Chapter 4 - THE DRESSING ROOM REHEARSAL
On Friday evening, Hugo brought home flowers.
Not the cheap carnations from the corner Korean grocer, but two dozen white hydrangeas from the boutique shop on Cumberland—stiff, pale blooms that looked like cauliflower heads arranged in heavy green florist’s foam.
"For my two favorite girls," he announced, setting them on the dining table. "One for the centerpiece here, and the rest we’ll take to the restaurant tomorrow for Jean’s table. I reserved the private cellar room at *L’Avenue* on Bloor. Five courses. Wine pairings. Aunt Frances is coming in from Oakville with her daughters, and I even sent a town car for your cousin Mark in Pickering."
"A town car," I said, slicing lemons for the salmon. "That’s generous, Hugo. Mark hasn't spoken to Frances since the cottage probate five years ago."
Hugo walked behind me, unbuttoned his cuffs, and rolled them back with practiced precision. "That’s why the private room is so important, Abs. We need everyone under one roof. When a family gets older, you have to create occasions for healing. If someone doesn't take the lead, people drift. They get stubborn. They die in empty houses surrounded by old furniture because no one had the courage to tell them it was time to move on."
He took the knife from my hand, set the lemon aside, and began slicing the fruit into transparent, wafer-thin discs.
His hands were so steady. I watched the blade rise and fall, missing his thumb by millimeters every time, perfectly controlled, perfectly safe.
"Did you find the property file?" he asked casually.
The kitchen went entirely still except for the sizzle of butter in the skillet.
"Which one?" I asked.
"The Pape Avenue deed. You mentioned you brought it from the house last month to check the easement for the water lateral."
"I think it’s in the bottom of my cedar chest," I lied smoothly. "Under Dad’s old woolen blankets. Why? Do we need it for the taxes?"
Hugo didn't miss a stroke with the knife. "Just thought we should have it on hand tomorrow. I spoke to an estate planner this morning—colleague of Lena’s from the board. He said if Jean signs the assignment of interest on her actual birthday, we can grandfather the municipal transfer under the old probate exemption before the new provincial surtax kicks in on Monday."
He turned to me, the knife resting flat against the cutting board, his eyes wide and clear.
"We could save seventy thousand dollars in transfer duties, Abby. That’s seventy thousand that stays in Jean’s account for her assisted care. If we wait until next week, the province takes it."
"Seventy thousand," I repeated. "That's a lot of money."
"It’s everything," he said softly, stepping closer. "All we need is her signature on the transfer form, and then you sign as the secondary beneficiary. It takes two minutes between the soup and the entrée. Mark and Frances can witness it. It’ll be a celebration. A clean slate for her."
He looked at me with such genuine, protective tenderness that if I hadn't spent forty-five minutes in the cellar with my father’s green tin box, I would have dropped my head against his chest and thanked him for being the man who held our family together.
"You've thought of everything," I whispered.
"I promised Arthur I would," he said, and his voice actually had a tiny catch in it—a masterwork of emotional tremolo that would have earned him a standing ovation at the Royal Alex. "He told me in the hospital, Abs. He said, *'Look after my girls.'* I’m just trying to keep my word."
That night, while he was in the living room on a conference call with his "logistics team"—which I now knew was Lena Vance and two property syndicators from Montreal—I took my evening bag from the closet.
It was a small, structured clutch of black corded silk that had belonged to my mother in the seventies. It had a brass clasp that shut with a snap like a small dry twig breaking.
Inside, I placed:
1. A high-capacity USB drive containing the full three-minute recording from the supply closet, along with the PDF downloads of the corporate registry for Vance & Calder Strategies.
2. The certified copy of Arthur Mercer’s deed of trust from 2021, showing that Jean Mercer had no legal power to assign the Pape Avenue title to anyone, anywhere, under any circumstances.
3. A printout of the preliminary zoning application submitted to the City of Toronto two weeks ago for 412–416 Pape Avenue—an application bearing Hugo’s signature as the "Authorized Representative of the Owner."
He had forged my mother’s name on the municipal variance forms fourteen days before her birthday.
I placed the clutch on the dresser, right beside the white hydrangeas.
When Hugo came to bed at midnight, he smelled of the peppermint mouthwash he used to disguise the scent of the cigarettes he only smoked when a big deal was closing. He pulled the duvet over our shoulders, turned onto his side, and laid his heavy arm across my waist, pinning me to the mattress with the comfortable, domestic weight of six years of habit.
"Sleep well, birthday girl’s daughter," he murmured into my hair.
"Goodnight, Hugo," I said to the ceiling.
May you like
I stayed awake until the gray light from the streetcar wires began to crawl across the cornices, watching the hydrangeas slowly drop their first three petals onto the polished wood below.
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