Social Flutterby (August 11, 2011)

Toronto is a city in a hurry. The pace—visitors always remark on it—is more quick than fast, the people hurry and everyone is wheeling and dealing. “It used to be so sleepy, I hardly recognize WASPy old Hogtown anymore” Ardie said at lunch while Miss Cousins agreed that “allowing stores to open on Sundays” would draw people into the city, “and get rid of the stale air downtown.”

Queen Street was already well into a transformation that would see it evolve from fabric shops, furniture stores and light industry to artists, designers, galleries, restaurants and nightclubs. In time it would become give birth to a media conglomerate, a club district and trendy living spaces. People were now smugly announcing that they lived in a warehouse, or above a store, or behind a factory downtown.

Ardie observed that the Westbury Hotel on Yonge Street, once a fashionable address with a good dining room, was now nothing more than a trick-pad for the sex trade. “Friday night the dining room of the Westbury was always packed,” he said, “and men would be wearing black tie.” The office crew around the table was amused; “You’re dating yourself, Ardie, be careful,” Miss Cousins said, safely from behind her sunglasses.

She had been working well into the nights on various pieces, so she was feeling—and probably looking—a little worse for wear. Over the years I’ve been asked a lot of questions about Miss Cousins from curious people who know her work or her story. Generic responses usually suffice, and private knowledge remains just that: private. “I heard she worked on at least 10 or 15 paintings at one time,” one cocktail party guest once said. She was satisfied with the knowledge that Miss Cousins did, in fact, often work on more than one painting at a time. It was never necessary to be specific as most people are happy with vague.

No confidences are betrayed by revealing that her usual modus operandi was to work on a theme. The current theme—the one that caused her to work until 3:00AM and appear at lunch in sunglasses, slightly hung over—was food. Eggs and toast, sandwiches, fish, breakfast specials, hamburgers, bananas and other fruit, meatloaf with mashed potatoes and gravy. Side of peas. That kind of food.

Miss Cousins worked in her studio, sometimes with music and sometimes in silence, on any number of canvases over the same period of time. It wasn’t unusual for her to have perhaps four canvases in some stage of work, but not more than six. The sizes would be different, due to the studio layout more than anything else, and she would occasionally leave one to work on another, or “abandon” one for a few days, weeks or longer while her muse took her elsewhere.

The output from the food series was tremendous and the suggestion of another catalogue was eagerly accepted by the Boss. The last catalogue had resulted in a record-number of commissions and sales, and Miss Cousins wasn’t one to lollygag where business was concerned.

Ardie, too, had been spending industrious days and nights of late, exploring new business opportunities during the day and exciting new nightclub destinations every evening. Suddenly, formerly staid Toronto was hip. There were people, places and things that could only be described as avant garde. Trendsetters were being discovered and followed and Our Ardie Beebe was one of the popular in-crowd.

Zena Cherry, the long-serving social columnist (“dreadful gossip columnist” according to Beebe) who chronicled the activities of what passed for society in Toronto, regularly noted where Ardie had dined, visited, danced or been. Fundraising lunches for reputable—and often useless—worthy efforts were prime opportunities for meeting potential clients and for Ardie’s now flourishing antiques shoppe. He supported hospitals, of course, plus endowments to fight diseases that plague children, the homeless, shelters of every description, food banks, museums, heritage destinations, parks, animals (domestic; livestock; wild) and the Monarchist League of Canada. (“After all, we Queens have to stick together,” said Ardie.)

Miss Cousins put her chopsticks down and reached for a newspaper (not the Canadian Record, tsk tsk) and pointed out that Ardie had been spotted “at Toronto’s chicest new club” surrounded by “gorgeous models and some of Toronto’s best-known names.” She looked down the table, crowded with more people than usual today, and her eyebrows rose up above her sunglasses. “It seems you are becoming a social flutterby, Ardie, in danger of becoming the burned-toast of the town” she said.

Ardie took a long drag on his torch (right at the table; after a while it didn’t even seem unusual) and leaned his head back before exhaling a long powerful cloud of smoke up, up toward the ceiling and beyond.

“I don’t know about the gorgeous models, but the best names in Toronto must be George Edward Trick, realtor-about-town,” laughed Ardie. George Edward Trick was Ardie’s oldest and best friend. He was a well-known realtor and Ardie—and soon everyone—called him Tricky.

Ardie and Tricky had been in boarding school together, and after being expelled together had travelled to Europe—“no where near a backpack, Kid”—before returning to Toronto and settling in, but not down. Tricky exploited his family and social connections and was soon a trusted name for old-families to call on when they needed a real estate agent who understood their particular sensibilities.

“Tricky asked me to help him celebrate his new condominium launch, and things got carried away,” Ardie explained. He looked at the column again quickly before admitting that there may have been “two or three gorgeous young men present, some of whom could have been models. I never ask what people do for a living because Mother said it was rude.”

Miss Cousins laughed over that one. “I am quite sure, Ardie, that you find out what their particular skills are soon enough.”

 

The Rat Race (August 9, 2011)

The Rat Race

The “miserable rat race” of work, business and industry were now in full swing. Miss Cousins had returned with plans, and the office hummed along with all cylinders firing. I was writing a catalogue to accompany a planned show and the endless revisions and discussions were cumbersome and annoying. Lunch—the fabled institution of Miss Cousins’ office schedule—evolved on some days into an ongoing planning session, and that is how Ardie came to our rescue.

Ardie had stopped into the office to see Miss Cousins and joined lunch, already in progress, at the urgent invitation of pretty much everyone; Ardie was always fun and his impromptu visits were welcomed. Today’s fare was a Chinese banquet, so another set of chopsticks and a plate were soon found and Ardie was soon ooh-ing over the General Tao’s chicken just like everyone else. (Miss Cousins gave good lunch.)

Miss Cousins was “bored to death” with all of the suggested ideas for the photo shoot planned to promote the upcoming show. The catalogue, she decided, should include photographs showing her artwork in the homes of real people. No more all white walls, contemporary interiors or lush museum settings! 

We discussed a few different ideas before Ardie interrupted Miss Cousins with a wet cough and suggested a few names and addresses where—he was “more than certain, Adelaide, more than certain”— the home owners would be thrilled to having their home photographed with a real Adelaide Cousins painting adorning a 

wall.

The catalogue, Ardie continued, would be a collector’s item in itself; why, some of the same owners might become patrons! (This was tricky; Miss Cousins could be difficult with patrons on the hunt for “something, anything really” to adorn the walls.)

I was directed to write the copy for the catalogue, which Miss Cousins would subsequently edit. The final product would be sent for professional editing and proofing, of course, but the original effort was in-house. A team of three graphic designers (hired by yours truly) eventually came up with a style and look that pleased Miss Cousins, and the cover eventually served duty on a poster, post-card and, much later, a calendar. The final product was so successful we used the dame three designers, year after year, for a long time.

Ardie had “all sorts of contacts and friends” we could “tap into with a simple phone call” and soon Ardie was recommending various people who had “homes with potential” for our consideration. First on the list was 12B, of course, as Ardie was feeling hard-up for cash and a little self-promotion goes a long way in the “decorating rat race.”

I had an uneventful evening at home on my social calendar; shared a quick hello with Jane when she arrived at The Campanile to collect Bethany, and waved to Habashaka as he headed over to Yonge and St. Clair on a domestic errand. The news about the shaky foundations—literally, as it turned out—of The Campanile did not serve as a catalyst for good times and merriment. Jane was securing a suitable mortgage and, with only a 6% ownership vote, the decision would not be one I could materially affect.

Miss Cousins was sanguine about The Campanile. “It will get sorted out, it’s just business.” She was working on more food images—they sold like hotcakes, pun intended, so why shouldn’t she crank a few more out?—and the office was quiet as I prepared to wrap up the day. She was smoking, sipping a cocktail and seemed in no hurry to be leaving. “I’ll drive myself home tonight,” she dismissed me in a friendly way, “see you tomorrow.”

I walked for a while before catching a cab up near Harbord Street. I slipped into 7A and bolted the door, not looking for company or entertainment of any particular kind. I was paying rent to live in the apartment now and, although deeply subsidized by my 6%, it was no longer free and the future was far less certain, economically speaking.

Ardie was a fury of activity; the antiques shop downtown was repainted, restocked and re-opened with much fanfare. Old clients were invited to 12B for drinks and a tour and more than a few of them subsequently contacted Ardie, the master, for consultations on updates, renovations, additions, deletions, makeovers and bare-to-the-walls, top-to-bottom overhauls.

Of course, new clients were the lifeblood of his business, and this is where a concerted charm offensive paid grand dividends. Every morning would find Ardie scanning the obituaries of The Canadian Record, looking for “good deaths.”

Good deaths, Ardie explained, would involve “money, property, antiques and a war over the will.” One good estate sale could reveal a fortune of plunder for the antique shop. Tea sets and davenports and sideboards would be found, along with Chinoiserie, majolica and “God only knows what else!” as Ardie smoked over the paper, coffee cup nearby, intent on stoking his fortunes once more.

Ardie had to move quickly when it came to the Jewish community. He generally skipped funerals but had a week—give or take—to “hit the Shiva and really clean up.”

For the uninitiated, a Shiva is a proscribed period of time, usually a week, after which the friends and family of bereaved Jews will visit the family and comfort them in their time of loss. Friends, neighbours, colleagues and others will deliver food, good wishes, companionship and the sense of community everyone needs so badly during a time of loss.

The Shiva—with its rhythms and comforts—provides a concentrated opportunity to grieve, remember, laugh, cry and finally begin to move on. “Of course you have to eat, too, so don’t miss the buffet,” Ardie said as he corralled me one afternoon to accompany him to a Shiva up off Bayview Avenue.

We were only attending because the deceased was an aged aunt of Candis Mitzvah’s cousin-by-marriage, and Candis would be in attendance today, “dispensing coffee and cake” according to Ardie. “Oh, and sympathy. Of course.”

Needless to say, Ardie changed the tone of this particular Shiva. I offered a few quiet condolences and moved to the buffet—which was good, actually—and kept quiet as Ardie worked the room. Ardie greeted Candis and was then introduced to the cousin-by-marriage, and then he was almost immediately saying goodbye; he was just in the neighbourhood, he had heard the sad news, worried about Candis and her family, must dash, really shouldn’t intrude. Just wanted to wish everyone well. So sorry to learn about your Aunt; that type of thing. Ardie was smooth with his insincerity.

These people were not grief-stricken enough to let Ardie leave. Soon the scotch was flowing—who knew Aunty kept such a bar?—and Ardie had learned that dear Aunt Whatever had left some money to her daughter, who was now getting the full-court press from both Ardie and Candis, who was eager to promote her association with Ardie Beebe.

We left after an hour or so, and Ardie smiled as he sat behind the wheel of his car. “The poor dear suffered so much and her daughter got everything. Candis tells me she’s thinking of moving and, of course, she’ll need some help with wherever she moves.” He cleared his throat. “Lots and lots of help.”

 

Knight in shining Subaru (July 27, 2011)

Driving in the city of Toronto is something that comes naturally to locals and, it is often said, eventually to visitors. Back routes, side streets, street cars, cyclists, endless pedestrians and geography are the currency of long-time Torontonians, who must, often of necessity, commute across the vast landmass that is Toronto.

Short cuts are a respectfully acknowledged civic accomplishment. So, you’re in Midtown and you need to get to the west end of Queen Street? Or maybe you are aiming for King West and maybe from there a dash to Strachan and then the Queensway? Then you have to know to take St. Clair West, Christie Avenue south along Grace and then a jog to Gore Vale Avenue and—voila—you are on Queen West.

Of course, you won’t have the comfort of traffic lights all the time, so expect to have to dash across a few intersections, sidestep parked cars and drive with verve. But you’ll get there if you explore the city and you learn to navigate its many neighbourhoods and districts.

Leesa Mitzvah could zip across the city from her home in Forest Hill—you remember that she lived at home—to the Beaches using the Bayview Extension, Pottery Road, Mortimer Avenue and countless one-way side streets. An old-hand who loved to accompany her Daddy in the car as a child, Leesa knew she would be able to find abundant and free parking at a public school on Kippendavie Street. (You can consider that tidbit as a freebie.)

Her afternoon spent shopping with a girlfriend was delightful and they decided to grab supper together—Leesa was full of stories about Jack—and wrap up a wonderful day with a wonderful meal.

Leesa didn’t notice anything was wrong with her car until she shifted into reverse and there was a “loud noise” under the hood that could have been a “grating sound” or it might have been a “scraping noise” but it was definitely “a noise.”

Leesa Mitzvah was not without resources, as she had a credit card (courtesy of Daddy) and a membership in CAA, plus a cellular telephone. What she didn’t have was a lot of experience with cars that were, inexplicably, making “a noise.”

To give Leesa her due, she was a capable sort but her father had always looked after her. She was adored, and her parents were rich, so why shouldn’t she be a bit over protected? She was pretty and petite and got cold easy and cried when she was upset and couldn’t sleep when she worried. She didn’t like violent movies or mean people and she didn’t like being alone in a parking lot as night fell with a car that was making “a noise.”

With growing dread she realized that with her parents unreachable—they were seeing a play with the Sterns—and with her brother out of town she might have to call Uncle Harry for help. He would tell Auntie Esther who would call the theatre and demand that they inform “Mr. and Mrs. Mitzvah that there was a family emergency!” and by that time it would be darker and colder.

To give her credit where it is due, it was with some reluctance that she called Jack at home and—getting his answering machine—left a calm message asking him to call her back. She turned the car on to keep the heater warm, and noticed that she had half a tank of gas. She made sure the doors were locked, again, and was reassured that they were.

She waited a few more moments with the radio on quietly so as not to drown out any possible ringing of her cellular telephone. She called Jack again—maybe he just stepped out to get cream or maybe some Diet Coke—but hung up before the machine picked up.

She turned the car on again, checked the fuel level and turned the heat up. She would have gunned the engine a bit but she was worried about running out of gas. She considered calling Uncle Harry again, rejected the notion, and wondered about walking up to Queen Street and hailing a cab.

But if she didn’t get a cab she would be outside, far from home, and it was chilly out. If she did get a cab it might be dirty—a dreaded fear—or being driven by “some weirdo” who might be crazy and then she would be dropped off outside the large mansion that the Mitzvah’s called home and she would be all alone with a weirdo cabbie racing his engine behind her.

Almost as an after thought did she call her own answering machine where she heard the comforting voice of Jack Grade, informing her he would call her later—“to say goodnight”—and that he was having supper with his mother and father.

Leesa called Jack’s office and was routed to the after-hours service. Her vaguely frantic message—replete with a mention that her car was making “a noise” and that her father was out and her brother was away and she didn’t want to call Uncle Harry—got her nowhere but her message was duly noted. She then called Ardie’s number and, reaching Habashka, blurted out her tale of impending danger and woe.

With his calm demeanour and his soft voice, Habashka calmed the “dear child” down, took down her telephone number and reassured her that help was on the way. He then called Roy Davey—his opposite number, so to speak—over at Beebe’s house and passed on the message. He then called Leesa back and informed her of what he had done.

Five minutes later Habashka was speaking with Jack—he was “very, very grateful Habashka, and I really mean it”—who was already on the way to save Leesa Mitzvah from her cold, lonely and imperiled car.

Would danger be avoided?

In the early days of cellular telephones people didn’t really fret too much about talking and driving. Jack thanked Habashka—who had been around for years, he suddenly realized—and then called Leesa and spoke to her as he drove across town. Just knowing he was on his way, and hearing his sweet voice, was enough to untangle what was left of her now jumbled nerves.

When his Subaru appeared in the parking lot Leesa Mitzvah wanted to cry. Jack parked and trotted over, smiling, and wasn’t at all sorry to miss supper if it meant that he could rescue her from a dark, foreboding parking lot.

Soon Leesa was sitting in Jack’s car—with the doors locked—while he tinkered with her car, called a tow truck and diagnosed a shot bearing. Everything would be fine; he would drive her home and her car would probably be ready by tomorrow night. If she wanted to, she could use his car tomorrow (she couldn’t drive a stick shift, as it turns out, but this was no time to confess that) and he could “take the subway” to work the next morning. It would not be an imposition.

“I just don’t like to see you upset” he said, his face a handsome smile.

She leaned over and kissed his cheek, and he took her hand and told her never to worry, that “you’ll always be able to count on me, Leesa” and she kissed him again and soon they were alone in a dark parking lot next to a public school on Kippendavie Street and it wasn’t so cold anymore.

Success one shiva at a time (July 26, 2011)

Jane’s call suggesting breakfast before work was a welcome one; worry about The Campanile—and what the future might hold—made for a sleepless night and I wanted reassurance from her, or from anyone, that we would be able to navigate the tricky shoals we were currently crossing.

The Campanile was a beautiful and graceful old building and although my claim to it was definitely in the minority I was still concerned that the wonderful dream of owning it—along with the cheery group who constituted the partnership—would disappear in a flood of lawsuits, penalties, punishments and fees.

We met on College Street near Spadina and opted for our favourite greasy spoon. I would later be able to walk down to the office long before the daily routine got too hectic.

Jane was all business, black coffee and bagels. We would need to obtain a mortgage on the property and we needed it done quickly. We could mitigate any ongoing problems by forking over the settlement to the condominium board adjacent to The Campanile and—Jane had high hopes here—asking them to relent on taking most of our front yard. While plans for a new, broad semi-circular driveway were being bandied about by the condo board, we were certain that historical leanings would encourage them to sell our own front yard back to us.

“Nobody will pay fancy rent to live in a building that sits behind someone else’s parking lot” Jane explained. “We have to work on that damn condo board and we should expect a hard, difficult fight.” Jane was all business when it came to numbers. She looked Queen Street West, of course, but she was very much a Bay Street girl when it came to commercial matters.

We would have to apply to raise the rents above the allowed increase, and some of our longer-term tenants—more than 40% of the tenants fell into this group—would see their rent discounts ended. The Campanile was “haemorrhaging cash” and this needed to stop. Rent discounts had been negotiated by some long-term residents who argued that since they lived elsewhere for up to half of the year a regular, annual increase wasn’t warranted. Under the reign of The Secretary this had been allowed.

Jane’s gloomy outlook wasn’t over. She sipped her coffee and returned to her notes.

The staff would have to drastically reduced. Given the declining occupations of most tenants there was no need for the number of car jockeys, valets, cleaners, engineers and others who populated the monthly payroll. With many of our tenants decamping to Florida, Arizona, Mexico or other warmer winter climes there was a corresponding drop in the level of service expected at The Campanile. Two car jockeys would suffice now, and some work would be spread among the remaining staff. Jane would deal with staff matters personally, as she didn’t live at the building.

Jane saved the best news for last.

“Sorry, Kiddo, but you’re going to have to pay rent to live at The Campanile.”

The mortgage payments would require a hefty monthly amount to keep the building solvent and under our ownership. As a fractional owner with the smallest ownership tranche, my rent was affordable but it meant that my plans for interior decoration and car ownership were no longer feasible.

“Ardie will get worse news this afternoon, if that is a comfort” she said, between gulps of coffee. Packing to leave she added, “He’s going to have to pay to live in 12B or we need to rent it out, we can get a fortune for that unit and we need the cash flow.”

I paid for breakfast—since Jane was looking after the books for free it was the least I could do—and strolled down through Chinatown to the office. There was no need to hurry as Miss Cousins was away and not expected back until the next week.

Work was a blur; preparing the catalogues for two upcoming gallery events kept everyone busy. By the end of the day I was surprised to note the time, and looked forward to going home and spending a quiet night hunkered down in front of the television.

Ardie had left a note for me with the doorman; supper at 8?

I had time to shower, have a drink, and arrived at 12B from the lobby. Getting to Ardie’s apartment involved taking the elevator from 7A down to the lobby, buzzing Ardie up in 12B, and then riding the same elevator directly into his hallway. It was a gracious arrival.

Ardie was frantic. His meeting with Jane had been “a bloody nightmare” when he found out that he would need to “rent my own damn apartment in my own damn building” or else find himself “living above a sewer-grate with the best antiques in town!” Jane, he claimed, had been “unreasonable” to his entreaties to understand the position he was in. “She only cares about the building!”

Jane had spent a busy day. She had breakfast with me and then she had a lengthy long-distance chat with Miss Cousins on the telephone. Miss Cousins was the majority shareholder and, under the strict terms of the late Secretary’s will, could “pull rank” on us and dictate—to a certain extent—how business would be transacted.

Ardie would be paying rent to live in the luxury that was 12B.

Ardie exhaled a long, malodorous plume of second-hand smoke and gestured around the living room. “Take a look at what might have been!”

Ardie mixed a pitcher of strong cocktails and we sat in the living room—“it was going to be something, really something”—while Ardie reported on the scene last night Chez Grade.

“He stood up, mentioned something about Leesa’s car backfiring or needing a boost, and then marched right out. Rose was just serving supper” and he had “never seen anyone walk out on my sister Beebe before.” He smoked furiously.

Supper following Jack’s hasty departure was a less-than-gay affair. In the absence of Jack, poor old Tom Standish was left without any visible means of support and his conversation with Clemmy turned awkward. It turns out that they both hated wet weather and were prone to headache when the barometric pressure changed quickly. “Hardly the chatter that leads to romance,” commented Ardie, while pointing out that “Tom Standish is very handsome but terminally dull.”

Margery was quiet and Beebe and Ted were more than a bit surprised that Jack hadn’t managed to sit through a few bites of supper—“after all, he arrived late and unexpected and a place was set for him”—before dashing off to “save that Mitzvah girl” from having to deal with the auto club by herself.

Over a cold supper Ardie began to plot. He had no intention of leaving 12B and even less intention of “going down without a fight.”

Ardie, you see, was industrious where his lifestyle was concerned.

“There’s no getting around it; I’ll have to start dropping in on shivas again,” Ardie intoned, as if he had just announced he intended to parachute behind enemy lines, “because I can always make money at a shiva.”

Charmingly Unannounced (July 21, 2011)

We agreed to meet with Jane again later in the week where we could learn what our options, few as they might be, were. Ardie poured stiff drinks and immediately began to predict the worst. From being “on top of it all” we were going “to get screwed again” and he’d never get back what he had already spent on 12B. All seemed lost.

Ardie got himself another strong one—I was still sipping my first—while bemoaning the possible fates that awaited him. “I’ll be decorating when I am 80, hawking my wares like a hooker downtown!” he predicted. Gone were the visions of ease and comfort, all thanks to “those bastards in that damned condo!” and “some corrupt judge, I’ll bet my life on it!” who had ruined his dreams for the future. 


Now he would never realize of his dream of retiring and “living a simpler, quieter life” (away from the interior decorating rat race, whispered Jane, picking up her bag to leave) and “taking it easy.” Jane’s departing glance to Ardie included the advice to remember that while we owed money, we did own the building, albeit with Miss Cousins as the majority shareholder. She would have an update for us by the end of the week.

Ardie had another drink before he left to join the Grades for supper, a rare occurrence at this time of the year as it was customary for Ted and Beebe to be travelling now. The demands of Ted’s business, sadly, served to keep them home this year. Beebe was “picking up some slack” and having various members of the family over now and then.

Suppers were augmented by Sunday brunches with lunches at the club and mid-week dinners and specific restaurant destinations and Chinese food all mixed in for good measure. Margery was a frequent guest now that she was back in the city proper, and Beebe was keeping an eye on her just in case she continued to “act up!” and “make a fool of herself” again.

Jack had lately been in the habit of stopping in—charmingly unannounced—to “have a home-cooked meal” with his parents during the week. It was a fun fiction that both Ted and Beebe rather enjoyed. They loved Jack, who was fun and full of life, and adored spending time with their handsome, charming son. Everyone did.

This cosy filial attention had been noticeably absent of late, and Ted and Beebe were happily surprised when he showed up—a welcome gate crasher—the same evening Ardie, Margery and Clemmy were dining in. Tom Standish, a VP at The Canadian Record, was the sixth guest. Tom had been included at the suggestion of Ted, who liked Tom and invited him home partly to see if there would be any interest with Clemmy.

Jack’s arrival did not upset the evening, and he was warmly welcomed. There was no question of their not being enough food; Beebe administered a household and the roast would feed the family, staff, guests and any misfits or drop-ins who might happen by.

The household, to borrow a quaint term, included Ted and Beebe, of course, plus Roy and Rose Davey, the quiet married couple who lived above the garage and who were part of the family. Rose was the housekeeper and cook while Roy—who had once worked on the printing presses for the Canadian Record—was cast as a grounds man, sometimes a houseman and often a handy-man and not infrequently a jack-of-all- trades.

Once a week a cleaning lady arrived to help Rose with the heavy cleaning and twice a week landscapers arrived to attend to the yards, trees, gardens, pool and other outdoor duties, overseen by Roy.

All of these people would be fed. Sandwiches would be offered, cold drinks dispensed, and coffee offered twice daily to visiting workers of any sort. The Daveys ate separately, of course, in their apartment where Beebe explained “they could enjoy their privacy” after serving and tidying up when the Grades ate at home.

Rose was an excellent cook, a reasonable baker for cakes and desserts, and kept their very large Rosedale mansion humming. They were discreet and had “been with” the family for many years, always included at family celebrations. Ardie suggested that Rose had been a “doting type” with the Grade children when they were young, hinting that she played a significant role in bringing them up.

On this particular night Rose had taken the trouble to prepare a magnificent standing-rib roast. It was—as was her custom—roasted to perfection and served with traditional accompaniments; Rose had grown up in Scotland, and preferred the homey, comforting palate of her youth to the tastes of today.

Jack joined the group as they were having drinks in the Grades’ large and comfortable library, where they usually entertained family and close friends. Fond hellos and gracious welcomes. Ardie noticed that Tom Standish was foundering a bit with Clemmy so he hollered a hello to Jack and steered him over toward Tom, who was either out of his league with Clemmy or uncertain how to behave around the boss’ daughter.

Jack was gregarious, fond of his sister, and falling in love with Leesa Mitzvah and happy to help old Tom out with wingman support. Clemmy tended to be quiet, after all, and wasn’t the easiest person when it came to small talk.

Ardie cornered Ted and began to tell him the news about The Campanile when Roy lowered the lights in the centre hallway, a signal contrived to let Mrs. Grade know she should begin urging her guests into supper.

The group was just sitting down when Roy leaned over and told Jack he was wanted on the telephone. He was briefly gone before returning and—kissing his mother and Aunt Margery and suggesting a game of squash at the club to Tom Standish—announcing he had to leave immediately; Leesa’s car wouldn’t start and it was dark outside and she couldn’t reach her parents on the telephone. Her brother was out of town.

Rose made her own horseradish sauce, and the roast was just-right pink and served with too many delicious accompaniments. The tastefully decorated and beautifully appointed room—tricked-up by Ardie—had eight French windows that overlooked a terrace leading to a well-manicured lawn and colourful garden. There was a good portrait of Beebe’s parents above the sideboard, and the breakfront displayed Great-Grandmother Grade’s sterling silver tea set. Even the guests were unique; a publisher, his formidable wife, two family members and a rising executive.

It was from this enchanting place, with its charming people and comfortable abundance, that Jack Grade bolted because Leesa Mitzvah told him that she was frightened and she didn’t have anyone else to turn to.

Briefly Legal (July 20, 2011)

Briefly Legal

The “interesting developments” that Jane referenced in relation to The Campanile—did I mention I was having shutters installed?—required a meeting at Chartwell, Bidmore & Cope. Once again we were ushered into a quiet boardroom, offered refreshments, and politely informed that “Mr Cope would be with us” shortly, a comment that made me think we were attending a séance in the hopes of communicating with the dead, and not awaiting a lawyer to arrive.

Ardie stretched and wandered over to look out the window, pointing out various city landmarks from our aerie, so many floors up. Miss Cousins was silent and Jane sat across from her, almost hidden behind a stack of file folders she unpacked from her shoulder bag.

Mr Andrew Cope, Jr., arrived and I was struck by how his wan appearance. He looked like he hadn’t seen daylight in years; pale skin, dun-coloured hair and light-coloured eyes left him with an almost unhealthy pallor. He greeted Miss Cousins first as she outranked the rest of us in age, gender, tenure as a client and wealth.

Both Ardie and Miss Cousins were smoking, using a saucer as an ashtray.

For the uninitiated, professional bad news—whether delivered by a lawyer, a judge or a doctor—is never delivered slowly. The same principle that applies to removing bandages is followed by professionals eager to drop a bomb: Do it quickly and it will all be over soon.

The long-standing property-line dispute between The Campanile and the condominium next door had been settled, and not to our advantage. We were being sued for damages and Mr Andrew Cope, Jr., advised us that settling soon might mitigate some of the damages, but we would also be on the hook for costs and other, assorted fees from lawyers, engineers, property surveyors and an architect.

The new property assessment provided by the City of Toronto indicated we were in arrears with our property taxes and a work order from City Hall demanded that we “upgrade terraces, roof-top spaces and all balconies” within a strict timeline or face penalties for failing to meet new building code requirements.

The only good news—such as it was—was in reference to the parking garage. We might be able to go another two years before extensive reparations would be required. This work would require several months to complete, and was estimated to cost several hundred thousand dollars.

The room was silent while we absorbed the news. Jane reviewed some spreadsheets and noted that we were “solvent” but that the repairs demanded by the city would deplete our cash reserves and “the small contingency fund” she had been building. (We had a contingency fund?)

She also made it clear, however, that legal damages owed to our neighbours the condo were beyond what we could afford. Anticipating this problem she silently handed out mortgage options for us to consider.

Ardie lit another cigarette and inhaled deeply, stopping only to cough.

Miss Cousins scanned the numbers, her eyes flicking past the rows of columns, before looking at Jane and raising her eyebrows in question. “How bad is it, Jane?” she asked, her voice calm. Her voice displayed no trace of just having heard bad news.

“It’s bad. We’re broke.” Jane also delivered her professional news without fanfare. We were going to take our medicine whether we wanted to or not.

Ardie insisted that we could “reason and negotiate” with the condominium board and “come to a sensible solution.” At this point the senior partner of Chartwell, Bidmore & Cope coughed discreetly—unlike the rumbling hacks Ardie had been serenading us with—and pointed out that this was not the case. The condominium board of directors wanted money, half of our front lawn, all of the side garden and expedited action. The dispute over the property line has lasted for the better part of a decade and our neighbours were in no mood to wait longer for resolution.

We had arrived separately but left together; I took the wheel of Miss Cousins’ car, who rode shotgun, while Ardie and Jane sat together in the back. Miss Cousins lit a cigarette which was interpreted by Ardie as an invitation to light one of his own. I lowered my window a crack and felt the tingle of fresh air—this was back when Toronto had lots of fresh air—slip into the cabin.

We were on Avenue Road, crossing Davenport, when Miss Cousins pointed out Jack Grade, dashing out of the Avenue Road Gourmet Shop, toting a large bag of goodies and hopping into the passenger seat of Leesa Mitzvah’s double-parked car. Leesa leaned over and gave his hair a good-natured rumple, before quickly entering traffic.

Ardie just smiled and said that the day seemed to be going from bad to worse and then asked to be let off first; he was having supper with Beebe and Ted and he didn’t want to be late. We rode home in relative quiet, the silence disturbed only by the discreet sound of the motor and the flicking of Ardie’s lighter as he tried—desperately—to light another cigarette.

Sunshine at Morning (July 19, 2011)

Sunshine at Morning

Ardie’s carpet picnic worked like a tonic and the next morning I got up and found myself down at the office. Miss Cousins was taking a few days off—which meant she was working but not downtown—and the office quietly hummed along in collegial silence. Without Miss Cousins in attendance the daily lunch ritual ended and everyone seemed to welcome the change in routine. There was more to the office than art, and Jane arrived to review some rent rolls and leave some paperwork for The Boss to sign.

Jane had changed her look and had “evolved” from Goth-Girl to Queen Street West hipster. She still wore black—and lots of it—but she now looked just a touch more mainstream. Her make-up included a lot of white powder as foundation and her overall image was creative, leading edge and a bit more grown up.

Nobody welcomed her new look in a manner heartier than Ardie. “You don’t look like a mother’s heartache anymore!” He was good natured, but it wasn’t exactly a joke. Ardie liked things to be “just so” and a Goth-inspired accountant-cum-single mother didn’t suit Ardie’s tastes. “Did you donate your old clothes to a bike courier?”

Jane laughed and rolled her eyes. “I am too old for some things now, Ardie, and my wardrobe is one of them.” Jane dropped a heavy leather shoulder bag on the floor and looked around the office, seeing who was in. Even her shoes were different: classic Dr. Martens had been replaced by offerings from John Fluevog, then the up-and-coming footwear designer taking Hip Toronto by storm.

“We need to have a meeting about The Campanile, as there have been some interesting developments,” she said, casually, handing me an envelope of cheques for Miss Cousins to sign. I wanted to ask what “interesting developments” could entail but had learned not to push Jane for details unless they were readily offered. In due course, all would be made known.

Jane’s transformation coincided with another, slower, but equally welcome change in appearance, tone and demeanour.

Sra. Cabral had quietly started to inject subtle shades of colour into her clothing, giving up the unrelieved black she had worn since her husband died. Jane wasn’t certain how long Sr. Cabral had been dead, but she was the first to notice that the good widow was now sporting dresses in dark gray and lavender. “I think she’s decided to end official mourning,” Jane noted one afternoon, “I wonder why?” she asked with an arch smile.

It turns out that an “evening romance” between Habashaka—“that sneaky DEVIL!” hollered Ardie with a laugh when he found out—and Sra. Cabral had developed at The Campanile. He was quiet and courtly and she was old-fashioned and matronly and they were both lonely and before too long a Sunday drive after church had turned into an afternoon visiting Habashka’s house north of the city. Soon suppers were being shared in the kitchen of Sra. Cabral’s homey apartment, conveniently located off of the lobby at the Campanile.

No one was more shocked—or happier, as it turns out—than Jane was when Sra. Cabral announced one week that she wouldn’t be available to look after Bethany on Friday afternoon; she was “going away for the weekend” and she wanted to get her hair done before leaving town.

Jane was a sport; she smiled, kissed Sra. Cabral on the forehead (she was so petite) and whispered “I am so happy for you, Darling” while Sra. Cabral—at her age and with her dignity—blushed and giggled.

There was an air of romance in the air then and nobody really knows if romance is a bug that is airborne or spreads through contact. Nobody really knows.