Taylor groaned under his breath when he saw the traffic signs indicating delays on the New York State Thruway. Slumping lower in the seat, he turned on the satellite radio, tuning it to a station featuring cool jazz. The melodious sound of a tenor sax filled the interior of the SUV as he recalled the events of the day. He had reunited with Joaquin and Patrick, who’d flown in together from California, and Tariq, who had driven up from Alabama earlier in the week.
Tariq was on spring break from Tuskegee University where he was enrolled in postgraduate courses in veterinary medicine and had planned to spend the time with their mother. Patrick and Joaquin would fly out from Newark International at the end of the week. Patrick had delayed his return to go over the trust their father had set up for the restoration project in which Conrad had named his accountant son the executor.
Elise was ecstatic once Taylor agreed to assume responsibility to restore her late husband’s ancestral home to its original magnificence. He planned to focus on the exterior before the interiors. It wasn’t only the château that needed work but also the guest cottages, vineyard, orchards, stables, formal gardens, a bridle path, and a nine-hole golf course all of which were in poor condition.
Taylor had been forthcoming with Viola when he told her Elise had dropped hints about inheriting property from her husband she’d wanted to share with her children. She’d finally revealed that not only was Bainbridge House listed in the National Register of Historic Places, but a trust had been established more than seventy years ago to cover property taxes and salaries for future generations of resident caretakers.
Taylor estimated it would take at least two years to completely renovate the house, barns and outbuildings, and hopefully by that time it would be ready to become a successful family enterprise.
Chapter Two
“Do you still want me to pick you up at nine?”
“Yes,” Sonja told her cousin, estimating her dinner meeting with Taylor Williamson shouldn’t go beyond two hours.
Sonja alighted from the car and made her way down the staircase to the below-the-street dining establishment that had operated once as a speakeasy during Prohibition. This would be her second time eating at The Cellar. The first had been two years ago when Viola was hired as an apprentice chef. The restaurant had just earned a Michelin star, and if it hadn’t been for her friend setting up a reservation for her she would’ve had to wait three weeks for a table. The food, ambiance and professional waitstaff were exceptional.
If Viola hadn’t asked her to meet her brother, Sonja knew she would’ve spent the day sleeping late and watching her favorite movie channel, because she’d just had the week from hell. It had taken more than a month for the gallery owners to decide what they wanted to exhibit after they’d purchased the contents of a home in the Hudson Valley during an estate sale. Their constant bickering had worn on Sonja’s fragile nerves, and she’d found herself leaving the gallery several times a day to walk around the block. The indecisiveness ended when Sonja became the mediator and there was consensus to exhibit a limited collection of crystal and silver pieces. They had belonged to the descendants of a Dutch shipping merchant who had amassed a sizeable fortune when New York was still a British colony. His subsequent descendants continued the family passion for purchasing crystal and silver for generations.
The restaurant’s solid oaken doors with stained glass insets opened, and she exchanged a smile with the maître d’. The slightly built man wearing all black inclined his head. “Good evening. Welcome to The Cellar.”
“Thank you. I have a reservation for seven.”
“Your name, miss.”
“Martin. However, the reservation is under Taylor Williamson.”
The maître d’ beckoned to one of the hostesses at the podium. “Please show Ms. Martin to Mr. Williamson’s table.”
She followed the young woman into the dining room with round tables covered in white tablecloths, with seating for two, four or six. Lit votives, bud vases with fresh flowers, Tiffany-inspired sconces and gaslighted fireplaces created an ambience that was inviting and intimate. She savored the mouthwatering aroma of grilled meats from a tray carried by waiter balanced on one shoulder as he passed her.
The hostess stopped at a table at the same time a tall man rose to his feet. Sonja felt as if someone had caught her by the throat, cutting off her breath, when she recognized the man staring down at her. She had never met any of Viola’s brothers so there was no way she would have been able to connect Taylor Williamson with T.E. Wills.
Recovering quickly, Sonja extended her hand and her voice. “Hello, T. E.—Sonja Rios-Martin,” she said, introducing herself. He took her hand, cradling it gently in his much larger one.
“It’s just Taylor now.”
Taylor pulled out a chair, seating her. He lingered over her head and she inhaled the subtle scent of his cologne. Sonja curbed the urge to give him an eye roll when he retook his chair opposite her. T.E. Wills was to men’s fashion what Tyson Beckford was to Ralph Lauren’s Polo brand. His image had graced the covers of countless magazines while he’d also become a celebrity spokesperson for a men’s cologne and a popular luxury automobile. Despite his public persona, very little was known about his private life. It is was if the mystique had enhanced his popularity and marketability.
She met the large dark eyes with her own curious stare. His complexion reminded her of the color of autumn leaves that had turned a shade of brown much like black coffee with a splash of rich cream. To say her friend’s brother was a beautiful man was truly an understatement. It was as if Michelangelo had carved David from onyx rather than marble and had been branded the Nubian Prince. Taylor’s royal blue suit appeared to
