the supervisor will handle it, and if they can’t then either I or my assistant will step in. At no time will I tolerate bullying or intimidation. And anyone caught or reported will be immediately dismissed and escorted off the property.”

  “I suppose you mean we’ll have to work well with one another.”

  “That’s exactly what I’m talking about, Dom. I will not tolerate a hostile work environment because I’m projecting a two-year timeline.”

  A slight frown marred Dom’s smooth forehead. “Isn’t that a little long?”

  Taylor shook his head. “No. Remember we’re not putting up a building, but restoring a structure to look the way it did one hundred forty years ago. All of the guest rooms will be replicas of that period but with modern amenities like heat, running water, air-conditioning and Wi-Fi. It will be the same with the bar and lounges and meeting rooms. It is much easier to gut a structure and renovate it than restoring it to appear the way it did during a particular era.”

  “What about the cottages, Taylor?”

  “The bedrooms, kitchens and bathrooms will still retain some of the charm of a late-nineteenth-century cottage but with updates that will include air-conditioning and Wi-Fi.” Taylor still hadn’t decided whether to keep or remove the wood-burning stoves that were used, along with fireplaces, to heat the structures.

  “When do you expect to begin the restoration?”

  Taylor mentally counted off the weeks. It was now the first week in May and he’d projected it would take him at least a month or maybe even six weeks to interview and hire his teams. “Hopefully before the end of June. I’d like to begin work on the exterior before the cold weather sets in.” He recalled what Sonja had said about the windows and roof tiles. “But if I can’t get the materials I need to replace the windows and roof tiles before the winter, then we’ll concentrate on the interior work until next spring.”

  “That sounds like a plan.”

  “Thanks again for volunteering to help. I have to leave now, and I’ll see you tomorrow night for our game.” It would be another two days before he was scheduled to interview an electrician. And Taylor was still waiting for Robbie to return his call with a date and time for when they could get together.

  “No problem, Taylor. You have the remote device for the gate, so just let yourself in.”

  Wiring the gate electronically was advantageous for Taylor and Dom. Before that he had to call the caretaker to ask him to manually open and close the gates. He walked back to where he’d parked his car. He pressed the remote attached to the visor, opening the massive iron gates, and drove over a metal plate that automatically closed them behind him.

  Taylor was l
ooking forward to seeing Sonja again. He knew it wasn’t possible for them to spend time together every day, but when they did he wanted it to be special. He’d asked himself whether he wanted to sleep with her, and the answer was a resounding yes. Yet their sleeping together wasn’t as much a priority as getting to know each other well enough to say whatever came to mind without insults or reprisals. He didn’t want their relationship to become a power struggle as it had been with his former girlfriend. She was one of three female lawyers in a firm of more than twenty, and Taylor had had to remind her over and over they were lovers and not competitors.

  Taylor headed for a shopping center several miles from Sonja’s condo to buy what he needed to make for their dinner. He loved Italian food and had perfected a favorite recipe, hoping Sonja would enjoy it as much as he did.

  Chapter Eleven

  Sonja took one last look in the mirror before going downstairs to answer the doorbell. Taylor had called to let her know he would be at her place at four, and that had prompted her to jump in the shower and change out of the sweats and into a pair of stretchy black cropped pants and a black-and-white striped boatneck cotton pullover. She’d brushed her hair off her face and secured it in a bun on the top of her head. She’d just stepped off the last stair when the door opened. It was apparent Taylor had decided to let himself in. He gripped large canvas bags in both hands.

  She quickly approached him and closed the door, struggling not to let him see her staring lustfully. He had paired a white golf shirt with a popular logo with a pair of light gray slacks. Whether in casual or formal wear, his tall, perfectly proportioned physique garnered a second and even a third glance. And there were times when she believed he had caught her gawking as she silently admired his dark complexion and sculptured features.

  “Let me help you with some of those.”

  “It’s okay. I’ve got them.”

  “Okay, superman.”

  Sonja followed him into the kitchen. “What on earth did you buy?”

  Taylor wiggled his eyebrows. “Stuff.”

  Bracing a hip against the countertop, she met his eyes. “What’s for dinner?”

  “Italian bread, Caesar salad, baked clams, penne with ground sausage, sangria and hazelnut gelato.”

  “You are singing my song. I love Italian food.”

  “I figured that because you’ve spent so much time in Italy.”

  “Do you need a sous-chef?” she asked as he set jars of dried spices, plastic bags of green, red and orange bell peppers, garlic, onion, apples, oranges, lemons, peaches and mushrooms.

  “No, babe. Just sit and relax. I’ll let you know if I need something. By the way, how was your day?”

  “Enlightening.”

  “How so?” Taylor asked as he continued to take items out of the bags.

  Sonja rounded the breakfast island and sat on a stool. It seemed so natural to have a man in her kitchen as Taylor opened the freezer to store the gelato. “I don’t know who MS is, but I found receipts indicating she was the recipient of ninety thousand dollars’ worth of jewelry between 1906 and 1914.”

  Taylor whistled. “That’s a lot of money to spend on jewelry during that time.”

  “It would be equivalent to two million today.”

  “Maybe MS was Charles Bainbridge’s wife?”

  “Or his mistress.”

  Taylor turned and stared at her. “Are you certain of that?”

  “No, I’m not. I only found one article written about Charles Garland Bainbridge saying that he’d been prevented from building his summer cottage in Newport, Rhode Island, because there were rumors that his wife may have been a mulatto.”

  “So you haven’t uncovered whether MS is his wife?”

  Sonja shook her head. “Not yet.”

  “Maybe she was his daughter.”

  “I doubt that, Taylor. Daughters usually inherit jewelry from their mothers or grandmothers.”

  “What else did you find?” Taylor asked.

  “There were ten trips to world’s fairs between 1881 to 1915. Did you father ever reveal how his family amassed their fortune?”

  He paused for several seconds, seemingly in thought. “I do remember him mentioning railroads, steamships, real estate, theaters and electricity.”

  Sonja gave herself a mental check when she recalled the number of world’s fairs someone had attended with a focus on electricity. “That confirms what I found. There were hundreds of stubs for plays, concerts and films, and receipts for cross-country train trips and transatlantic sailing to Europe for the fairs.”

  “Judging from the amount of paper in the trunks, it looks as if the Bainbridges were hoarders. Nowadays everything can be saved electronically.”

  “Once I go through every piece of paper I am going to enter the information on spreadsheets and charts to generate a written history of your family’s eminent ancestors.”

  “They may not be so eminent if you uncover something scandalous.”

  “No family, regardless of their income or status, is ever scandal-free.”

  “I suppose you are right, sweetheart.”

  “You suppose, Taylor? I’m certain your family has its share of secrets.”

  “I’m certain they do, but aren’t families entitled to privacy? Or is it incumbent on them to air their dirty linen just for public consumption?”

  Sonja was slightly taken aback by his queries and sharp tone, wondering what he was hiding. Did he know more about his ancestors than he was willing to admit? Or, if she did uncover something immoral or reprehensible, would he demand she not include it in her written report. She recalled him telling her about the clause in his modeling contract prohibiting the agency from disclosing anything about his personal life. What, she mused, was he hiding?

  “No, it’s not,” she answered. “I believe everyone is entitled to a modicum of privacy.”

  “I believe people are entitled to more than a modicum. Public figures or personalities would fall into the category of the exception. I met a young woman from a very wealthy family, but you wouldn’t have known it if she hadn’t mentioned it. I don’t know whether it was because she feared being preyed upon by those asking for a handout or whether she didn’t want to become a target for someone seeking to abduct her for ransom. Whatever her reason, I respected her stance.”

  “I think you misunderstand me, Taylor. I’m not a newshound looking for dirt on your family to sell to a tabloid. Your hotel will become a living museum, and your guests will want to know about the lives of the people who lived in Bainbridge House.”

  Taylor halted placing the fruit and vegetables in the sink. “Are you asking me for permission to write a book about the Bainbridge family?”

  Sonja hadn’t thought about writing a book about his family, but now that he’d mentioned it she suddenly warmed to the idea. “Yes. Depending upon how much I can glean from the trunks, it can be a five-by-eight hardcover with a jacket of Bainbridge House and filled with narratives and photographs of the artifacts. And if I can find photographs of family members it would make it even more factual. Of course, you would have to approve everything before it could be published.” She held up a hand when he opened his mouth. “The book could be sold in the museum shop.”

  Reaching for the retractable sink nozzle, Taylor rinsed the fruit and vegetables. “Did anyone ever tell you that you have a gift for gab?”

  She flashed a bright smile. “Yes, but only when I believe in something.” It was the second time that day that she’d talked to someone about writing a book. First her mother, and now she was attempting to convince Taylor she wanted to write about his family.

  “I’m not going to promise anything at this time, but continue your research, and after you write up your findings we’ll go over it together. And I’m warning you that before a single word gets into print, my sister and brothers will hav
e the final say. The decision will have to be unanimous because I have no intention of becoming embroiled in a family feud. When my mother told us about Dad leaving us the property, everyone but Viola decided to get directly involved. The rest of us respected her decision without pointing fingers or trying to strong-arm her to change her mind. My parents raised us to be independent, but to always have one another’s backs. If Viola decides she doesn’t want to become the executive chef for Bainbridge House then I’m not going to hold that against her. She’s her own woman and in control of her destiny.”

  Sonja didn’t know why, but she felt as if Taylor had just chastised her for something she hadn’t done. She’d merely mentioned the possibility of uncovering something sordid about his family, and he had taken it out of context. In other words, he was protesting prematurely. In that instant she made herself a promise that she would not bring up the subject again.

  She slipped off the stool. “I’m going to set the table.”

  Taylor knew Sonja was upset and realized he was responsible for the change in her mood. He knew she was excited about what she’d found in the trunks, yet he wasn’t the one with the final word as to what the public would be allowed to know about Conrad’s family. That responsibility lay with Elise Williamson. She was Conrad’s widow, and he’d willed her the property that she in turn had given to her children. Scandal or no scandal, Taylor refused to tarnish the reputation of the family of the man who had become his father and protector in every sense of the word.

  “Do you have a glass pitcher or a large carafe?” he asked Sonja as she opened a drawer to remove flatware.

  “I have a pitcher, but it’s plastic.”

  “That will have to do. I’m going to need it for the sangria.”