The Adelaide Cousins Project

Social Flutterby (August 11, 2011)

2011-08-11T16:16:00.000-04:00

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)

2011-08-09T16:34:00.000-04:00

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)

2011-07-26T23:43:00.001-04:00

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)

2011-07-26T15:39:00.000-04:00

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)

2011-07-21T23:46:00.003-04:00

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)

2011-07-20T08:07:00.000-04:00

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)

2011-07-19T21:23:00.000-04:00

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.

Darkness at Daylight

2006-11-22T00:30:00.000-05:00

I know it’s been a long time but it was one hell of a week.

The fallout from Margery’s baptism was, in retrospect, nothing compared to the fury that followed the revelation that Jack Grade—JACK GRADE!—was “involved” with “that Leesa Mitzvah girl.”

I woke up one morning and padded out to the kitchen, with the view I was always boasting about, and went through the rituals of the morning. Coffee was brewed; a paper was collected, orange juice and the morning headlines completed the routine. The city had lost its green canopy and had yet to surrender to a blanket of snow so I looked out on gray trees stripped of their foliage and somber skies all painted from a dreary fall palette.

It took me a week, maybe ten days, to shake off the lethargy of that morning. A four-day trip to London for Miss Cousins gave me a way out; I stayed in for a few days and waited for the heavy sense of futility to end and hoped that it would be soon.

The problem, of course, is that you just never know when it will happen because both the beginning of depression and its miserable end follow their own mean timetable.

Jane covered for me at the office and checked in on me with feigned errands, or pretexts related to the administration of The Campanile. She was visiting the building at least twice a week now for business—plus daycare trips to Sra. Cabral—and was Toronto’s newest and most nervous driver.

With a subway system, streetcars and buses the city was well served with transit and for many people—myself included—a car was unnecessary. Jane had grown up downtown and had never owned a car or had need for one. Her growing business and reputation, however, had put paid to that particular invoice. Jane was now a true member of the commuting world and cautiously made her way about the city of Toronto endeavouring to avoid busy intersections and school zones.

She had begun to regularly extol the virtues of her shiny new hybrid vehicle (she was from the Annex, after all) and had adopted global warming, along with classic arena rock, as her latest cause. Ardie and I both waited for it to pass.

“Well, are we going to see you die of this business, Sir?” said Ardie one evening as he arrived at my front door and glanced at my disarray. I wasn’t dressed yet—it was after six—and the apartment was dark.

Ardie looked around the said nothing. His eyes swept from one place to another noting a newspaper on a chair, a teapot, cup and saucer and the TV remote control on the floor next to the sofa, the curtains drawn tightly closed. Finally turning on me I noted how it sometimes seemed as though Ardie was looking in me and not at me.

“I am not going to die, Ardie. My luck has run out,” I replied, not really looking for a laugh. “I am just waiting for the sun to come out.”

Ardie looked at me and his already deep voice dropped an octave to a conspiratorial tone. “It’s too late in the day for sunshine now, but try and believe it will be there in the morning,” he said, “and not just darkness at daylight.”

I didn’t want to go anywhere but Ardie insisted—in a fun way, actually—and before too long I had showered and dressed and agreed to join Ardie for potluck in 12B. Habashka had prepared supper and gone out for the evening so we had a carpet picnic in the living room, looking out at city lights.

The phone rang a few times and Ardie ignored it with ease, unlike most of us. The drama of “Jack and Leesa” had started to simmer and statements were being made and positions were being quietly taken.

Beebe’s family supper following Margery’s baptism was an ill-conceived affair. No one was really that eager to socialize all evening with the very same people they had just spent the afternoon with and conversation was forced. Ardie made game efforts to keep the mood light but finally gave up and joined Ted in the den to watch television.

Beebe had a liberal hand with a bottle of scotch and grew increasingly quiet throughout supper. Ted bantered with Kat (she had a good sense of humour) and everyone tried to avoid mentioning that Jack Grade was nowhere to be seen.

He arrived late and, according to Ardie, in something of a foul humour. He arrived as supper was almost finished to warm hellos from Margery, Kat and Suky and a glance of warning from his father. Beebe invited him to “help himself” and not too worry about being late.

The silence, said Ardie, was loud.

Jack explained that he wasn’t one bit late. Having already had supper—with “that Leesa Mitzvah girl”—he was just stopping by for coffee on his way home. Why, he could not have possibly come for supper when he had already made plans to dine with Leesa. They had, it turns out, had supper downtown and he had just returned her home.

“We’ve been seeing a lot of one another; she’s a fun girl,” he said. If it was a challenge it did not go unnoticed by anyone, particularly Beebe. Ardie always said that his sister knew that the real success was not in the picking of battles, but the timing of battles.

For a moment it seemed as though her tight smile would crease into an actual grin but it remained fixed in place, her gaze fixed on Jack across the table. Ted cleared his throat and suggested that “the two of you should have had supper with us” and Beebe’s eyes flickered but still she said nothing.

“Don’t forget to say ‘thank-you’ to Aunt Margery, Jack,” said Beebe, standing up from the table, “because she’s going to have a mass said for each of us.” Beebe smiled at Margery fondly to indicate her pleasure.

Ardie told me that when Beebe came out with that line he “damn well knew” that Beebe was going to teach Jack a thing or two about timing.

“Who knows? Maybe she can arrange an Indulgence, too,” she said, her eyes still bright and her smile still fixed. “Who really knows?”

Saint Vitus' Dance

2006-11-13T13:00:00.000-05:00

Torontonians can embrace the first flush of the cold weather season with some joy as it provides a golden opportunity to parade new outerwear, or smashing purchases from seasons past. The supposed societal injunction against fur coats, for example, was observed more in the breech here and on the cold Sunday after Remembrance Day, 2006, when Margery Beebe Temple was baptized at the Church of Saint Vitus a few well-cut coats, wraps, jackets, and trims were on display.

Ardie drove us over to the church in order for us to “get a good pew” and save a spot for Beebe and Ted who, Ardie said, were “much more open-minded” than I realized.

Not “open-minded” enough to be in a mood that could be described as celebratory, but happy in their own way for Margery. Faith, Ardie believed, was a personal matter and to each their own.

“Do you go to church, Ardie?” I asked, suspecting a no in response.

Ardie coughed a wet laugh and with the deep rumble in his chest said that his membership application had been blackballed.

The church itself was actually a handsome affair that was restrained and without any of the tacky elements that often announce religious buildings; lit-up signs, illuminated crosses, weeping statuary cheaply rendered and other totems were nowhere to be seen. St Vitus’ was something of a gem of a church, with an altar bathed in natural light projected through the jewel tones of stained glass windows.

“It’s pretty enough, which might distract my sister from the show up front,” said Ardie.

Kat and Suky—with a few friends of Margery’s—motioned us over and we joined a growing party. Ted and Beebe Grade arrived soon after and settled in to the right of Ardie. Ted leaned over to shake my hand with the hale greeting he offered everyone. Beebe snapped a hello as she slipped her wrap off of her shoulders.

She was wearing a charcoal suit—well cut—with a black cashmere shawl thickly trimmed in black mink. Her handbag and shoes looked to be alligator, and she had on pearls and a wedding ring.

Beebe was so stick-thin and angular that I wondered if she didn’t always feel cold. She patted Ardie on the knee and said that she had called Margery that morning to “congratulate her” and learned that there had been, sadly, a last minute change to the august guest list.

The Cardinal had, most regrettably, been called to an urgent matter and had personally called Father Greg with the news. Beebe pointed out that there were still an archbishop, a monsignor, a few local politicians—an election was looming and Margery had been known to support political causes—and a number of notables from her circle of friends and acquaintances.

“That makes it one ‘Excellency’ and two ‘Right Honourables’ if I am not missing anyone,” whispered Beebe in a good natured fashion to Ardie before pointing out that she might have spied an ‘Honour’ and possibly a former ‘Worship’ in what she called “the audience.”

The tea party afterward in the church basement was the finest event ever hosted at the church. Leveraging her ability to afford what she wanted ensured that Mrs Temple had the best post-baptism brunch ever catered at St Vitus’ parish hall. No alcohol, of course, but Ardie had already suggested that we have a drink after the service.

Margery looked happy and was a gracious hostess, or as much as anyone can be a “gracious hostess” in a church basement. Father Greg tended his flock while Margery tended her guests and Ardie made wisecracks. Beebe and Ted looked uncomfortable, and stayed for a decent amount of time to support Margery.

“I could tell you a thing or two about a few people here,” he said to me, in as sotto voce a manner as he was capable of producing. “You just never know where you are going to run into some people,” he laughed while reaching out to accept an offered hand, or kiss a dowager on the cheek.

Beebe said hello to a few people and I noticed that of six women who greeted her all but one bent forward to kiss her cheek. On not one occasion did she, however, make a move to return the kiss.

Arriving late to the ceremony saved Jack Grade and Leesa Mitzvah the ordeal of being the centre of attention as they entered St Vitus’ and searched for a place in the congregation. Beebe, therefore, did not duly note their arrival until the assemblage moved to the hall for Margery’s reception.

Jack congratulated his aunt, kissed his cousins, and introduced Leesa—fond hellos and gracious welcomes—before finding his parents and re-introducing Leesa to them.

Beebe extended her hand and Leesa duly shook it, receiving little effort in return. Her eyes—which tended to be bright and rather wet looking—narrowed briefly before her crisp smile returned. Her hair was the colour of prairie wheat and it was, as usual, brushed back and sprayed into place. Like all stylish ladies her hairstyle never changed; severe and unchanging she wore the same well-groomed style for many years.

She ignored Leesa conversationally and immediately began to talk about family matters including a planned supper that evening “for Margery and the family.”

Miss Cousins wasn’t there, but I saw her afterward at the office. I had some work to complete for the upcoming gallery show and I showed up in the afternoon and found her in her studio painting.

She wasn’t part of Margery’s circle—which latterly had been horses and station wagons in King City—but did ask who was there. I borrowed Beebe’s line and recounted the few honorifics I could recall plus any names that Ardie had introduced me to at the luncheon.

Of course, Miss Cousins smoked while she painted. She put the brush down frequently to take up her torch and the air was pretty thick for a Sunday afternoon. I busied myself at my desk—recently moved to a better location with a view—while she remained in the studio. I heard music playing, always a sign she was working, and we went about our business all afternoon without intruding on one another.

Toward the end of the day Miss Cousins asked me if I had plans for supper; I did have a tentative plan to meet Ardie for a drink but readily accepted an offer of joining Miss C for a fast bite at the end of the day.

We had supper at Seniors, near Yonge and St Clair, a long-established steakhouse in the midtown neighbourhood well known to local residents. Miss Cousins was feeling reflective and greeted the owners in a friendly fashion.

“Yonge and St Clair has lost some of its carriage trade appeal,” said Miss Cousins, sipping a gin martini. “Ely’s, Cameron Jeffries, Ira Berg—all of the good old retailers are gone now. Only Harry Young Shoes is left.”

There was a time when Yonge and St Clair could claim a title as a distinguished part of the city. It was still a major destination for residential living, of course, but the neighbourhood feel was gone. Two movie theatres offering four screens were gone, as were the liquor store—a dreadful loss—and most of the higher end fashion retailers displaced due to bankruptcy or declining business.

Large condominium developments, however, had sprung up around the neighbourhood and Ardie—for one—believed that this augured well for future retail and service offerings. Miss Cousins disagreed.

“The glory days of Yonge and St Clair are over now, and no hope of restoration is possible,” she said.

People, you see, are dangerously fickle.

Bread and Wine

2006-11-09T15:13:00.000-05:00

Margery Temple had embraced the Catholic faith with a warm heart and without any worrisome second thoughts. She was already involved in the administration of the church—she helped out with the post-funeral lunches and tea parties—and she had made an impressive donation to the fund to repair the roof. She had also placed a small notice in the bulletin of St Vitus’ inviting the “community of faith” to join in a celebration of her baptism two Sundays hence.

Landing Margery Beebe Temple as a new congregant was a feat that had not gone unnoticed at the splendid offices of the Archdiocese. Mrs Temple was wealthy, widowed, recently converted, eager and desperate to make a difference. She was also something of an innocent and she reacted with real joy when she learned that the Cardinal and an archbishop would attend her baptism at St Vitus.

Beebe, however, was not at all surprised.

“The handouts start now, Ardie, just watch. Margery is such an easy mark. Honestly, they must see her coming. Before too long she’ll have built a cathedral,” she said. Ardie and Beebe were having lunch together and had already gone through half a bottle of red wine and there was no guarantee that a second bottle would not soon grace the table.

Ardie laughed and cautioned Beebe to “go easy” on Margery. “You’ll only encourage her to dig her heels in, Beebe, so be careful,” he said. He looked at her over his wine glass and took a long satisfying draught.

“They mean business if they are sending a bloody cardinal to the baptism. They don’t land people like Margery every day,” said Beebe, pushing at her salad with a fork. Ardie noticed that Beebe didn’t eat all that much but merely picked at her food. She didn’t give up the drinks, however, and leaned over to pour more wine into her glass.

Margery had recently taken an apartment at Granite Place and was looking forward to rekindling some friendships and getting reacquainted with the city. She was spending less time at her farm in King City and was establishing some new friendships among the parishioners at St Vitus.

Margery planned to invite her family to an intimate supper on the day of her baptism—Father Greg was also going to be in attendance—and both Kat and Suky were helping plan the occasion. Margery planned to wear a demure navy suit and a new gold and diamond crucifix on a simple chain around her neck. Flushed with the joy of her conversion she was hoping that both Ardie and Beebe would, after spending some time with dear Father Greg, consider following in her footsteps and joining the church.

She had tried to broach the subject with Ardie but to no avail. He stopped by 7A one night—Negroni in hand—and told me about Margery’s clumsy attempts at religious conversion.

“Margery is recruiting altar boys and her first target is me,” he intoned in his deep voice, “but I told her that I found a new place to worship a long time ago and never went in for team sports in the first place,” he laughed, taking another sip of his drink. Seeing it was nearly empty I went to the kitchen to look for some vodka, came up empty and returned with a chilled bottle of Tanqueray. Ardie smiled and poured himself a shot.

I had been kept hopping at work because there was an upcoming gallery exhibit of the Beijing Series of photographs, plus some older works from her food series. The catalogue was printed—full of errors—and Miss Cousins was in a dark mood most days. Fortunately the errors were not my fault (I was better than that, thank you very much!) and it was the printer who received a harassing phone call from The Boss.

The gallery showing was a combination of social event and business networking opportunity and there was a great deal of administration to take care of. Miss Cousins closely followed politics and was delighted to watch the Republican “thumping” in the United States. She was faxing some of her conservative friends with the poll results and—between cigarettes and coffee—discussing a new series of paintings that would feature the Democratic donkey and the Republican elephant, with the donkey triumphant.

There was, you see, an element of humour in some of her art.

Jane called and invited herself and Bethany to my house for supper; Bethany was now spending some afternoons with Sra. Cabral at The Campanile so Jane would be at the building after work to collect her. It goes without saying that “Uncle Ardie” would be included and somehow the party shifted from 7A down to Sra. Cabral’s lobby-side apartment and ultimately up to 12B and a repast prepared by Habashka.

Habashka and Sra. Cabral had formed a unique bond and, united in a mutual love of the domestic arts, were the new odd-couple in Midtown.

It was at this impromptu after-work mid-week supper that Ardie invited me to go to church with him on Sunday and “watch the fun” as Margery became a Roman Catholic. “You won’t want to miss this, Chum, because the roof might fall in when Beebe enters the church,” he laughed, finishing with a wet cough. He took another pull on his torch (right in the kitchen!) and reached for a bottle of red wine. In the living room Bethany was absorbed in television and Jane and Sra. Cabral were chatting quietly. Habashka bustled and Ardie reached over and stroked my cheek.

He looked at me with his piercing eyes, smiled, and said nothing.

I realized then that Ardie had already figured everything out. What use would words be?

The Most Imporant Meal of the Day

2006-11-07T15:07:00.000-05:00

The habits of a lifetime are hard to break regardless of how long your life has been. I never developed a love for eating breakfast chiefly because it meant getting out of bed earlier than I liked. At most I would grab a muffin or a toasted bagel at a coffee shop or on rare occasions I would manage to put a bowl of cereal together. I was adept at making coffee, however, and always started my day with a few cups of freshly brewed coffee to jolt myself into action.

On days when I was driving Miss Cousins to work I could—most of the time—expect something from her kitchen to fall my way. Lourdes was now working for Miss Cousins with greater regularity since The Secretary died and seemed intent on feeding me. I would loiter in the kitchen while Miss Cousins rushed to get ready and there was always something for morning nosh at her place. (My favourite was cinnamon toast, which I had been known to request.)

Miss Cousins did not eat breakfast in the normally accepted sense of the term unless, of course, coffee and orange juice with a chaser of cigarettes counted as breakfast. Lunch was her first meal of the day, a sacrosanct time where work at the office stopped and the studio emptied and conversation ranged from mild to wild and from serious to gossip.

Beebe had breakfast every morning without fail and always from a strict menu designed to guard against weight gain and sloth. Coffee with skim milk—which was horrid—orange juice and fruit. Beebe did not eat much until supper; even lunch was a scant affair consisting of cottage cheese (if she was at home) or a salad or, say, an omelet if she happened to be out. Ted ate a large breakfast every day that he enjoyed in the kitchen while reading (his) daily newspaper. Ted would read each section of the paper in turn, noting certain features for subsequent follow-up, and making a quick count of all the advertisers appearing that day. He was, after all, concerned about the bottom line of The Canadian Record.

In a rare show of corporate pride Beebe also read the paper carefully and circled errors in spelling, grammar or syntax. She also decided if certain items were “unfit” and paid close attention to any typographical errors that escaped the copy desk. Her “edited” copy would then be sent down to “the main office” where an editor would make note of her corrections. Large errors—which in truth were rare—would warrant a telephone call. Mrs Grade’s calls were never ignored; she did, after all, own the newspaper.

Harry and Esther Steinberg ate breakfast together in their dining room each morning from a varied menu prepared each day by their housekeeper. Esther watched her diet—Ardie chided her about that—so she was usually avoiding carbohydrates, sugar, butter and cream and stuck to one English muffin with low-cal jam, coffee with milk. Harry ate whatever was put in front of him without complaint.

Did I tell you that Ardie had a houseman?

Habashka was originally from Burma and had been in Ardie’s employ for many years. His role was often nebulous; Ardie’s frequent absences from the city made a full-time houseman something of white elephant (no insult to Habashka intended) so he had also worked at the showroom or in the antique shop.

Habashka’s chief occupation these days was keeping Ardie’s home running like a perfectly timed machine. Ardie didn’t wake early and started his day with coffee, breakfast and the newspapers of the day plus his telephone and daily calendar. Habashka seemed to be a jack-of-all-trades and a master of most of them. He could cook like a trained chef—which in fact he was—and he ran 12B like an army camp. He arranged for and fluffed the flowers, dealt with domestic issues, looked after Ardie’s errands and household tasks and was, in reality, indispensable. He had a suite in 12B but he also had a small house north of the city where he repaired each weekend. His usual attire was a pair of black trousers with a white or navy blue jacket. He always wore a tie and he had a smart collection of aprons to protect his tailored uniforms from dirt and stains. Habashka didn’t say much but when he did his voice was distinct and somewhat inflected with a faint British accent.

It goes without saying that it was Habashka, and not Ardie, who put breakfast together in 12B. He also did the shopping, looked after the domestic establishment and supervised the many social events that Ardie hosted. Habashka was the only person I ever heard call Ardie by his last name—Mr Beebe—and not by his first name only.

“I tell everyone to call me Ardie because Ardwold sounds stuck-up and the world really doesn’t need another Mr Beebe,” said Ardie, upon making a new introduction. His handshake was firm and his eyes were bright and his smile—capped teeth—was wide and suggested fun was forthcoming.

Jane started her day with breakfast chiefly because of Bethany; children can’t be sent to school on an empty stomach and Jane routinely churned out full cooked breakfasts featuring all the goodies from your favourite brunch menu: blueberry pancakes filled with cream cheese (surprisingly delicious, actually) or scrambled eggs with bacon and home-fried potatoes. Jane was the only Goth-inspired Mother in the city to my knowledge who shopped at Whole Foods and regularly purchased organic groceries. (Ardie laughed at this caprice, convinced that organic foods were a scam.)

Candis Mitzvah always ate breakfast and rarely missed any other meal, frankly. She was a “big girl” who didn’t worry outwardly about her weight. It was, she explained, much easier to buy new clothes than slim down to fit an existing wardrobe.

Jack Grade was a new convert to breakfast, the introduction being made by none other than Miss Leesa Mitzvah. Coffee and toast had been replaced with bagels and cream cheese, Tropicana Orange Juice (no pulp), Kona blend coffee and real cream. Scrambled eggs benefited from the addition of either salami (delicious; try it some time) or finely diced and quickly fried onions. Leesa—she was sleeping over now—would prepare breakfast wearing one of Jack’s shirts or perhaps a tee shirt from his closet. Jack—all rumpled hair and morning grumpy—would see his face dissolve into a smile as he heard Leesa quietly bustling about his kitchen.

Leesa had begun to exert more influence over Our Boy Jack. She had re-arranged his kitchen to improve the counter and cupboard space, helped him clean out his closet and had a quiet word with the two hired maids—sent by a service each week—thereby vastly improving the domestic scene at home. Jack was happy and unconcerned; if it made her happy to be a housekeeping goddess he wasn’t going to spoil her fun. Besides, he was prone to be untidy and already he could find things easier in the kitchen.

Leesa had also “suggested” to Jack that he worked too hard and didn’t have enough fun. Soon enough Jack was leaving work by 6:30 or 7:00PM each evening, entertaining friends at home from time to time—Leesa was a perfect hostess, naturally—and enjoying quiet nights at home watching a movie while snuggling on the sofa with Leesa.

Jack was also becoming slowly aware that his friendship with Leesa was starting to take on more importance in his life. Where, he wondered, would it all end up?

Sisters

2006-11-06T12:15:00.000-05:00

Esther and Candis grew up in the loving embrace of their doting parents in the vibrant and culturally rich Jewish community of Toronto in the 1950s and 1960s. In those days the city had not yet acquired its accidental designation as Canada’s premiere city and took a clear and noteworthy second place to Montreal, then the shining star in the northern firmament of urban centres.

Montreal was the hometown of their late mother; Mrs Starr had met and married their father and moved with him back to Toronto. Mr Starr—his name was Samuel—was a young man with big dreams and he invested his savings (augmented by a family loan) and launched himself as a fledgling builder and devoted his not inconsiderable energies to the creation of family neighbourhoods in the north end of the city. Specifically, Sam Starr was the driving force behind a popular northern neighbourhood called Bathurst Manor.

As time went on the neighbourhood grew and Sam prospered; he and Estelle moved from Lippincott Street to a tidy bungalow right in Bathurst Manor, near the intersection of Sheppard and Bathurst. Visitors today don’t believe it, but at the time the intersection was desolate and without the hustle and bustle that characterizes the busy area now. The new house had an eat-in kitchen with a built-in dishwasher, a separate dining room with a glittering chandelier and a lovely “front room” that Estelle reserved for company and special occasions. The family would gather Friday night for supper in the dining room —the Starr family held to a Friday night routine—and would spend cozy Sunday nights en famille in their finished basement recreation room to eat Chinese food off of glass plates (to preserve their kosher kitchen) and watch the Wonderful World of Disney on TV.

Soon it was time to move again and Sam built a lovely new home for his family on a quiet street in the best possible blocks of Bathurst Manor. In a moment of pride he named one street of his development “Candis” after his daughter. This presented a problem; “Esther Boulevard” or some other derivative did not exist. Instead his elder daughter was given the privilege of naming another street adjacent to their new home; both parents silently hoping she would not actually name a street “Esther.” Thus it came to be that Esther Starr came up with the name “Blue Forest Drive” after a poem she had written in English class.

Sam turned his eye toward condominiums and subsequently built a number of successful properties across the suburbs of the sprawling city Toronto was growing into. Shopping malls—cheap to build in those days—were erected on unwanted land and great big tracts of land were turned into covered parking to protect happy shoppers from the vagaries of Canadian weather.

Sam and Estelle moved to North Toronto and then finally ended up in a rambling 1960s confection north of Eglinton Avenue, just west of Bathurst Street. When they first moved into their new home visitors were struck by its attention to detail. The consummate builder had erected a showplace of ultra-mod sleek design supported by a hasty collection of modern art, circa 1966. The exact details are now long lost to legend, but Sam and Estelle Starr owned the very first original Warhol in Toronto and it took pride of place in their rarely used living room outfitted with scan-design furniture and funky bric-a-brac. Nubby wallpapers and shaggy carpets co-existed with chunky artwork of vaguely African themes.

Estelle Starr initially missed Montreal with its pulse and myriad opportunities, but ultimately settled in and took to life in Toronto; she was married to a doting and slightly older man who adored her, and that helped. Estelle also recognized that Toronto was a much different community from boisterous and exciting Montreal. It was a far quieter but more determined place. The pace was fast—which visitors always remark on even today—and the people were politely reserved. The city shut down on Sundays (most forms of commercial commerce being illegal on Sunday in those days) and projected a solid middle-class air of WASPy respectability. The Santa Claus Parade was an institution and the society event to of the year was an agricultural show replete with cows and pigs. (On some enchanted occasions a junior member of the Royal Family would be dispatched to attend the Royal Winter Fair leaving local hostesses breathless and giddy.)

Esther and Candis attended public schools and graduated from high school with respectable but not outstanding grades. Parental expectations were limited; both were taught to be good hostesses and marry suitable young men.

The Misses Beebe had a completely different upbringing, defined by the mores of the time and the social constraints they were born into. The family home was on Ardwold Gate (you already know that) and both sisters were educated in Toronto before a couple of years in Switzerland to provide a gentle touch of polish and sophistication. Vesta—you know her as Beebe—left first and Margery followed a few years later when she was old enough to be away from home.

Beebe loved school and her academic excellence was a source of pride to her parents. Ardie Junior was no prize student, often in trouble, and more than a casual truant. Unrepentant and ungovernable for most of his youth his education was a patchwork of different schools, new communities and stark boarding school dormitories. He graduated—barely—from a cram school before embarking on travel and some courses in design in New York.

Margery was quiet, did not socialize as much as her elder sister, and plugged away with solid determination to do her very best. She caused few problems and genuinely missed her parents while she was away at school. She did not enjoy boarding school, but took pleasure in small weekend trips arranged by the headmistress for the girls under her suzerainty. Margery—bookish and quiet—toured museums and galleries and dutifully snapped pictures of cathedrals and castles to send home to her mother in her weekly letters.

Old Ardwold Beebe was greatly disappointed by his son—Ardie was a flop in his opinion—and soon transferred his dynastic aspirations onto his eldest child. Beebe was smart, shrewd and blessed with an intuition she knew to trust. Ardie was too much of a good-time boy to be trusted with business matters and after numerous yelling matches and dire threats of being cut off forever—an empty threat because Ardie was a Momma’s boy and Momma always came to his defense—Ardie was given permission to do whatever he damn well wanted, provided he didn’t cause trouble.

Like all parental strategems this failed; Ardie always seemed to cause some trouble.

Tricks or Treats

2006-10-31T15:40:00.000-05:00

Jack and Leesa started to spend more time together and I even saw them once at a Starbucks near Yonge and St Clair. To me it looked as though they didn’t have a care in the world.

There were a few cares, however, that were starting to encroach upon their blossoming friendship.

Sure, the daily grind of their friendship was without too many problems. Jack fell into the habit of sending an email to Leesa who fell into the habit sending cute replies. Soon enough Our Boy Jackie was sending humorous instant messages; Leesa would reply with a few words.

Before too long it became easier to talk on the phone. With the immediacy of telephony they were able to make plans one evening for a quick bite after work, say, or perhaps some shopping a deux at Whole Foods for the prepared foods that Jack filled his refrigerator with weekly.

Jack asked Leesa to help him pick up sheets—Jack is colour blind—and the date was dutifully made for Saturday afternoon.

There was more than a little bit of cloak and dagger activity taking place between the two of them. Leesa would leave work without mentioning plans for the evening and was suitably vague most Monday mornings about her weekend activities.

Jack was keeping his parents—mainly Beebe, let’s be honest—out of the plot completely. Suky Temple had called and suggested lunch next week and he had agreed before realizing that she was no doubt in the services of her mother. Aunt Margery would be sifting for information to report back to Beebe.

Ardie, of course, found the whole “friendship” rather amusing. “I wonder if they are doing it yet?” he asked one day while helping me place some tchochkes in 7A. “It’s been a few weeks now and they are starting to spend a lot of time together.”

The drama surrounding “Jack and Leesa” wasn’t all that interesting to me; no one expected such a fun flirtation to last.

Miss Cousins, on the contrary, had a field day with Ardie and refused to relent when she discovered that he was somewhat worried about the response Beebe would offer to the news that her son was “involved with that Leesa Mitzvah.”

“She’s very pretty, Ardie, you have to give her that,” said Miss Cousins, at a meeting to sign documents related to The Campanile. “And her interest in art! Such a cultivated girl.” She observed Ardie through bright eyes while flicking ash from her cigarette.

It was part of Ardie’s natural charm that he seemed unflappable about most things.

“Right now Leesa is only cultivating one particular interest: my nephew, Jack,” said Ardie.

With the completion of my move to 7A the week before I was now seeing Ardie regularly when he arrived at The Campanile to oversee the final decorating touches on 12B. The project took an unexpected turn when it was revealed that the cost of knocking out some walls was prohibitive. Due to the historical nature of the building no demolition could take place without getting city hall involved. Ardie “got wise” and decided to “make do” with 12B as much as possible and forgo knocking out certain walls and pulling up most of the flooring. The final results were still going to spectacular.

No one knew what Irving and Candis Mitzvah thought about their daughter spending time with Jack Grade. Miss Cousins imagined that they “couldn’t care less” but Jane demurred; “they are pretending that if they ignore the situation it will just go away,” she said.

Jane had been very active with the building. She had arranged for Sra. Cabral to assume duties as the superintendent of The Campanile ensuring once and for all that the building would have a personal touch to its administration. Sra. Cabral moved into the apartment off of the lobby and soon was as venerable an institution on Avenue Road as was the fine old building she oversaw.

I decided to walk home from work one evening and enjoyed the stroll in the fall weather. The city was putting on its autumn plumage and the trip was rather pretty. Store windows with new merchandise and everyone sporting fall outfits. I was making my way up Avenue Road when I happened to see Leesa Mitzvah turning her Audi convertible into the Rathnelly district.

Jack Grade, you might remember, was a citizen in good standing in the Republic of Rathnelly.

She parked on the street and began to unload a number of bags from her car filled with goodies to hand out on Halloween. In moments Jack Grade sprinted across the street from his house and began to help her; he was good that way.

I watched as he bent to give her a kiss and watched—gawked, really—as she reached up to rumple his hair.

This was “no mere friendship” I later told Jane when she stopped by with Bethany to “trick or treat” at my apartment, followed by a quick stop at “Uncle Ardie’s” up in 12B, and a longer more family visit with Sra. Cabral who had made a princess costume for Bethany.

"We're going to have a front-row seat for this performance, Kiddo, so enjoy the run while it lasts," she said, "because the truth is that everyone loves a June wedding."

Fall on Your Knees

2006-10-25T09:59:00.000-04:00

Margery Temple had experienced something of an emotional catharsis after the death of her late husband caused, in part, by a dull lack of focus in her otherwise busy life. Consuming herself with her horse farm and her children for most of her life kept her occupied and involved. When she was suddenly widowed she found herself drifting and alone, rudderless and without a reason to get up in the morning. Kat and Suky were both busy with their own lives and it wasn’t long before Margery decided to look for a pied-a-terre in the city. She planned on rekindling some old connections with her girlfriends while getting “out and about to really enjoy the city.”

In her loneliness she turned to the one true source of comfort that can always be found in times of need.

Religion—as opposed to alcohol—gave Margery a new, upbeat tempo to her life and put a bounce back in her step. In due course it was time to announce her new joy to the family. Her own children encouraged a “spiritual journey” and were happy to learn that their mother wouldn’t have so much time on her hands. Suky was particularly encouraging and suggested that her mother explore other, more esoteric faiths.

Beebe and Ardie, however, were a different matter.

Ardie, of course, wasn’t overtly concerned about the new and exciting religious odyssey that Margery was contemplating; he was more interested in where she intended to live in the city, and if she intended to keep the farm in King City.

Beebe was happy enough to know that her sister was “interested in church” but shocked and dismayed to discover that Margery had been receiving instruction at The Church of Saint Vitus, a Roman Catholic institution, for several months and—even more horrible to consider—was planning a baptism for herself.

“Father Greg says that it is so much more welcoming if a number of people are baptized at one time,” reported Margery, “and I thought I would have a reception for everyone who attends the ceremony afterward. I’ll invite everyone who is baptized that day along with their families,” she said, firmly.

“Who, I wonder, is Father Greg?” asked Beebe, her bright eyes staring Margery down.

“Father Greg is my confessor and the new rector at St. Vitus,” mumbled Margery, unwilling to engage in a pitched discussion with her sister.

“St Vitus? Isn’t that a Catholic church?” asked Beebe, knowing full well that St Vitus was a large brick edifice that catered to the few Roman Catholics who called Rosedale home. Beebe reached for her purse and rummaged for a small bottle of Tylenol.

Ardie realized that religious conversion was not a popular topic of discussion and it didn’t look like Margery was going to back down. With battle lines being drawn right in front of him he decided to skip the war and move to the peace talks without even a quick stop at détente. He lit another cigarette and looked for a way to change the topic of conversation.

Poor old Margery, he thought, always looking for some sunshine outside of the family shadows. Beebe really did give her such a hard time about things and it wasn’t fair; she was so defenseless against her sister.

“Sounds wonderful, Margo, and a party is great idea. You can have your little reception at my apartment,” Ardie offered, his voice raspy from the night before. “Anything for my sister!” He winked at her in solidarity. She smiled back, grateful for an ally.

Beebe’s eyes narrowed but she said nothing. Margery could be a very determined girl if she was pushed at the wrong time and Beebe was convinced that she could “knock some sense into her" if she spoke to Margery when Ardie wasn’t around to interfere. For the time she would say nothing. Clearly it was time to take Margo under a protective wing before she made a fool of herself in public.

Beebe believed that everyone should belong to a church, of course, with the Anglican Church as the first among all churches. Subsequent rungs on her ladder of belief were reserved for the other mainstream protestant religions, with a bottom run crowded with Jews, Hindus, Muslims and Catholics.

Reconsidering briefly how own prejudices gave Beebe a momentary pause; she supposed that even Catholics deserved their own pious and Christian rung.

Beebe’s form of religious observation involved attending church on Sunday morning when she was in the city, but not while at the cottage or on holiday. She made donations to the church, of course, and leveraged the family foundation to support a number of private schools in Toronto and Bermuda. These were solid institutions that offered the comfort of allowing the generous to direct the use of their financial gifts. It would not happen in her lifetime, however, that The Ardwold and Martha Beebe Foundation would donate money that would end up in Rome! The Vatican wasn’t going to be receiving a cheque signed by Beebe Grade anytime soon.

Beebe suggested that “a lovely reception in the church basement” would be more in keeping with the tone of the event, and would have the added benefit of ensuring that everyone could attend without having to park twice. “Cater it” was good advice and Margery determined then and there speak to Father Greg about placing a small notice in the church bulletin; the entire congregation of her new church would be invited to celebrate her baptism as one “community of faith.”

Beebe got up to make another round. Community of faith indeed! She had never met a cleric who wasn’t looking for a handout and Catholic priests were the worst of the lot.

She dropped three ice cubes into her low-ball glass and heard the satisfying noise they made as they swirled in the scotch. “That sound is the bells of St Beebe, Margery, and it is the happiest sound in the world,” she cackled, focusing her bright unblinking eyes at her sister. “And today you are the one who has made them ring. Believe me.”

She poured in a tight measure of soda water and stirred her drink with her finger.

Clearing by Morning

2006-10-23T00:28:00.000-04:00

Jack Grade made a bashful confession to Leesa Mitzvah over a drink at the lobby bar of The Fours Seasons hotel while staring into her hazel eyes and watching her mouth turn into a very pretty smile. He had to find—and subsequently quickly hang—one of his Adelaides before picking her up for “their date.”

“Well don’t tell me which one; I’ll try and guess when I see them,” she replied, holding but not sipping her almost untouched vodka and tonic. She wasn’t much of a drinker and to look at her she wasn’t much of an eater, either. With the exception of special occasions alcohol was not in common use in the Mitzvah household.

Leesa was five feet and three inches tall and she was 105 pounds after eating, something she did with a practiced eye to protecting her weight. She wore tailored slacks—chiefly because she knew she had a good backside—and tonight had slipped on shoes with a good heel before going out when she remembered how tall Jack was.

The dining room upstairs was intimate and, to be honest, rather conducive to intimate conversation and, it must be admitted, even a certain amount of romantic imagination. Leesa had been curious to go out with to Jack Grade and was enjoying the occasion, but she had not expected to find him both witty and fun but rather, well, charming in a way.

The plan was to complete the night with coffee and something sweet while inspecting the Jack Grade Collection at his place in “The Republic of Rathnelly.” How she laughed when Jack told her that story! Oh, he could tell a joke and she knew how to listen to one so they were a perfect match in that regard.

Sometime during decaf cappuccinos and dessert (Leesa urged Jack to finish her dessert, which he did) the conversation softened and voices were lowered. Jack talked about work, his plans for their “family newspaper” and the demands of the family business. She listened and made polite murmurs, noting his blue eyes and sandy hair.

He really was good looking, in that way WASPs can be. Tall and well formed, with vaguely athletic looks and great big mouths full of perfect white teeth. Lots of fine lines around the eyes later on, of course, but usually a good hairline. Leesa smiled at him; she listened to every word.

Jack thought he had finally—finally!—met a girl who was interested in his work and not in who he was. In his eyes Leesa became blessed with all the virtues the modern world admires. She was beautiful, kind, empathetic and caring.

Did I mention that she wasn’t hard to look at?

She had admired his two “wonderful” works from Miss Cousins, laughingly noting that one was actually a photograph and thus correctly guessing which one had been feverishly put on the wall that very afternoon. It was from a series of photographs taken in Beijing in 1999. Miss Cousins had taken a number of images, but only ever published four. This one was called “Temple of Heaven” and it was an image of beauty, if you liked black and white photography.

“I love black and white photography,” said Leesa.

Jack smiled and settled comfortably into his leather sofa, allowing himself the luxury of relaxing even more. Besides, he was rather full after eating so much dessert. He would definitely be going to the club first thing in the morning and working it off but right now he didn’t care.

Leesa was involved with raising money for the hospital and had personally created a program to provide teddy bears to any patient under the age of 16. Why, the program had been such an unexpected success that she and her committee were invited for tea next week as a thank you and she was thrilled.

She wasn’t like any other girl he had ever dated, he thought, as he silently added kind and modest to her ongoing list of charms. Most of the girls he dated were from backgrounds similar to his, but with less cash. Once or twice a friend of Clemmy’s had caught his eye, but he had never dated anyone too seriously from that crowd. He met a lot of women through his work, naturally, but he found career women not to his taste chiefly because they had career demands of their own.

He attended enough work-related events on his own, thank you very much, and he wasn’t interested in trailing along to some corporate event with a girlfriend who practiced law.

Overcast Skies

2006-10-19T16:00:00.000-04:00

Among the universal events recognized as difficult to endure, the nervous “first date” transcends culture, geography, epoch and sexual orientation. We all know that the truth is somewhat grim when it comes to first dates. Even for couples that start off as friends and grow into love there is still a moment when a “first date” occurs. In reality there is no such thing as a great first date because nerves and anticipation are common to us all.

Jack Grade picked up the telephone and called Leesa Mitzvah one rainy morning and asked her out on a date. In a confident manner he reminded her about their conversation at Ardie’s and their mutual admiration of Miss Adelaide Cousins and her artistic output and then he asked her to join him for supper on Friday night. After a truly delicious meal at a truly remarkable restaurant—a quiet bistro known to local foodies—he would be thrilled to offer coffee and dessert at home and reveal his Adelaides in glorious, personal detail.

Leesa only increased his ardor and determination when she politely declined his invitation because she didn’t like to miss Friday night supper with her family. Jack was wounded but by no means off the battlefield. A born charmer he counter offered a Saturday night date with a movie tossed in for good measure; she accepted the supper but thought a movie would be too much on top of the dessert and art expo already planned.

Jack spent the rest of the afternoon in a happy state of mind that was improved when he received a text message from Leesa with her cell phone number; she didn’t think he had it. She was nobody’s fool.

The news of this impending rendezvous quietly became known as one person and then another learned of it. Jack Grade called the office to ask a question about the provenance of one of his paintings and during the call admitted that he had to know by Saturday night; he was entertaining.

I followed up with Miss Cousins directly who immediately suspected that Jack was about to sell a painting and wanted to know who was “in the market” for some of her works. I was instructed to place a call to Jack and connect him—pronto—to Miss Cousins.

The conversation itself was as pleasant as a weekend away. Naturally interested in discussing art at any time it was only natural that Miss Cousins would call Jack personally to discuss the particulars of his art. She had an almost photographic memory when it came to her artistic efforts and Miss Cousins could answer any questions he had.

Jack confessed that he had invited Leesa Mitzvah to view his small art collection but was—how embarrassing to admit to Adelaide Cousins—vaguely ignorant of the history and story of his paintings; anything for art.

Adelaide Cousins was happy to tell him everything.

Jack was learning about art while Ardie and Beebe were supervising the now frantic remodeling taking place at 12B. With the workmen gone it was an empty apartment that they wandered through discussing the placement of furniture—with the increased living space Ardie was able to raid his showroom and display antiques long hidden from view—as well as the generous size of the rooms. The foyer was singled out for special treatment.

Ardie had commissioned a new floor of inlaid marble in a diamond pattern with a vaguely trompe l’oeil effect that Beebe admired. Ardie passed the torch to Beebe who took a long pull.

I arrived home to find a note from Ardie slipped under my door. 7A was becoming more like home to me every day. Delighting in my new digs I had become something of a recluse, content to enjoy the space and dream big. It was mine, after all.

Ardie's note invited me up to 12B for a drink and to take "pot luck" with him on a cold autumn night--if I didn't have plans.

I had a shower and called Ardie to accept; getting to 12B meant taking the elevator to the lobby and then calling upstairs so that Ardie could "buzz" me up and the elevator would then deposit me right inside his apartment.

The smell of marijuana was strong as I stepped off the elevator to see Ardie and his sister--she was stoned, too--sifting through moving boxes from Ardie's previous home. Beebe wasn't staying for supper but she did seem genuinely happy to see me again, recalling our previous introductions at work and Miss Cousins' apartment.

"I spoke with your son today, Mrs Grade," I said.

"Everyone calls me Beebe; you should too," she replied. "How is my Jack today? He didn't call his mother so I'll get my news from you."

"Hosting an art exhibit, I gather, and he wanted to ask Miss Cousins about a specific painting. I recently edited a new catalogue and we had the information at our fingertips. Someone will be getting an earful about it this Saturday," I said.

Ardie smiled and announced that it was time for a drink. "Art is for lovers, Beebe, I am always telling you that," he said.

Beebe said nothing.

Clouds on the Horizon

2006-10-16T23:34:00.000-04:00

I accepted ‘Clouds on the Horizon’ with a smile. Shoot me; I liked Miss Cousins’ art and there was no way that I could afford to purchase one on my own. I smiled kindly, kissed her on the cheek, thanked her profusely for her generosity and spent the rest of the afternoon stealing glances at my first piece of important artwork. I imagined an unveiling party at my new apartment as soon as I could arrange for the transportation of the painting and the purchase of some furniture. Actually, the purchase of any furniture was a necessity before I started hosting denizens of the art world at home. I was still making do with some cast-offs and whatever passable items were rescued from my previous apartment.

It was clearly going to be a distant event but I was having fun planning a party in my head.

I had already given up my hovel on Bathurst Street (no more basement living!) and I was more or less camping out in 7A. The Campanile was a wondrous destination to my eyes with all of the amenities of paradise. I don’t know what the door staff thought about my residency or me; I was by far the youngest resident at the building and my part ownership made me something of a minor deity. I did not use many of the much-vaunted services that were offered to tenants chiefly because I didn’t own a car that required valet parking and I never received packages or deliveries at home. I did, however, arrange for a floral display to be sent to the apartment in anticipation of my first weekend of residency that was accepted by the crew at the front door and presented to me with much fanfare. I pretty much kept to myself.

There were three other apartments on the 7th floor and so far I had not met even one of my neighbours. The approaching winter ensured that a number of long-term residents would de-camp to warmer climes for a few months. This created a revolving issue each year as residents balked at increased rents. Their logic was that as they lived away for up to five months at a stretch there was really no justification for higher rents. I remained silent on that score and agreed to let Jane and the building management settle the issue. One fact was certain; my rent was never going up.

I was seeing a lot of Ardie, too, as he was forever dropping by The Campanile with an assistant or two in tow. Bolts of fabric, measuring tapes, swatches and paint samples were littered about the floor of 12B. Architectural renderings were scattered on the kitchen counters and some walls were defaced with black magic marker: “Paint this first” and “Knock a door here” were early signs that Ardie was planning some demolition.

I was having drinks with Ardie and one of his assistants—her name was Michelle—and I casually mentioned that Miss Cousins had been kind enough to make a gift of one of her paintings to me. Ardie raised his eyebrows in some surprise and asked me where I intended to hang it.

Soon enough the three of us were down in 7A and discussing the various merits of my walls. Ardie suggested that my living room would be a fine destination for ‘Clouds on the Horizon’ and Michelle agreed with me that my foyer was too small for an important piece of art from a recognized artist.

Ardie—ever the host—asked me what my plans were for supper and perhaps I would care to join him and Michelle for a bite of pasta in the neighbourhood? I readily agreed and then Michelle begged off; she had a previous obligation and excused herself to dash home.

Thus I found myself sitting on the passenger side of Ardie’s classic Mercedes-Benz sedan as he drove us to one of his frequent haunts in the neighbourhood. Ardie didn’t need reservations and he didn’t worry about a restaurant being “too full” for him. He was known, welcome, and engaging. If we had to sit at the bar and wait for a table, why, so much the better!

Ardie belonged to that interesting community of people who go out for supper every night and his tenure at various eating establishments ensured him a table no matter when he arrived. Usually he decamped to Palm Beach each year in the early autumn but this year he was preoccupied with events at The Campanile and had indefinitely postponed his winter sojourn south.

We started at the bar with a drink—this shouldn’t be a surprise to you now—before moving to a cozy table with a window. Ardie smiled and ordered wine and told me I was handsome.

First in a Series

2006-10-15T20:31:00.000-04:00

Work was getting busy. I was charged with supervising the creative development of a new catalogue of Miss Cousins’ work to be launched at a gallery opening in New York at the end of November.

I guess I should fill you in a bit more about Miss Cousins and the art. The business side of her, well, business was all nuts and bolts and dollars and pennies. She made good money that she subsequently invested; a pretty simple monetary philosophy, actually. She bought and paid for good financial advice and followed some common sense dictums of her own when it came to making financial decisions. She liked real estate and the value of her own art; she liked solid investments and comfortable returns. It was a business of paper work and paper trails.

Her artistic life, however, was her real business. The office—which sold reproduced images of her artwork—also contained a separate studio. She spent part of each morning there, broke for lunch, and returned for the afternoon. She conducted social visits in her office and the studio was truly a space reserved for her painting.

It was a large space painted in a flat art gallery white. Abounding with both natural and—when required—artificial light it was a corner with two full walls of windows. Counters along the two other walls were also in white, with drawers, doors and other cabinetry below. A separate storeroom was accessed from a side door, and canvasses could be stacked overhead on wooden frames, installed for the purpose. It did not escape my notice that there was also a small kitchen and counter, fully equipped, and a bar, also fully equipped.

Miss Cousins was selecting from a number of large canvasses from her food series. The works were in vibrant primary colours shot with black, or in bright hues and washes in a primitive style. The series had become popular and was soon appearing on calendars, note cards, diaries and address books. Jane told me that one of the series—Egg 1—had even been pirated and used on aprons and oven mitts. Jane’s financial purview included vague control over the licensing contracts Miss Cousins had with various firms and she jealously guarded the artistic assets.

Today’s visit to The Studio (my first) was to help select a number of paintings to be displayed in the office. Ardie had arranged for Esther Steinberg to visit the office and “pick something” for her living room. The modus operandi with Miss Cousins was fairly strict and somewhat unorthodox.

You see, she would select a number of works she currently had available and then the “prospective collector” would be invited for a private viewing with Miss Cousins at her office. Miss Cousins would select, oh, anywhere from 7 to 15 paintings for display. A purchase could be made from the paintings on display only and there would be no invitation to tour the studio and see what else might be stacked up against a wall.

Long time collectors and patrons—Beebe Grade, for example—or other special contacts would receive different treatment. A curator representing a museum would have full access to The Studio and such a visit might take two days while Miss Cousins and her guest discussed and explored art together. Corporate collections were built with a distant view and were also, therefore, guided efforts given intimate access to the Mistress and her oeuvre.

Miss Cousins drew the line, however, at visiting decorators with wealthy patrons who traipsed over looking for a signed piece of artwork that would—miraculously—fit their colour scheme and whatever other schemes they had purchased for their residence. Miss Cousins was gracious and welcoming, but these visits were never longer than an hour and always resulted in a sale when everyone realized that “this was it” and if they wanted an Adelaide Cousins they better speak up.

With a flourish the deal would be accomplished and champagne would be served to celebrate the new owner’s acquisition of an important work of art. On one occasion a new bride recounted how she had used a small inheritance to purchase an original Adelaide Cousins. Her aunt had been an art lover and had left enough money for a generous gift that would purchase a small--but original--Adelaide Cousins. Miss Cousins was so touched that she turned the canvas over and re-signed the painting with “from the artist’s own collection” and informed the startled purchaser that the piece would be “delivered framed as a gift” and that Miss Cousins considered these her firm terms.

Esther Steinberg reviewed the artworks in front of her and made appreciative comments. Ardie—her guide in these matters—bantered both with Esther, Miss Cousins, me, and Candis Mitzvah, who was along for company.

Miss Cousins had selected 10 canvasses—none of the larger ones were framed—and asked me to move them to her office. She told me where to put each one in sequence, changing her mind several times along the way, and announced her satisfaction just as Ardie, Esther and Candis arrived.

Gracious and fond hellos. Appropriate refreshments and comfortable accommodations, gentle dissatisfaction with the weather. (Too cold, too early.) Ardie kicked off the game with a warm and kind acknowledgement of how “thrilled everyone was to be visiting today” and how “genuinely excited and eager” everyone was to “enjoy a private viewing with Adelaide Cousins.”

Adelaide was smoking and exhaled a cloud of poison in reply. She smiled quickly, murmured thank you, and indicated to me with her cigarette where I stood next to a piece from the food collection.

“The piece is entitled ‘Diner 4’ and it is a recent work. I am not finished with that theme yet,” she said, gesturing that we could stand and look closer. There is something valuable about looking at art, I realized, as I watched the four of them approach the ten canvasses leaning against one wall. The conversation started to flow better and neither Esther nor her sister, Candis, was shy about asking questions. Esther asked Miss Cousins what her favourite colour was, and Candis inquired whether or not Miss Cousins viewed certain colours as representative of specific emotions or experiences. Our little tour continued and included a small piece from the ‘Palm Beach, series number 1’ paintings that was finished in an elaborate black frame. Candis stopped and quietly looked at this fiery work, cooled with a masterstroke, and audibly sighed a quiet “O” while stepping back to enjoy a new perspective.

“I wonder, Miss Cousins, if you would sell this painting to me—unless my sister wants it first,” said Candis, turning to the rest of us who had strayed a bit further down the line of paintings. “It’s the most beautiful painting I’ve ever seen,” she said quietly.

Miss Cousins walked back, a faint smile on her lips. Her cigarette was now trailing some serious ash behind her and she looked first at the painting, then at Candis, before saying that of course Candis could purchase the painting; Miss Cousins was delighted to see it go to an art lover.

Before the hour was out I was making delivery arrangements for two paintings. Candis had, of course, just purchased a small work while Esther had sprung for an enormous floral in bright garden colours of yellow and green. It was something of a rare piece for Miss Cousins, since it was a one off and not part of a series. Negotiations concluded with a coffee service for Esther and Candis and cocktails for Miss Cousins, Ardie, and me.

Miss Cousins seemed particularly interested in Candis Mitzvah; she engaged her in friendly conversation and made the polite inquiries one is expected to make at social occasions with unknown people. She also used her time to ask Candis about her interest in art, if she had purchased art before, and if there was anything in particular that she found interesting in the art world. She suggested a gallery or two that Candis might visit, and even noted that “not one of them is smart enough to show my works!” which prompted some laughter.

When Ardie and the girls left I was preparing to move the rest of the canvasses back to the studio when Miss Cousins stopped me. She had been meaning to get me a housewarming gift—and a “little something” to celebrate our partnership in The Campanile—and she wanted me to “pick something out” in the studio for myself. She “wasn’t taking no for an answer!” and she even had a few ideas for me to consider.

In the studio she pulled out three canvasses and arranged them in a row. The first was a yellow floral of a gerbera daisy; bright and loud and cheery and wild and part of her popular ‘Gerber Daisy’ period. But it was the second painting that caught my eye. Disconnected flowers in a primary style floated against a blue only possible in the imagination and spoke of the one perfect summer day of your life when the sun was shining and the world seemed kind and loving, easy and fair. It was a glimpse of an afternoon in a meadow on a sunny day.

Miss Cousins leaned over and said, “It’s called ‘Clouds on the Horizon.’ If you want it, its yours.”

Neighbourhood Digest

2006-10-10T23:01:00.000-04:00

Toronto is a series of neighbourhoods united into a city by a municipal dislike of the weather. Some distinct neighbourhoods bear the names of a almost-forgotten communities long since consumed by the growing metropolis. Forest Hill—all mansions and private schools—is centrally located in the midtown part of Toronto and was a separate municipality until the 1950s boasting its own school system and village-like main street shopping district. Leaside, another venerable district, was a separate town folded into Toronto in 1954, along with the village of Swansea and the townships of North York and Scarborough.

Rosedale is arguably one of the most prestigious neighbourhoods in the city and stretched over leafy ravines close to Yorkville, which is convenient for trendy shopping, and the downtown financial district, which is convenient for corporate titans and new-era robber barons.

In the old days the conventional wisdom was that Rosedale was a WASP enclave and that Forest Hill wasn’t. Ted and Beebe Grade had lived their entire married life in a gracious old home on the best street to be found among the tortuous and often hilly lanes that added to Rosedale’s awkward charm. Like many homes in the neighbourhood it is large, brick, architecturally dull and surrounded by a brick and wrought iron fence. Gates, which were never closed, were original to the property and adorned with coach lights at each end of the driveway. The overall tone was designed to suggest landed gentry and teacups.

Irving and Candis Mitzvah lived in the middle of Forest Hill in a newly built mansion built in a style best described as ersatz-chateau. Forest Hill could boast some large lots (Rosedale didn’t win on that score) and the Mitzvah’s had treed their lot with a veritable jungle of greenery and lined their driveway with an allée of trees. The backyard boasted a large swimming pool and a vaguely Grecian themed pool house so that the whole place was something of a pageant of architectural styles and flourishes.

Jane lived in The Annex, a gorgeous old part of the city bordering the University of Toronto. The Annex can claim a good stretch of Bloor Street West as an anchor for the community with all the amenities of urban living including classic used bookstores. Large homes, many turned into apartments over the years, commanded high rents because of the funky feel of the neighbourhood and its downtown location.

The office was downtown in the hip Queen Street West district in a converted warehouse on Spadina Avenue. To the north was the original Chinatown (Toronto could offer more than one) and to the south were ultra-hip Queen Street and the fashion district. The financial district was ten minutes on foot to the east.

The Campanile was in an area that was without a name, really, although it was customary to refer to the general neighbourhood as Midtown. It was situated on Avenue Road but not on the side of the street that would classify it as Forest Hill. It was located just north of St. Clair Avenue—a strict border to delineate precisely where Forest Hillbillies lived and where they didn’t—and was best described by the intersection as Avenue Road and St. Clair. It was a noteworthy district and The Campanile did not suffer from any suggestion of a bad address.

The reason for this municipal history lesson is to introduce The Republic of Rathnelly. Canada was bursting with pride in 1967 and eager to celebrate its 100th birthday with a suitably national effort that would add a rosy glow of patriotic feeling to the country. The government subsequently launched and encouraged numerous “Centennial Projects” to take place in Canadian communities from sea to sea to sea and all manner of playgrounds, libraries, city halls and annual festivals came into being. Books were written and oral histories were recorded and school children across the land sang “CAN-A-DA!” as the nation bonded with itself.

Rathnelly Avenue is found among a charming knot of streets just below Avenue Road and St. Clair right where the big hill on Avenue Road levels out at the Dupont Street trestle. Local wags decided that the community would secede from Canada as a Centennial Project and a fun proclamation was written and a queen was soon elected. All in good fun, the neighbourhood still holds an annual street festival and the residents are known to be civic minded agitators.

Jack Grade lived in the Republic of Rathnelly and owned a couple of good paintings from Adelaide Cousins. When the conversation at supper turned to art—Ardie had a few good pieces from Miss Cousins that he had pointed out on his tour—it was only natural that Jack would invite Leesa to visit him sometime and “check out my Adelaides” and just maybe they could grab a coffee?

Friday Night Supper

2006-10-09T23:14:00.000-04:00

Families usually fall into two distinct groups: Friday night supper families and Sunday night supper families.

The Steinberg and Mitzvah families were Friday night people. Each week the extended families would gather together for a traditional family repast. Traditional in this sense meant two Filipinas serving brisket and all the fixings—with some items supplemented from Sonny Langer’s catering crew—and the whole happy clan under one roof. The venue changed from week to week to share the burden of entertaining. Lots of food and laughter mixed with guests and too many desserts ensured that the week ended on a cheery note.

The Grade and Beebe families were Sunday night people. The Beebe-Grade crew gathered at Ted and Beebe’s home in Rosedale for a routine of roasts of beef, racks of lamb, and cured hams as the usual fodder. Desserts were on the skimpy side since Beebe watched her diet and didn’t have much of a sweet tooth. Ardie never ate dessert and if Ted wanted for a piece of cake he said nothing. Cookies and ice cream, jell-o or a grocery store cake sufficed. There were rarely outside guests and cocktails always preceded supper. Ardie would sometimes drop by in the late afternoon to have a drink or three with Beebe before sitting down to supper. The Grades employed a couple that looked after the house in and grounds and they were responsible for producing the family repast each week.

Contracting out the making of family suppers to paid domestic help was one tradition the Beebe, Grade, Mitzvah and Steinberg families shared.

Sunday night suppers were suspended during the summer when Beebe moved to the cottage and shut her house up for the months of June, July and August. Friday night suppers took place no matter what and were never cancelled unless there was a death, major holiday or other family event of terrific magnitude.

Ardie’s supper party for the combined Steinberg-Mitzvah clan was, therefore, something of an anomaly. Irving Mitzvah didn’t want to go but he knew better than to argue with Candis; she had accepted the invitation and they would be arriving together with the Steinbergs. The group were met by the efficient door staff at The Campanile who—forewarned by Ardie who was now a tenant-cum-owner and therefore deserving of special treatment—swarmed the car opening doors, offering hands and escorting Mrs Steinberg and Mrs Mitzvah to the front lobby. The soft tintinnabulation of the house phone announced, “Mr Beebe’s guests were on their way up.”

Beebe and Ted had “tickets” for a variety of cultural events that included most of the theatres, operas, dance troupes and live shows that took place in the city. Numerous business and social responsibilities consumed so much of their social calendar that it was unusual to find the Grades free on short notice due to the commitments that made up their lives.

Beebe and Ted frequently attended the ballet or the symphony—music was a passion for Ted—but they were also generous and frequently gave their tickets away to deserving recipients in the form of friendly largesse. They were, therefore, available this particular Friday night and Beebe had accepted Ardie’s invitation to come for supper. She had been to The Campanile many times before, of course, having known people who lived there over the years. George and Harriet Lunney—dear old friends of her parents—had been long-time residents but she admitted to Ted that she was interested to see Ardie’s apartment in its “before” state. She was also curious to see how much money he would spend transforming a no-doubt already “perfectly fine apartment!” into the showplace his career and fastidious tastes demanded.

The stage, therefore, was set for something to happen.

What ultimately did happen is that Beebe and Ted arrived in the lobby at the same time as the Steinberg-Mitzvah party and everyone rode up together in the elevator. It was a cozy but quiet trip with polite introductions and nothing more. Harry Steinberg clammed up as soon as saw Beebe hove into view while Irving Mitzvah—something of a backslapper—pressed the flesh “like he was running for dog catcher” said Beebe, later, to Ted.

The party was destined to grow in numbers, too, as Beebe had invited Jack Grade and Ardie had insisted that Esther and Candis attend with their children; it was, after all, a “family supper party.” Jordan, Tamar and Adam Steinberg accompanied their parents Harry and Esther while Irv and Candis Mitzvah introduced Leesa and Jeffrey. Margery Temple presented with Kat and Suky who were busily exploring the apartment when we arrived and ooh-ing and ah-ing their approval.

I was included because I was alone and lived in the building and Ardie was the friendly sort.

Ardie had been busy “sprinkling some fairy dust” so that 12B would be a suitable venue for his first, unofficial party in his new home. He had not moved in yet, indeed the elevator vestibule still contained the previous tenants furniture, and most of the rooms were empty. The large south-facing living room had been transformed into a dramatic dining room for one special evening with a set-designer's sense of drama. Raiding his own showroom, antique shop and existing home provided Ardie with a treasure trove of goodies that he could use as props to create a stage set for his supper party.

A long table was crafted from sawhorses and plain wood—artfully covered with linens from E. Braun—and was set banquet style in front of a wall of windows. The entire glittering city rolled out below with millions of lights sparkling and twinkling in the darkness. Leather dining room chairs had been delivered that afternoon from the showroom along with enough sterling silver trays, serving pieces, candelabrum, ice buckets, epergnes, bowls, tureens and tea services to cause even the most blasé visitor to experience a momentary thrill. Ardie’s connections with florists (he was a decorator, after all) ensured that the table was in bloom with several displays of cut flowers—all in spectacular autumnal hues—and the menu was a typical Canadian Thanksgiving number, provided by a chic purveyor of fine catered fare. Ardie’s autumnal menu was based on a foundation of a traditional roast turkey meal and included fun additions such as a martini course and snappy appetizers served on trays covered with fallen leaves in brilliant reds and layers of orange and yellow.

12B was a grand showplace of an apartment in its existing state and everyone listened while Ardie revealed some of his plans for a remarkable rehabilitation of the apartment. Bathrooms were to be gutted and—due to their large size—recreated as modern day retreats with marble shower stalls and deep soaker tubs. The flooring—declared “a perfect example of a long-gone artisan” by Ardie—would be restored to a lustrous shine while the paneling in the den would be replaced with exotic Macassar wood, which was something of a trademark for Ardie. The large master bedroom was getting a complete overhaul to increase both its size and layout. A wall would be removed to create a dressing room and the ensuite bathroom would be expanded. The girls on the tour listened in silence as Ardie gestured to demonstrate where a wall would be moved or, on another occasion, to acknowledge a detail of the crown moldings. He revealed a source for handmade silk lampshades, and admitted that the elevator vestibule was too small to be truly welcoming and that he would have to compensate by making “a grand statement” with the foyer.

Ardie had hired two servers from his caterer who silently and efficiently fed the guests while Ardie poured wine, passed condiments, presided over his end of the conversation and watched his party unfold with a practiced eye. He noted, for example, that Candis Mitzvah was laughing with Margery Temple—Margo was charming, after all—while Beebe was debating with Harry Steinberg how far the prime minister should go in joining the war on terror. Beebe—her political beliefs were archconservative—made her points in a staccato bark that was brittle and sharp. Harry listened politely while silently noting that Beebe enjoyed both a martini and red wine with equal relish.

I was sitting across from Esther Steinberg and with Leesa Mitzvah to my immediate right and looking forward to both a fun party—Ardie kept the pace quick—and a wonderful meal; I couldn’t remember when I last had a great big turkey supper and my appetite was stimulated. My seat gave me a unique vantage point down the table and across the city to the inky blackness of Lake Ontario. I was looking out across the neighbourhood below when I turned to see Leesa Mitzvah bursting into laughter in response to a witty remark delivered by Jack Grade.

She opened her mouth to laugh and placed a hand across her throat as if to suppress her voice while Jack leaned forward across the table to whisper a few words to her. I sipped my wine and watched as Jack Grade’s face opened into a grin as he looked into the hazel eyes of Leesa Mitzvah and noted how they seemed to be unaware of the rest of us. Jack had arrived late and had, therefore, missed the start of the guided tour Uncle Ardie conducted “for the girls” and had instead joined his father, Harry Steinberg and Irving Mitzvah for a drink before supper. Since there was no living room available for use—Ardie hadn’t moved in yet, remember—the men stood in the dining room and snacked one canapés and took long draughts from their deep drinks.

Leesa Mitzvah was petite and trim and pretty and delicate and Jack Grade thought she was beautiful. I remember now how he walked up and introduced himself as Beebe and Ardie walked into the room. Ardie saw me and smiled but I didn’t smile back; I was looking at Beebe whose face had registered a fleeting moment of unease as she saw her son leaning close to Leesa Mitzvah to share a confidence. It was over in an instant and Beebe announced that she “couldn’t wait for supper!” and with her fixed smile marched over and sat down at the table, inviting imitators.

Formal Introductions

2006-10-05T19:36:00.000-04:00

Beebe Grade wore the mantle of family matriarch with a sense of duty and a martial air. It was a duty to continue the good works of her father and mother—The Ardwold and Martha Beebe Foundation—and a matrimonial chore to maintain the social and business connections of her husband’s family. In the main Beebe was not kindly disposed toward the Grade family en masse; she found them far too concerned about money for her taste. Ted, of course, was different. She had married him for all the right reasons provided you were breeding prize cattle or racehorses but the union worked.

She could afford her family prejudices in part because Beebe was blissfully free of financial worries. Settled with an enormous fortune—and knowing whom to trust to manage it—Beebe only “worried” about money inasmuch as she wanted to leave her children a lot of it. She didn’t worry about running out of cash, or not being able to afford something she wanted. Still, there were things Beebe considered outrageously expensive and wicked extravagances.

Have you ever met anyone who truly possessed a vast fortune? I don’t mean a wealthy retired dentist, or even a well-heeled landlord but someone who had several homes and assets worth more than one hundred million dollars? Someone who purchased a vacation home in Bermuda and then rarely visited? Someone who owned a newspaper and a distinguished publishing house and purchased bonded originals from Paris fashion Houses? That was how Beebe Grade lived; she was free from class snobbery since she viewed almost everyone as an inferior. She didn’t judge others based upon material possessions because she knew that few people could afford to spend as she could. She didn’t covet things for herself and never owned a car that wasn’t made by General Motors. Beebe thought “fancy” cars were showy and a waste of money.

That is not to say that she did not appreicate quality or was without an enjoyment of some luxury. Beebe owned a Picasso (in her bedroom) and a Constable (in her living room) and she had at one time owned a Vigée-Lebrun that she subsequently donated to the ROM. Her real estate holdings—too vast to list here—included large tracts of urban territory in major cities across North America.

She was, to use a vulgar expression, filthy rich.

Beebe had assumed suzerainty over her family chiefly because of her close relationship with her late father. Ardwold Beebe Sr. had a rocky relationship with Ardie Jr. and had groomed his eldest daughter to take over the family business concerns after his death. Old Ardwold Beebe never expected his daughter to actually work; he wanted her to be able to retain the best and the brightest. Beebe’s subsequent marriage to Ted Grade—a brilliant merger of two fine old families—guaranteed both grandchildren and an addition to the brain trust that directed the Beebe family fortunes. Besides, Ted Grade was rich but he wasn’t rich and happily ascended to his new lofty position as Beebe’s consort and didn’t cause trouble.

Beebe, however, controlled the purse strings.

When Ardie lost his money he found himself living in reduced circumstances and, sadly, unable to continue his hedonistic lifestyle that took place on three continents. Ardie and his chums played in Toronto, Muskoka, Palm Beach, Bermuda and Europe. He dallied in Marrakech and Capri, Paris and Rome. Simpatico friends had homes in the south of France or a chalet in Gstaad and entertained generously and often. An apartment on the Upper West Side was a landing pad for a beach house on Fire Island with lovely laughing people who liked to gamble in Monte Carlo. Ardie danced at Studio 54 with a real countess and made the girls scream with laughter in Palm Beach and he looked good in black tie, jeans, sporting clothes or naked.

It was a hell of a lot of fun while it lasted.

Suitably chastened by Beebe for being a careless spendthrift—and not getting a handout as he expected—Ardie applied himself to his design and antique business with a steely determination. Commissions from Palm Beach socialites padded his bank account, while lucrative contracts in the Middle East saw the creation of entire resorts and towns. Ardie would never have as much loot as Beebe had but he wasn’t exactly a pauper. His previous clients became life-long friends who continued to purchase antiques, sell existing ones, or retain Ardie for his counsel in buying art at auction. Nice work if you can get it.

Beebe and Ardie had a younger sister named Margery who was quiet and fey. Margery had been unlucky in love (and not much good at cards, either) several times. Her first marriage lasted one year. Her second union—they didn’t marry—endured for three bumpy years and cost five million dollars to end. Her third marriage produced two children and ended in widowhood. Margery had tearfully confessed to Beebe that she intended to file for divorce the same week that her husband died on the golf course. Beebe and Ardie had drinks that week to discuss the funeral and she quietly confided to Ardie that “at least she won’t have to pay this one off!” and agreed with him when he pointed out that being a widow outranked being merely divorced.

Ted and Beebe Grade had been blessed with children; Jack was named after his grandfather Grade and a beautiful blonde daughter was rather haughtily named Clemens. Ardie had no children, of course, but Margery also had two children of her own. Her elder daughter was named Kat—short for Katherine—and the younger went by Suky, which was a family diminutive for Suzanne.

Beebe had also been slow in coming around to welcoming Ardie’s various partners into the family compact. She refused to meet Vladimir (a dancer) and she patently ignored his successor, a florist named Jason. She despised Todd, Christopher, Greg, Mike, Andre, Sheldon and the rest of them.

“How is That Greg?” Beebe would ask, looking over the rim of her glass, or staring down the dining room table.

Ardie would smile in response and say, “His name is not That Greg; just plain old Greg. He’s fine and sends you his best.” After the issue with money he never backed down with Beebe again.

Ardie had been officially single for a number of years—saving Beebe thorny problems with seating arrangements at social functions—but was hardly living a chaste lifestyle. Ardie was always going to provide a lot of chitchat for idle gossips and some of his amorous adventures did find their way back to Beebe’s ears.

The married industrialist who visited Ardie down south for a “weekend of golf” or the Member of Parliament who drank too much and “slept in the spare room” were topics that Beebe met with reserved silence and a faint smile from her thin lips. She revealed nothing about her personal thoughts.

Margery was malleable; Beebe told her what to do and when to do it. When Suky moved in with an unemployed drummer it was Beebe who visited the young man and talked reason to him so that he would see that there was no future—“why, none at all!”—to their union. A forgivable loan of, say, twenty five thousand dollars would ensure that he could pack up his damn drums and move to Vancouver and beat on them all day, but not with Suky Temple at his side.

When Suky decided to quit school and work in a feminist-lesbian (ugh) cooperative that sold macrobiotic food it was Beebe who told Margery to “turn off the bloody cash!” even though Margery cried and was distraught over her “little girl” living and working with women who didn’t shave their legs or wear brassieres. Soon enough poverty lost its charm and Suky shaved her legs and came home. In due course she took up with a nice young man and went back to school to earn a degree in art history.

Beebe’s own children turned out as expected given their upbringing and the focused attention of their Dear Mother. Pride of the pack Jack Grade was hale like his father and blessed with the same looks and temperament. He attracted people and opportunity and was destined to assume the publisher’s office of The Canadian Record. Educated at home and abroad he was tall, handsome and rich; Beebe expected that one day Jack would meet a suitable young woman and in due course a wedding—with receptions in Toronto and Bermuda—would ensue and Mr and Mrs Jack Grade would have two children.

Clemens—called Clemmy by her father and friends—was a duplicate of her mother in looks but nothing else. Quiet and reserved she had gone to school in Switzerland for many years and was currently studying literature in New York. She avoided Toronto—and her mother—but loved life at the cottage and had spent all of her summers at the Beebe place up in Muskoka. Clemens was close to her father and brother and enjoyed a cool friendship with Beebe. She had long ago accepted that her mother favoured Jack; it might not have been pleasant but it was true.

Secrets Dirty and Otherwise

2006-10-04T23:59:00.000-04:00

No one likes to admit it now that the city has become a fashionable destination celebrated for diversity but Toronto has a bigoted past. For years one of the finest real estate agencies in the city could boast that it was the exclusive agent for some of the most desirable—and socially restricted—neighbourhoods in the city. I won’t reveal the name of the firm, as they are still in business but now happy to take money from anybody. (Caveat emptor.)

Esther Steinberg could remember a childhood trips with her mother as they drove through one of the grandest districts Toronto could boast. Her mother was a determined but nervous driver who followed her own distinct routes through the city to avoid any obstacles that might somehow involve left-hand turns in traffic, or intersections without traffic lights. One such route involved the steep hill bordering Casa Loma’s west wall and two sharp corners plus a view of Ardwold Gate. “You see that, Honey? That’s where my princess is going to live one day. You’ll see! Momma knows these things,” said Momma and Esther had believed every word.

Esther Steinberg remembered her mother’s words years later when she and Harry purchased their home, which was not quite on Ardwold Gate. In a delicious turn of fate it had come to pass that Esther Steinberg’s service drive—but not her address—was on Ardwold Gate. Delivery vans, service vehicles, gas company trucks and the like parked behind the house littering the view on Ardwold Gate and walked past the large garage to the back door of her house. Esther’s guests, visitors, friends and family all entered from the front door, which was located at the south end of the block-deep property on another street. Even the trash and recycling containers from the Steinberg house were put out on Ardwold Gate.

So in life it can be so that you not only get what you need but you also get what you want.

Karma wasn’t quite depleted for Our Esther. She was also in the fortunate position of being able to afford to hire someone like Ardie Beebe to look after the interior design of her home—acquiring some social status en route—and was now his dear friend and confidante. She could look forward to fun parties, weekend jaunts and sunny holidays on breezy beaches with shady people as a benefit of his acquaintance. She was already “assisting” him with his apartment; he was so busy someone needed to manage The Help.

Ardie was in the living room looking out across the city at the view, smoking a cigarette and sipping on his drink. He had watered his down in a tumbler with ice and was remembering a party he had once attended in this very apartment. Ardie was a young man who enjoyed a good time and possessed the money and connections capable of making good times happen. In the late 1960s he enjoyed the friendship and intimate camaraderie of people popularly considered to be among the city’s upcoming movers and shakers.

Cutting-edge architects foaming at the mouth over planned suburban communities argued with passionate sociology professors who dreamt of urban utopias that were both nuke-free and vegetarian-friendly. Young political-establishment lawyers (eager for public office or partnership, whichever came first) bantered with beautiful young women eager for political-establishment lawyers.

Old money drank with no money and it seemed as though a new social order was being created. Not a social order that touched upon the civil society—Ardie didn’t care about that—but a social order in the sense of “Who’s Who." Ardie’s new social order was about smart society. It was about breaking the rules—or at least the ones that didn’t really matter—and trying new things. They wanted to have fun!

It was a heady time fueled by soft drugs and hard liquor. Ardie turned to see me coming in from the entrance hall and remembered standing there himself all those years ago. Of course at that party he was naked and, handsomely preceded by his erection, in a much different frame of mind than this afternoon. “All hands on deck!” he had said that night as he strode into the living room to join the fray.

“There you are,” he said to me. “Let’s find Esther and go for lunch. I’ve just decided to have a house-warming party and I’ll tell you both all about it.” Ardie laughed and gave my arm a squeeze as he walked past me, his voice smoked to a low timbre. “I’ve been here before but somehow I just never noticed the beautiful view.”

Good Neighbours

2006-10-04T20:01:00.000-04:00

I could move into 7A anytime I wanted. I had already packed up a few things from my cellar dwelling—not one piece of my furniture was actually worth moving—and I was waiting for a good time to tote some small boxes over.

I didn’t actually have any lots of cash for new furniture but Jane came to my rescue with an unused sofa and chair, and Ardie agreed to send over some tables and lamps. I would be living in a splendid apartment in a building that I partly owned using cast-off and borrowed furniture; I couldn’t have cared less.

Work had interrupted my real estate reverie and I was somewhat swamped at the office. Miss Cousins was keeping busy hours lately and with the untimely departure of The Secretary (RIP) I had inherited her job. One morning during the commute downtown Miss Cousins offered me the position—with a handsome bump in remuneration I might add—and I accepted at a traffic light.

I guess I do have to confess one thing: I quit school. I was never going to complete that damn degree and having two useless degrees did seem rather unnecessary. I resigned from all of my classes on the last day possible in an anti-climactic visit to the registrar’s office. I was now, officially, the secretary-cum-assistant to Miss Adelaide Cousins. Oh, and we were also business partners.

Miss Cousins seemed remarkably disinterested in The Campanile; Jane handled most of her day-to-day financial business and would be acting on her behalf for anything related to the building. She did not intend to move from The Fairholme but she did ask me a few questions about my “exciting new apartment!” and even asked me if I had any art to hang on the wall.

Jane was in the office that morning and we had lunch together at a sushi spot nearby. Jane had me sign some documents—including a lease on my new apartment—and informed me that I would be receiving a monthly cheque in the amount of $2,000.00 as profit from the building. It would have been more, she explained, but there were operating expenses and other costs. Ardie—who grabbed a floor up in the high-rents—would receive nothing on a monthly basis, but would get a share of any annual profits at end of our calendar year. (I made a personal promise to learn when our year-end was. I wanted to at least appear to be in the know.)

Two grand a month—on top of my salary from Miss Cousins—made me feel quite rich. Jane burst my bubble, somewhat, when she also informed me that she had already spoken to her financial advisor and I would now be investing $1,200.00 a month in something called an exchange traded fund. Visions of a new flat screen television disappeared in an instant.

I was also starting to see rather a lot of Ardie; he stopped by the office with two lamps for my apartment one day and told me to “enjoy them!” before sequestering himself in the inner sanctum with Miss Cousins. I spent a Saturday over at The Campanile cleaning my new apartment before moving in and he unexpectedly dropped by with a gorgeous console table and a bottle of vodka "for a toast."

I didn’t have any mix—not that he needed any—but I did have ice cubes and plastic cups. Ardie poured us each a solid shot over ice and walked into the living room to make a fast inspection. It was actually a bit early in the day for me to have a drink but I sipped along with Ardie as best I could.

“This unit has great bones but we need to consider adding some built-ins and maybe we could update that kitchen a bit; it’s looking tired.” Ardie was smoking (big surprise there) and was trailing ash across my Parquet de Versailles floors. I found a saucer and handed it to him silently.

Sitting down and readjusting himself unselfconsciously he scanned the space and quietly smoked. “I almost moved in here once, soon after I opened my antique shop. I would have, too, except that my piano wouldn’t fit in the elevator. I wanted to have it lifted up by a crane but the windows weren’t big enough.”

He wanted to use a crane to get his piano into an apartment?

“I didn’t know you played piano, Ardie,” I said.

“I don’t, Kiddo, but I do like the look of a piano in a living room because it is such a handy place for tchochkes. I know it is sacrilege, but you can also use a grand piano as a buffet in a pinch.”

Ardie asked me up to tour his apartment; he had some grand plans and wanted to “help me out” in any way he could. He envisioned the floors in a darker hue and new built-in bookcases in the dining room. The three bathrooms were outdated and Ardie suggested new fixtures, tubs, and flooring. Marble would replace tile and a shower stall would replace the bathtub in the ensuite. The kitchen—Ardie said it was bigger than he expected and benefited from a window—required new floors, counters, lighting, cabinets and appliances.

I told Ardie that my entire budget for decorating the new place was $2,350.00 if I stretched it. Frankly, the $350 was reserved for a party I wanted to have and I needed booze and the remaining two thousand was optimistic. Ardie took a long drag on his torch and turned his head a few degrees to exhale. He looked at me for a moment and smiled.

“Tell you what, Junior, we’ll talk to Jane and find a way to do this place up. Let’s make it a fun project,” said Ardie. We smiled in silent agreement; Ardie was going to be fun, I thought.

I actually liked Ardie but he did make me nervous. He was forever looking at me intently as if trying to peer right into my mind. I would catch him, sometimes, looking at me when I looked up and he would offer his cryptic smile and say nothing.

On this particular afternoon he was meeting his “dear friend” Esther Steinberg for lunch and would I like to tag along? We could view the apartment first; Esther was dying to see it and was particularly interested to see a full-floor unit at The Campanile before Ardie Beebe—The Master—reinterpreted the space and created a perfect residence for himself.

I should point something out about Ardie’s new apartment. Known as “12B” it was actually the 13th floor but the architect had ensured that The Campanile did not have the dreaded and potentially unlucky number thirteen anywhere on view and Ardie’s apartment was always called 12B. Ardie was living on the third-most top floor of the building with unobstructed views in most directions.

Esther was already upstairs—a visit discreetly announced by the doorman—when I stepped out of the elevator into 12B and felt the unmistakable feel of Ardie’s hand giving my bum a quick pat. Shocked and confused by this gesture I turned around quickly but Ardie only smiled in response.

“Hello, Esther—have you got time for a drink before the tour? Can’t have my girl getting thirsty!” said Ardie in his hale voice.

Esther squealed a hello and agreed that there was nothing wrong with a drink before the tour. Ardie had already moved in the essentials—glasses, booze, mix, olives and lemons—and quickly served up some Gin Martinis expertly mixed in a silver cocktail shaker.

I accepted my second drink of the day, and promised myself that I would be careful around Ardie and alcohol. He lived a wet lifestyle.

New Address

2006-10-03T12:19:00.000-04:00

Our first meeting to discuss what to do with The Campanile took place at Jane’s house over a supper of salad, lots of red wine, and supper ordered in from Swiss Chalet. It was hardly a grand celebration but events were moving quickly and planning supper parties was not a high priority for anyone. Jane suggested we meet at The Campanile the next morning at 9AM in the superintendents’ office.

Jane had prepared some documents that explained how we could divert the realized revenue from The Campanile into yet another trust that would subsequently reduce our tax liability AND provide us with certain business deductions. I didn’t understand one word of what she said.

Ardie pointed out that as co-owners we were all “entitled” to assume residency in a suite at the building. Ardie further pointed out that as he saw things we should be able to rent suites at a discount, and have the discounted rent deducted from our profits. This way, Ardie stressed this point; we would be “living for free” and still making some money on the side from the rental revenues The Campanile generated.

Jane seemed disinclined to follow this logic and also announced that she would be representing Miss Cousins to the shareholders. In effect, Jane and Miss Cousins would be calling the shots and Ardie and I were going to do as we were told. I didn’t care as long as I somehow moved out of my basement apartment. I really was tired of living across from the laundry room of my building and smelling laundry detergent all the time.

Ardie’s desire to move to The Campanile—and take over a large full-floor apartment—was motivated by his lack of ready cash. Ardie had committed the most unforgivable sin imaginable in his particular social milieu; he had lost most of his money.

The funny thing about Toronto is that you really never could tell who was rich. Most of the truly wealthy didn’t flash their cash. I knew from the media that the Grades had millions. “Hundreds of millions” according to Jane.

The Beebes were possessed of a legendary fortune; Beebe Grade had combined her own fortune with the smaller fortune her husband held and watched her net worth grow over the years. Both The Canadian Record and their other publishing ventures were profitable, and Ted Grade had long ago moved their investments into newer technologies and opportunities. General contracting, property development, stock market investments and other wise decisions put the Grades among the wealthiest people in the nation.

Beebe and Ardie had one sister who lived outside of the city on a horse farm in King City. Margery Beebe Temple followed her sister’s advice and had all of her money professionally managed by Hugh Adshead & Partners. Professional money managers to the wealthy for many years the discreet service they provided ensured that their clients maintained their fortunes despite any untoward activity in the market.

Ardie—always something of a problem when it came to money—had bickered both with Beebe and Hugh Adshead in the late 1970s and taken his investments out of the firm. It was a fatal error.

Speculation over property developed ran riot in Toronto in the early 1980s and Ardie had been persuaded to invest a great deal of his fortune—an amount in excess of 25 million dollars—in proposed suburb developments surrounding the city.

He lost his shirt.

Property values plummeted and Ardie soon found himself in the distinctly unpleasant position of having to announce to Beebe and Margery that he was running out of money. Beebe was sympathetic but unyielding; Ardie had no business managing money and it was “his own damn fault!” that his money was gone. Beebe also saw to it that Margery—who could be something of a soft touch—didn’t hand over any money to Ardie. He would just have to decorate his way back to financial independence.

It is worth pointing out that Ardie’s idea of poverty was not the same as yours or mine. Ardie still had a few million and still owned some property. What he could not do, however, was support his lifestyle without continuing to operate both his interior design business and his antique shop.

Jane came to the rescue with a “smart plan” that would see both Ardie and I move into apartments at The Campanile while also providing a monthly stipend from the rent. I was in heaven.

The Campanile was not without some problems. There was a long-term and ongoing property line dispute with the condominium development next door, and the building was old and therefore always in need of some repair. The taxes—which were astronomical—were expected to go up and there were some concerns that the roof would need restoration at some point in the next five years.

The result was that I could take over 7A; a charming two-bedroom apartment with a rear view and a coveted corner spot and Ardie would move into 12B and enjoy a full-floor of space. I could move in anytime while Ardie would need to wait a few months. The current tenants of 12B were moving to Vancouver to live closer to their daughter; they needed some time to pack and empty the apartment.

I had already given my notice (planning ahead and wishful thinking) and couldn’t wait to get into 7A and tour my new digs. Ardie and Jane were still discussing the operating specifics of the building so I excused myself to go tour 7A. The elevators at The Campanile were wonderful old relics of a quieter time. They rose slowly, silently and majestically toward the 7th floor, opening quietly and depositing me in a small lobby with four front doors. (The 7th floor had four apartments; I may not have been moving into the biggest and grandest space in the building but damn it I was moving in!)

My apartment faced the rear of the building and overlooked midtown Toronto and the leafy neighbourhood to the east. The entry foyer was small and dark, with two closets for overcoats and outerwear. There was a powder room adjacent to the front door (I had a guest bathroom!) and the floors were a gorgeous wood in a style I later came to know as Parquet de Versailles. Ardie had taken pleasure in the floors, which were expensive and no longer found in apartment buildings. The living room was spacious and was located in the corner, giving me an apartment with two views. The kitchen was small but adequate, and had room for a table and four chairs. One small bedroom was located near the kitchen while the master suite was at the back of the apartment with two walk-in closets and a large master bath.

It was home, and it was mine.

The Campanile

2006-09-29T15:18:00.000-04:00

The Campanile is an old-fashioned apartment building located on a leafy stretch of Avenue Road just north of St. Clair Avenue. For those of you not familiar with the city of Toronto this stretch of real estate classifies as a “good address” even though The Campanile was an older building with dated architecture and design.

The Campanile was built in the late 1940s when Canada was experiencing a tremendous boom in economic growth and construction. The architect determined to create a building that would encourage well-to-do Torontonians to give up their comfortable homes and move to apartments that offered size and location.

Constructed of Ontario limestone with dark brown brick inserts and carved mullions, The Campanile stretched fifteen storeys upward on a narrow footprint of land. The building was on a narrow lot so the builder compensated for the lack of real estate by building up instead of out.

The top 5 floors each contained one apartment per floor, with enough space to comfortably house a family and domestic help. The first ten floors were split into either four or two apartments. These floors shared common elevator vestibules that were tastefully decorated with a rather quaint old-fashioned air. Threadbare Persian carpets and reproductions of old masters, paneled walls and discreet lighting. Fresh flowers were found in the lobby and the flowerbeds near the front door were seasonally updated with fresh offerings.

Apartment house living did not become fashionable in the city until the 1970s and 80s with the construction of new condominium buildings. For decades The Campanile endured as a solid reminder of a different time. The residents—who tended to move in and stay put until they died—enjoyed the quiet amenities of the building along with its vaunted address and service. Cars were brought up to the driveway when requested, and the door staff delivered packages. The faint ring of the house phone announced visitors; the larger apartments had service entrances, back doors, and rooms set aside for domestic staff. Over the years most of the “staff rooms” had been pressed into service for use as a den, small office or even done away with altogether with the destruction of a wall, turning two smaller rooms into one.

The Secretary had purchased the building at almost bargain-basement prices in the 1960s and hung onto her investment as property values skyrocketed across the city. Discussions to demolish The Campanile in the 1980s came to nothing when the local historical board moved to block the sale. The Campanile—almost a charming relic by 1985—instead became a historically designated landmark. Rents went up as new tenants moved in and a massive reconstruction of the lobby and underground parking garage was completed. In its sixth decade of service The Campanile was a local landmark and the property deed was changed to reflect new ownership.

Jane and I arrived in the driveway and were met by a doorman who gave us—or more likely just Jane—a sweeping glance. I was trying to look like a business tycoon and Jane was succeeding in looking like a punk rock singer. We looked up silently at the tall building with its bay windows, stone arches and gleaming windows.

It was ours.

Ardie had already arrived and was sitting in the lobby reading the morning newspaper. A determined young woman from Chartwell, Bidmore & Cope represented Miss Cousins. Together we were the new owners of one of the city’s most prestigious and recognized addresses: The Campanile was my new address.

I held the door open for Jane as we walked into the dim lobby to be greeted by Ardie, the doorman, the superintendent and a small team consisting of a cleaner, a maintenance man and a gardener. I looked around while my eyes adjusted to the dim interior lighting; the solid walls and doors masked any sound from the street. The elevator vestibule was to the right; a small lobby with a seating area and a fireplace completed the public space. In the winter a fire would burn all day to add both warmth and light to the space. The tone was what you would expect in a tasteful old hotel. The superintendent's apartment was on the lobby level, with a small office for any managment requirements.

I looked around and realized I was at home.

Chartwell, Bidmore & Cope

2006-09-28T11:43:00.000-04:00

If you have never been to a top-flight law firm you really should find an excuse to visit one. One of the most prestigious and esteemed firms in the city is Chartwell, Bidmore & Cope.

Long a bastion of legal thinking, Chartwell, Bidmore & Cope enjoyed an enviable reputation in their field, and their practice was housed across five full floors of an office tower downtown. Our small assemblage (Miss Cousins, Jane, and me) were met by Ardie Beebe and The Late Secretary's chunky niece.

I was more curious than nervous; Jane had suggested that "$5000 might fall your way this afternoon" so that was interesting news.

Chunky Niece was quiet and stayed close to Miss Cousins. The lobby of Chartwell, Bidmore & Cope resembled the entrance hall to a fine stone building. A sweeping staircase lead up or down, and a wall of windows presented the city below as a view. The atmosphere was one of refinement and class, and designed to make visitors forget that they were 37 storeys up in the air.

Mr Andrew Cope Jr (who looked about 70) personally came out to greet Miss Cousins, holding her hand for a moment and exchanging some pleasantries. Chartwell, Bidmore & Cope was old fashioned, and Miss Adelaide Cousins (and her fortune) was a dear old client.

Reading a will is a passive affair and not at all like in the movies. We weren't wearing black (except for Jane, who always did) but Miss C was wearing charcoal. Hell, it was autumn! Everyone was starting to drag out the dark colours.

The great bulk of The Secretary's money--from bank accounts, insurance and other instruments--was given to her Chunky Niece and a large donation to her church. Well, that explained the warm eulogy from her minister!

Miss Cousins was left all the artwork that The Secretary had collected, with a few exceptions here and there. Most of it was actually works from Miss Cousins, so it was a case of some items returning home.

Jane and I were selected for special treatment. Jane just smiled benignly as a managing parnter of Chartwell, Bidmore & Cope informed us that the apartment building owned by The Secretary was to be given to Jane, me, Ardie and Miss Cousins.

Miss Cousins smiled, Jane smiled, Ardie grinned and I was stunned.

It was not an equal ownership; it was more of a trust and the controlling share was owned by Miss Cousins.

I had a funny feeling in my stomach; a cross between nerves and worry. An apartment building?

Coffee was served; Mr Andrew Cope mentioned that "any issues related to the Will and transfer of the property could be easily handled by Chartwell, Bidmore & Cope" prompting me to worry about how much it would all cost.

Ardie seemed cool and collected. He stood to leave and mentioned to Miss Cousin that they had a supper date over the weekend; waved a farewell to Jane and me, and thanked Mr Cope--and his minions who entered and left the boardroom silently--for such excellent care.

He left with a hearty goodbye, and suggested that Jane and I join him for lunch one day soon.

"After all, we're all going to be living under the same roof."

Driving back to the office we were a silent trio until Miss Cousins said that "all of this was because Ardie--the fool--lost all his money. You two should remember that; money is a great responsibility."

Jane sent me an instant message at the office inviting me home for supper. We would take a drive beforehand to look at our building; Jane had some details to share with me.

Later she walked past and suggested that "your days in a basement apartment are coming to an end, Sweetie" and that was that.

The rest of the afternoon was uneventful.

Promoted. To Glory.

2006-09-21T19:37:00.000-04:00

I know I’ve been away. Mea culpa.

There has been a death in the family. That is what Miss Cousins told me when she called me at home. The Secretary died as quietly as she lived. She uncharacteristically missed an appointment on Saturday afternoon and her telephone rang unanswered. Simple things, really, and to most people no warning bells would ring.

Miss Cousins called Lourdes—who had a key—and Lourdes and her husband went to check. They found her reclining on a sofa with a book in her lap. She had died of a stroke the night before. Lourdes called 911, which is what you do evidently, and her husband wept. The Secretary had been a longtime employer and friend. (Yes, and friend.)

I was going to miss her, I realized, for her remarkable ability to be a cipher while looking after so many people and details. She knew every detail there was to know about Miss Cousins, and she ran the office with a Teutonic efficiency that she really did make look effortless.

Miss Cousins looked after the funeral with brisk sensitivity to detail and decorum. The Secretary had attended the Unitarian Church sporadically and the office immediately sprung into action with arrangements. Calls were placed, decisions were reached and we banded together—Miss Cousins, Jane, and me—like an odd little family.

We made arrangements for flowers and food, of course, but also the details of gathering friends (no family, really, except a few nieces and maybe 1 nephew) and looking after her personal affairs. Ardie Beebe sent an enormous arrangement to the office, and another to Miss Cousins at home, plus another to Jane. I didn’t get a personal delivery but I did put the large spray he sent to the office near my desk.

In the absence of our Major Domo we were a bit rudderless. Jane asked me to “look after things at the office for a few days” and it all sounded very temporary. The Secretary was not exactly a citizen of the Great Wired World. Her notebooks and calendars were precise and clear. Appointments, events, reminders—anything to do with Miss Cousins’ professional life, personal needs or her office—were as easy to follow as a map.

The funeral itself was a relatively modest affair. There were some lovely words spoken—a heavy-set niece spoke movingly about her late “Aunty”—and the minister spoke of her “generous soul” as well as her “selfless approach to life” and I thought they were odd comments. I only found at later that the church had been left money. A gift that touched many, as it turned out.

The wake was a boozy affair held by Miss Cousins. The apartment was packed with people, caterers, floral arrangements, food, drink, and a steady stream of guests in and out. Ardie and his sister Beebe Grade were there (I admit it; I stared at her for a while and it was like looking at a famous person) as well as numerous people from the professional guilds. Lourdes sat with Miss Cousins the entire time, and they seemed to fare better together.

It was around 3AM when Ardie finally stood up and stretched and said it was time to call it a night. Besides, he said, we had business to look after first thing tomorrow.

The Secretary, you see, had left Jane and me “a little something” and legal matters can’t be postponed. We were expected downtown at 2pm to learn what secrets were contained in a will, written only 7 days before by The Secretary.

Where there is a Will, there is a War.

Morning Call

2006-09-12T22:15:00.000-04:00

There were a few bright spots to my new part-time job. The money wasn’t exactly a fortune but it was solid cash for the effort expended, the atmosphere was fun—and how!—and it sure beat waiting tables. Depending on her schedule in the morning I might hike over to Miss Cousins’ apartment and drive her to work. This would be determined the night before and announced by a message from The Secretary.

Driving downtown with the boss saved me both subway tokens and the issue of searching out breakfast in the morning. Miss Cousins was never quite ready when I arrived and invariably I would be offered a cup of coffee and a glass of juice. If it looked like she was going to be very late I could expect her housekeeper to up the ante and toss in some raisin toast, or maybe a bagel with cream cheese.

I should make something clear about her; she did drive on occasion. She managed to ferry herself back and forth to cottage country each weekend; she kept a cottage about two hours outside of the city and tried to visit often in the summer. She rarely drove if there was someone handy to do it for her and she would hand the keys over in an unspoken invitation to get behind the wheel. She used her time in the car with me to make telephone calls, attacking a list of messages written on pink “While You Were Out” notes.

Miss Cousins lived in midtown, not far from my faux-charming basement digs located just north of St. Clair on Bathurst Street. It wasn’t exactly a dump, but I had been promising myself that I would find a new apartment as soon as school was over. The problem was that my post-secondary education was a fluid affair; graduation had been postponed twice already and I was still living like a mole.

Miss Cousins had hired Ardie Beebe to “do up” her place when she moved in 25 years earlier. It could have been updated a bit, but the good bones of the building coupled with Ardie’s deft touch had created a perfect stage for her. The building—an early condominium called The Fairholme—offered residents a good address, door staff, valet parking and an understated residence that whispered rather than shouted.

Her apartment—half of a floor overlooking the city—had direct elevator access and a back door leading to a service staircase. Exiting the elevator guests stepped into a long gallery that ran the length of the apartment and featured a veritable treasure trove of her artwork. Large works filled one wall and were all signed Adelaide Cousins. The floor throughout was a luxurious marble checkerboard of black and white.

I wasn’t offered a tour or anything like that, but I did visit the kitchen (eat-in and with a window) and the living room. A dining room, den, two bedrooms and four bathrooms completed the layout. There was an unused maid’s room—Lourdes lived out—and another bathroom off of the kitchen.

I am not a math genius by any means (talk to Jane for that) but I could estimate that my entire apartment would fit inside her kitchen.

It goes without saying that I coveted the damn place from the first moment I stepped out of the silent elevator adorned with a Persian carpet and wood paneling. My apartment was across the hall from the laundry room in my building; I felt like I had gone through some later-day Oliver Twist experience the first time I was asked up for a cup of coffee to wait for the boss.

Miss Cousins had a BMW sedan that she leased and she replaced her car every two years. (I was envious of that, too, if you must know.) She always ordered the same model, in the same colour scheme, without visiting the dealership. This was a morsel that Jane passed on; she paid the bills, remember?

So what did I actually do all day? I wondered when you would ask that.

I was kept pretty busy, actually. The office was a busy place and there was always something going on. I increased my stature somewhat when I demonstrated my prowess with computers—specifically of the laptop variety—and subsequently was given more than mere errands to look after. It just sort of happened that I ended up spending more time with Miss Cousins and she did seem to like me.

Most of the time I proofed documents or did other office-cum-administrivia tasks. No one got near the books except Jane but I did sometimes deputize for The Secretary. Her job description was more obscure than mine. She was not a secretary in the conventional sense; chiefly because I now looked after all of the correspondence and mail. The Secretary had worked for Miss Cousins for almost 30 years and was clearly indispensable. She looked after all of the details of Miss Cousins’ life including the catalogue of work that made up her artistic output. Other duties might include attending a business meeting on the boss’ behalf, or dealing with tenants in the building where the office is located.

Did I forget to mention that? Our office was located in a building downtown that Miss Cousins owned in partnership with “some friends.” She had done okay for herself—Our Adelaide—and as soon as suitable space became available in the building she had begun to plan for the move.

Jane was out for the rest of the week and but for that fact I would not have been at the bank making a deposit when Ardie strolled through the front door. He spotted me right away and waved a hello, raising his eyebrows in recognition.

I wondered if he would remember my name.

What's in a name?

2006-09-11T16:50:00.000-04:00

Both Ardie Beebe and his sister—Beebe Grade—were occasionally mentioned in the press. Ardie, of course, valued a certain amount of publicity to support his interior design firm that was active in Toronto, Palm Beach and Muskoka. On other occasions a country home in France or Tuscany—as interpreted by the master—would warrant a breathless mention in a magazine devoted to showcasing exactly how the rich live. Or at least how they decorate.

Beebe’s name almost never appeared in print in Canada. Her family newspaper never reported on her activities unless it was absolutely impossible to avoid such a reference. It would not be possible, for example, to refrain from reporting that Mr and Mrs Grade had entertained a visiting dignitary, or that Mrs Grade had attended a luncheon on behalf of a hospital or other worthy cause. In the main, however, Beebe did not attend such luncheons. The family foundation—The Ardwold and Martha Beebe Foundation—looked after all of the philanthropic activities of the family. Charitable efforts were conducted discreetly and were not intended to garner a spot in the limelight; that would be déclassé.

Managing the media was simple if you owned the newspaper that your husband published. Any editor or reporter reckless enough to suggest an article featuring a member of the Beebe family would be corrected. Anyone foolish enough to publish a feature in a competitive newspaper or magazine would find his or her employment at The Canadian Record terminated. Freelance journalists would be blacklisted at the paper.

The media blackout was not absolute. Beebe and Ardie both appeared in the society columns in Palm Beach from time to time, but these publications were not read at home so there was no fear of creating a sensation in the media. Even these references were restricted to events they hosted: members of the Beebe family did not attach their name to events outside of their own dynastic purview.

The habit of living a private life was an old one. During the early decades of the 20th century it was the custom for fine old Canadian families of dignified stature to avoid having their names and activities appear in the popular newspapers and magazines of the day. For the ladies and gentlemen of the Beebe clan this meant that there were only three acceptable occasions where a family member should be mentioned in the newspaper: Birth, marriage and death.

Notable achievements of a public nature or those rewarding civic contributions were exceptions where it would not be right to deny the public the satisfaction of knowing that a Beebe had received the Order of Canada, for example, or had accepted an ambassadorship. Even relatively workaday business achievements—becoming chancellor of a university or running for public office—would be acceptable, although members of the Beebe family did not run for office. They influenced politics and politicians with money, connections and their powerful newspaper and publishing holdings.

In the spring of 1965 Beebe appeared in a full-page story about the new Ford Mustang; a lovely photograph of the golden-haired girl and her hale brother accompanied the piece. The image—an innocent snapshot of youth and vitality—was taken in Muskoka where Beebe and Ardie drove in the sun with the top down. The title of the article was supposed to read

“Miss Beebe in a Convertible!!”

but was mistakenly printed as

“Beebe in a Convertible!!”

and the appellation had become fixed in the popular—and private—consciousness of the city and nation ever since.

There was something rather immediate about the woman in question and it seemed right to suddenly know her by her famous surname. Her marriage into the equally stratospheric Grade family had not diminished her luminosity and she would spend the rest of her life as Beebe Grade.

Prior to the publication of this article she was not known by any particular name. Her immediate family called her Sis and her close girlfriends called her Vessy, short for her given name of Vesta.

The power of the media to create reality is very strong. Just ask Beebe Grade, formerly known as Vesta.

The truth was that Ardie rather enjoyed the odd bit of publicity. It was all rather fun to read about yourself in the newspaper and having your routine activities—socializing, designing, entertaining—presented as reportage. He had a large file of clippings of his press mentions, each carefully filed away and saved for posterity.

In the late 1960s Ardie was entangled in a messy divorce case replete with a lurid sex scandal and the name Ardwold Beebe Junior became fodder for competitive newspapers across Canada. Any attempts to shut the story down were ended when the aggrieved wife announced in open court that her husband’s affections had been alienated because of his sexual affair with Ardie Beebe. Not to be outdone, the wounded husband then announced—again in open court to a shocked audience—that his wife had also been “carrying on” with Ardie Beebe, and the nature of their relationship had precious little to do with interior décor.

The scandal that followed unleashed a maelstrom of gossip and was heady enough to see Ardie banished to Palm Beach for 18 months where his rehabilitation could take place away from the rest of the Beebe clan.

It didn’t work.

Luxuriating in his newfound fame as a roué, Ardie went out to supper nightly on his reputation as a swinger and thoroughly enjoyed his exile. Far from enduring a grim purgatory he found himself a bona fide society darling and seduced his way through two seasons before being summoned home. He returned to Toronto in the spring of 1971—more of a sensation then when he was sent packing—and declined a position with the family firm. Uninterested in the newspaper except for the revenue it generated he opened an antique shop and hung out his shingle as a decorator.

Ardie never discussed the scandal but did refer to himself thus: “I'll have you know that I happen to be a tail of two cities.”

A press release from the offices of Miss Adelaide Cousins.

Ardwold Gate

2006-09-10T11:22:00.000-04:00

1925

Toronto enjoyed a solid middle-class reputation of stability for decades. One of the kindest remarks about the city was that the best meals were served at home. Hardly a ringing endorsement for Toronto or the dining rooms of the fine hotels then serving the city.

A recession in the mid 1920s (largely eclipsed in the popular consciousness by the depression that followed it) created an attractive climate for property speculation—if you had money.

Ardwold George Beebe—founder, publisher and owner of The Canadian Record—suffered no shortage of cash and used the reduced property prices to purchase a handsome piece of property overlooking the city.

On this particular morning in the autumn of 1925 Mr and Mrs Ardwold Beebe were visiting the property with their chosen architect to mark the footprint of their proposed home. Mrs Beebe watched from the backseat of a Buick limousine while her husband pointed here and there to indicate where a wall, garden, window or wing would subsequently be erected.

The property was accessed from a lane off Spadina Road, north of the city’s famous folly, Casa Loma. Created in mock castle fashion, Casa Loma was already vacant—Sir Henry and Lady Pellat moved out in 1924, unable to pay their property taxes—and the well-heeled population of the city viewed Ardwold Beebe’s planned new home with a mixture of curiosity and speculation. Some wondered aloud if the proposed home would ever be built.

The house would be completed and the Beebe family would gaze downward on the city from their gracious family home for many years. Subsequent development near the home demanded that the laneway—now a city street—required a name.

The city fathers (there were no city mothers in those days) voted quickly to name the street after one of the city’s most illustrious citizens. The gates erected by Ardwold Beebe—the same stone gates designed to keep people out—still exist and frame the entry to the street today.

The street today is called Ardwold Gate.

Friday

2006-09-10T10:52:00.000-04:00

After work on Friday I went to a beer hall with Jane for some wings and draft. We strolled up from the office and wound our way into Kensington Market, where Jane was something of an habitué, finally entering a dive that resembled a Legion Hall and settled ourselves at a table near the back.

Jane sported a mane of hair dyed black with streaks of purple and crimson. Her usual attire was black leggings, a short black skirt, black top and a black sweater to bring it all together. With her pale skin, black eye make-up and nail polish she was the most unlikely accountant in the city.

It goes without saying that I completely adored her, and fell under her quirky spell soon after we met. Jane ordered us a small order of wings with extra hot sauce and reminded me that we couldn’t linger, as she had to be home before 7.

Jane was the mother of a 5 year-old daughter—Bethany—and shared her home with a niece who was a student at the U of T. A free spirit with an eye for real estate, she lived in the Annex in a narrow townhouse north of Bloor Street. Her unofficial family included me, some neighbours, a few single-moms, and a smattering of musicians from her “other life” as a singer. Details about Bethany’s father were sketchy, but since Jane never mentioned a name I didn’t press for details. I figured that she would tell me one day, when the time was right.

Bethany spent each afternoon with Sra. Cabral, a neighbour who spoke fractured English and also presented in black from head to toe. “She asked me once if my husband was dead,” said Jane, “or had my mother or father died within the last year. She’s a happy widow, you know, so we’re not that different. We both wear widow’s weeds and we’re both faking it.”

I passed on an invitation to supper—but made sure to get a rain check—and then hiked home using a combination of streetcar and subway.

I hated having nothing to do on a Friday night. I spent the rest of the evening surfing the net, and touring the television channels.

Thus endeth the lesson.

Baskets

2006-09-08T08:54:00.000-04:00

A small drama played out each morning surrounding who would be responsible for delivering a pot of coffee to Miss Cousins. Custom dictated that The Secretary—who had started to aim an infrequent smile in my direction—owned the privilege of coffee delivery. My arrival created a new social order, however, and it was just too appealing to refrain from having the only male in the office serve coffee. I didn’t care, really, because I had already swallowed my pride and assumed duties for walking the dogs. Oh, I also took them out to piss. {Are you jealous of my glamorous job yet?}

On this particular morning there was a buzz of activity in the office. Miss Cousins had attended a cocktail party the night before at the home of a bigwig property developer and his socially aware wife (aware, that is, that she was not considered socially desirable) but had left early. Ardie Beebe had dropped by to say hello and discuss the event.

“The house looks perfect, with his fingerprints all over it,” said Miss Cousins, motioning with her cig toward the sofa where Ardie lay stretched and laughing. “I didn’t see the refrigerator, obviously,” she said as an aside to The Secretary, “but I can already see the baskets. Part of his shtick is to fill the ‘fridge with baskets; one for condiments; one for deli; one for cocktail nibbles. They love him—all these women—they’ll do anything he says!” Adelaide gave her “Ha!” of a laugh and exhaled dragon plumes of thick, pungent smoke from her nostrils while her audience (including me, balancing a coffee tray) each laughed according to rank. I was guilty of no more than a kind chuckle while Ardie roared and called Miss Cousins a bitch.

“You missed good fun, Adelaide,” said Ardie, repositioning an ashtray on the credenza behind her desk. The office and all of its tasteful décor traced their provenance to Ardie, his discerning eye, and his dangerous charm. Quiet references to “the good life” were his hallmarks. No one item overshadowed another, and his taste—quiet, elegant and expensive—referred to a pedigree of understated class. His grace notes were intelligence—nothing looked more important that Miss Cousins’ own artworks—and an uncanny ability to determine exactly how much money a client would spend before balking at, say, an occasional chair that cost $7,000.00.

“Everyone in town showed up right after you left and Esther achieved a certain minor nirvana; I told her that 5 until 7 is the thing to do. Who knows,” smiled Ardie, “Esther just might take the city by storm.”

Nobody laughed at this last remark. Ardie knew these things.

The second-hand smoke choking the air was heavy—honestly, between Miss Cousins, Ardie Beebe and The Secretary they constituted a health threat in one room—and only barely relieved when Miss Cousins leaned over to slide a window open. The telltale aroma was so obvious that ignoring it was impossible. I later spied The Secretary with a bottle of perfume in her hand, spritzing the office with a delicate mist of floral and citrus.

The essence of a certain perfume was something I would ultimately come to always associate with Miss Cousins. Years later I would search her apartment until I finally located a large bottle of scent, uncapped and left discreetly behind a cabinet. A pretty subterfuge to freshen the air, but all that would be much later. For today the sun was shining in a blue sky with a horizon as open as a heart worn on your sleeve. There was no threat of darkness or scandal, only the promise of good times ahead.

“Stay for lunch, Ardie?” asked Miss Cousins, blowing a long stream of smoke toward the ceiling. The ashtray on her desk—shamelessly full—was part of a set. There was another next to Ardie, who took long drags on cigarettes that were replaced from a silver case. He was affected—sure—but he could pull it off. I watched him stir his coffee and determined then and there to emulate some of his smooth mannerisms.

There was a certain charm to this particular twosome; she was taut like a spring where Ardie was laidback and cool like jazz. He was already in his 50s, but it wasn’t hard to see where Ardie had been a looker. He still was, really, with his fine head of silver hair, his too deep tan from a summer at the lake, and his toned body that showed discipline to exercise. His voice was deep but otherwise unremarkable, although his vocabulary was impressive. Big five-dollar words that would make other people sound stuffy sounded perfectly normal coming from Ardie. He was witty—so was Miss Cousins—and they clearly enjoyed verbally sparring with one another; they teased one another, but without malice or desire to wound.

He really hasn’t missed a trick, I thought, as he tapped another cigarette on the case before putting it in his mouth. He reached for the lighter—Miss Cousins had a drawer full of cheap disposable lighters promoting an astonishing array of beer brands, casinos, Chinese restaurants, and trucks—and lit his latest torch while still speaking. With a cigarette glowing from the corner of his mouth he observed me from his perch in front of the desk. His eyes were clear and his gaze was a bit unsettling; why did everyone in this office make me so damn nervous? Ardie stared for a few moments and then turned to say to the boss that he was “only staying for lunch if he could pour the wine” and I was sent trotting up the street to buy four bottles of wine, two crisp fifty-dollar bills from Ardie’s wallet tucked in my front pocket.

Lunch was subsequently delivered (I was fetching wine, remember?) from an Italian restaurant a few blocks down from the office. Individual lunch orders were not taken as lunch was “by invitation” and Miss Cousins was our hostess; good guests ate what was put in front of them. Today I started with a crisp salad followed by a veal limone that was, well, lemony, and two glasses of a solid red wine purchased by me and requested by Ardie. We ate in the boardroom, with dishes, cutlery and glassware (how do you tell if something is real crystal?) from the adjacent kitchen.

Miss Cousins took the head of the table, indicating that Ardie should sit at the other end. I sat across from Jane, who kept Ardie in stitches talking about her recent long weekend in Montreal. Jane looked after Ardie’s books, on permanent retainer, and Ardie kept trying to get her to talk about “her boyfriends” in la belle province.

“You won’t get anything out of her, Ardie, she’s the soul of discretion” said Miss Cousins, with mock solemnity. “She’ll take her secrets to the grave, along with everyone’s dirty financial laundry.”

“Thank God or somebody for that!” said Ardie. “Because I damn well don’t want to have to tangle with Beebe!”

Howls of laughter greeted this comment while I sat in silence, not party to the in-joke.

“Oh, Ardie—sometimes you are just too much. You really are,” said Jane, “what am I going to do with you? Tell me that.”

Reported today from the Studio of Miss Adelaide Cousins.

Ardie Beebe

2006-09-07T11:16:00.000-04:00

Harry Steinberg found himself sitting one evening on the terrace of his recently decorated midtown Toronto mansion listening to Essie—pardon me, Esther as she now liked to be called—talk about cinema and film with that feygele decorator, Ardie Beebe. The film festival had launched and le tout Toronto was buzzing with breathless stories about what celebrity had lunch at what cafe. Harry couldn't have cared less; watching tv at home was far more comfortable than shlepping to some over-priced cinema to eat stale popcorn.

Essie sat curled at the foot of his chaise lounge, one leg underneath her, laughing at something Ardie said. She had lost weight recently, he noticed, and her hair-do had changed. Lighter, shorter, and with a few highlights that made her look years younger. Harry smiled contentedly to himself, and again noted how Essie's diet had not caused her to lose too much heft "up top."

Ardie had introduced Essie to the luxury of a cocktail, and she had since become enamored of vodka and tonic water, with lots of lime wedges. Supper was now always preceeded by drinks a deux, and they were entertaining guests a few times a week. Her new slim figure required a new slim wardrobe and Essie bubbled with energy as she showed off her gams in well-tailored capri pants, chic sandals and a perfect pedicure.

Harry shouted and Essie cried when the bill for the decoration exceeded a quarter of a million dollars, but he did have to admit that Essie had never been happier. Only last week she had climbed into bed after her morning shower and surprised him with sponataneous oral sex and called him “Firecracker” as he left for the office.

Harry suspected Ardie was behind Essie’s new oral skills, so he couldn’t be all bad. Besides, sipping a gin martini and having a few laughs wasn’t exactly a hardship, he reasoned. Ardie’s favourite tipple was vodka on ice, but tonight he was drinking red wine—another new interest of Essie’s—and charming the guests. Essie bounced up to check on the “kitchen” and promised to tell everyone about her new Pilates class when she returned.

Life, Harry Steinberg decided, was okay. Besides, a man's home really was his castle.

Ardie was accompanied by his sister, Beebe Grade, who was something of an institution in the city. Married to the publisher of a national newspaper, Mrs Grade--called Beebe as an homage to her own illustrious parentage--was a social lioness who appeared unwilling to play her part. With her brittle tone and tight smile she made Harry somewhat nervous. You never could tell what these waspy women were thinking, he thought, while watching Beebe finish her drink with obvious relish.

"Can I get you another?" sang Essie, as she darted into the house.

Beebe responded by turning her rictus of a smile toward Mrs Harry Steinberg--all teeth and bright shining eyes, with red lipstick just starting to bleed into her lips--and replied that she would enjoy this one being "freshened up" but she certainly did not want another drink.

From that moment forward Essie would never again offer anyone more of anything.

Adelaide Cousins had arrived and left early; she had knocked back three drinks and twice as many cigarettes--using a potted plant as an ashtray--and Harry observed that goys really did drink a lot. Even the women.

Even the women.

Mute Commute.

2006-09-06T12:07:00.000-04:00

Flushed from the natural high of landing my new job I marched home by foot and took a pass on the subway. The city was experiencing a series of sunny days and cool temperatures and the good citizens were undecided about what clothing was suitable for the post-Labour Day (but still warm summer weather) season that had settled in. The rabble was attired in a mix of summer clothes mixed with dark fall items. I was somewhere in between, with a fall sports jacket and a summer shirt. To hell with the sartorial conseuqences: I had a job!

The Secretary arrived first every morning and I never did manage to beat her to the time clock. A rumour subsequently circulated among les flunkies that she (or is that She?) slept on a mat at the office. It was unkind, but her natural reserve was hard to breach. Uncertain as to her private life, she would remain forever a distant figure to most of the gang who toiled for Miss Cousins. Crisp, immaculate attire and a certain aloof nature were the props she relied on. I decided to like her, for no specific reason, knowing that we would be working in close proximity.

I arrived with a Starbucks in hand, a potent symbol of my new high office, and smiled a warm greeting.

Miss Cousins enjoyed the habit of arriving at her own office sometime after the morning traffic had abated. Her hours were erratic, unplanned, and always built around a "calendar" that was jealously guarded by The Secretary.

My first tasks were mundane. Deliver this, pick up that, take the car for a wash and assume responsibility for lunch orders. Despite the decidedly low-end nature of my duties I approached them with a certain gravitas.

I wasn't merely delivering an envelope; I was personally handing over documents from Miss Adelaide Cousins. Lunch became a pageant of thoughtfulness with extra napkins, plastic forks, or bottles of water. When I arrived at a law office to collect some papers I made sure to handle the envelope as if I was weighing the contents.

It worked once, but it was a clumsy move that failed to impress the harried receptionist who tipped me a buck. (The bitch.)

What did I enjoy most about work at "the office?"

The afternoon cocktail hour was a popular institution, which occured right after the markets closed. Long a favoured part of Her afternoon, Miss Cousins was happy to have a body nearby capable of driving her home. This one task--Driving Miss Cousins--separated me from the rest of the crew who did not enjoy (if that is the word) such close access to AC. I drove home with the careful attention of a new driver, in silence.

Unfortunately my status as Official Driver meant I was restricted in what I could imbibe at the cocktail party. I endeared myself--to everyone--when I announced that I could make a mean pitcher of Manhattans. Jane (who did billing three days a week) had two and took a cab home. I could now add "Cocktail Shaker Jockey" to my growing list of duties.

Work, it turns out, is a matter of style. Miss Cousins had it in abundance.

Being the true account of my life with Miss Adelaide Cousins.

Life goes 9 to 5 from 10 until 6

2006-09-05T15:23:00.000-04:00

Life at the new office coincided with some changes to the roster of regulars who make up Miss Cousins' life. Back to my usual chores of school, study, art and--ugh--work I was happy to receive a call from The Secretary who informed me that "Miss Cousins wants to see you Tuesday at 10AM VERY SHARP."

The regular shlepper had left town and Miss Cousins was in dire need of some "additional help" on a laissez-faire basis.

I actually skipped a class to attend and truly fretted over what to wear. What would work best? My options were limited to either looking like an artist (not hard) or looking like a student who needed a job (also not hard). I opted for artist and hoped for the best.

I showed up--before 10--and waited quietly while The Secretary read from the stack of newspapers on her desk. She skimmed with precision, silently clipping and circling certain items. From time to time she would exclaim "Ridiculous!" or cluck disapproval over some snippet she had read.

At precisely 10Am the door opened and Miss Cousins walked in. She gave me a welcoming glance of hello and indicated with her eyes that I should follow her.

Tagging along behind AC and The Secretary (who had lost weight; I noticed) I accepted a number of items to carry. Newspapers, magazines, some file folders, a stack of mail and a large satchel. Adelaide issued orders in her signature voice: deep, husky, unmistakable and well-seasoned from smoke and drink.

The new digs were larger, and it was obvious that Miss Cousins had spent some coin on the decor. Her own office had a grouping of low-slung leather chairs surrounding a glass cocktail table. Near the desk four chairs for visitors were arranged in a semi-circle (perfect for her disciples) and I observed--quickly--that these chairs were lower than her own. Supplicants visiting Miss Adelaide Cousins would all look up. All of the art on display was good, and not all of it bore the signature "Adelaide Cousins." The view encompassed a large swath of the city and there was a door on each side wall. The door to the main lobby was always left slightly ajar, exposing the hive of activity outside her private office. The overall effect was one of refined good taste, punched with bright lights from art and furniture.

In silence a contract was placed in front of me. I would have signed any job offer but spent a few moments looking over the "terms" to indicate that I was a man with options. Adelaide sat down behind the desk and rummaged for a lighter. (Smoking laws and regulations be damned; Adelaide always had a burn on the go.)

The job could not have been more loosely defined. I could not tell if I was being recruited to be a personal assistant, a Guy Friday, or a flunky with good table manners.

"I need an assistant," exhaled Miss Cousins. "You need a job."

Eight words sealed my fate. Assistant to Adelaide Cousins, or assistant to The (dreaded) Secretary?

"You'll work directly for me, and I have enough to keep you busy. I can work around your schedule." Adelaide looked at me over her sunglasses, tinted for brightness but capable of hiding the fine lines that now surrounded her eyes and--to be honest--were no longer merely fine.

The first order of the day was my wardrobe, which was deemed "lovely" and The Secretary advanced me a cheque and gave me a business card for a men's clothing store that was way out of my snack-bracket.

How do you get a discount from a top clothier when you can't afford a thing? You accept a job with the store-owner's landlord.

Reported today from the office of (Miss) Adelaide Cousins.

La dictée

2005-07-28T21:37:00.000-04:00

Overheard Miss Cousins on the telephone, and she wasn't at all happy. It seems the dramas of last year have returned like a boring souvenir that had been long forgotten. The afternoon was uneventful; some clients visited the practice and there was a long strategy session in the boardroom.

I drove her home, stopping to pick up supper at a food shoppe near the apartment. The car was still dusty from the trip to the lodge, and Adelaide was in an impatient mood. I cashed in some serious car-karma and found a parking spot rightoutsidethedamndoor and returned with supper in record time. I brown-nosed a bit and slipped a Toblerone bar into the shopping bag of take-out, hoping it would be interpreted as a kind token.

We drove home in silence, the radio tuned to a college radio station. I parked the car, handed the keys over, and prepared to hike back to my studio apartment several blocks away. I had a box of Kraft Dinner to look forward to, and my diet included cable tv. Later on, I had a date on the Internet (I know, I know) and a shower in mind.

Since supper orders were always dispacthed by The Secretary, the simple task of picking-up the victuals was considered perfunctory, and therefore within my range of capabilities. The orders were always wrapped and sealed, contents unknown.

On this night I was told that there was "far too much" for two, and that the main course was cold salmon (not my favourite) under a cucumber sauce, with sides of summer vegetables, salad, wild rice and an opening salvo (I looked after the toaster oven) of warmed-up cheese straws.

Miss Cousins--Adelaide--made Martinis while the cheese straws warmed, and I was careful to drink like a goodboy. Dessert was chocolate cake and ice cream for me, a final glass of wine and a cigarette for Miss Cousins. I slipped the Toblerone bar onto the counter, leaving it on a small china saucer I found in the cupboard.

I was dismissed at 9:30 and told I could take the car home. I confirmed--at attention--that I would be at the side door of the building at 9:15 the next morning.

I drove home carefully, easing into a berth in the underground of my building next to an ancient compact and under a suspicious pipe. I checked that the doors were locked twice. A final leer into the interior reassured me that there was nothing--at all--of any value in the cabin.

I tossed the keys on my kitchen counter with an easy nonchalance and called it a night.

The Editorial Collective of
The Adelaide Cousins Project