Darkness at Daylight

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.