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 Martens had been replaced by offerings from John Fluevog, then the up-and-coming footwear designer taking Hip Toronto by storm.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.
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