“Let’s sleep at the new house,” I say. It’s September 13, 2011, closing day.

“Good idea!” He replies.

Our movers are arranged five days from now but we’re too excited to go back to our separate homes. 

Jack first mentioned moving in together well over a year ago but I hesitated. Would what we have - so good, so rich, so fun - survive the daily grind of cohabitation? “It’s time to share the burden,” he said, tipping the balance. We’ve spent the last three months searching for the perfect house midway between my downtown condo and Jack’s suburban home. Three weeks ago, I was sold on this Weston wartime house for a few reasons: the clothesline to help offset my growing carbon footprint; the purply-blue 1950s arborite counter; the storage rooms in the basement clearly designed for a serial killer; and the basement bar. 

“I bought this in Chile visiting my in-laws,” he tells me, pulling out a bottle of good red from a wooden wine box. 

“OK, that’s a bit weird but I’m not saying ‘no’ to a Chilean red,” I reply as I rummage through the bar cupboards looking for a corkscrew. I know there will be one here; we bought this place as is, including some furniture, glasses, paint cans, high school notes, a vintage green Mac, and, surely, a corkscrew. Yes! success. 

Jack pulls the cork out with the speed and confidence of a swordsman brandishing his sword.  “We’ll let it breathe,” he says with a laugh. Neither of us is a wine connoisseur and we’re about to drink this with a greasy pizza directly from the box. Nonetheless, it’s an occasion so I rinse out two huge red wine goblets from the glass shelves against the gold-veined mirrored tiles. God I love this bar. 

We sit side by side on the black and red Naugahyde and chrome barstools, more legacy from the previous owner. Our knees touch in front of the teak slat skirt that encircles the bar. Pot-lights shine from the black bulkhead providing just the right light for Jack to pour generous glassfuls. We clink and kiss - our first 'na zdrowie’ of the next phase of our relationship.

***

Jack spends most of his waking hours in the basement where his designated smoking area is. The dogs are sequestered there during the day while we’re working. The largest TV and my piano are both down there too. Result? the basement - and the bar in particular - becomes the heart of the house.

As we get the hang of living together, good cheer is the blood that pumps through that heart. Family dinner parties start with bar-side appetizers and Prosecco. Office garden party guests load their plates from the buffet on the bar. We hit our stride with New Year’s Eve parties where the bar provides just the right 70s vibe. Whether Jack is pouring draught from the tap he instals or offering late night brandy, he radiates the happiness we both feel. 

***

It’s Saturday, February 13, 2016. Diagnosed with lung cancer two months earlier, Jack’s been through the first round of chemo and the second will begin Monday. With it, he’ll have three weeks of twice daily chest radiation. Tomorrow, we were to have flown first to Hawaii and then on to New Zealand where we’d planned to elope. Instead, we’ll spend those three weeks travelling to the hospital. 

We’re hosting a party tonight I’ve called “In Lieu of a Luau.” We’ve asked our friends to come decked out in Hawaiian-themed clothes. I hand out plastic leis. We’ll do our best to transport ourselves to a sunnier place, physically and emotionally.  

Our closest friends, family, and neighbours are around the bar, including our good friends, Eve and Hubert. We’ve let folks know over the last few months we are thinking of getting married. “Not a big deal,” we say when people are concerned about how treatment will affect the wedding. “We’ll do it when we can.” 

Hubert has cornered Jack who is behind the bar, ready to pour as needed. I eavesdrop for a moment.

“But have you proposed?” Hubert asks.

“Well, we’re getting married. Just not sure when,” is Jack’s casual reply.

“But have you proposed?” Hubert asks again, growing urgency in his voice. He’s not giving up. I smile to myself. While many brides-to-be would crave some big display and romantic gesture on bended knee, I’m not one of them. Being with Jack is all I need. We hatched our plan to elope as a fun thing to do on our trip. Being married will endear ourselves to the health team at the hospital and for that reason alone may be a good idea. It may give me some more clout in decision-making with the family too, if it comes to that, but honestly it’s not a big deal. We are a solid couple. That’s what matters.

“No, but we’re getting married,” Jack replies, also not concerned. 

Hosting duties pull me away from my listening-in.

“Celia-mia, come here,” I hear a few minutes later. Jack’s moved from the bartending position, now grinning at me while leaning on the back of a yellow leather chair in the middle of the room. 

“Just a sec, Jack,” I reply, refilling a neighbour’s glass with red wine. 

“Put the bottle down and come.” He is more insistent now, a bit giggly. 

I comply and move towards him, laughing, not certain what’s going to happen. He motions for me to sit and then perches on the leather ottoman in front of the chair. With a wave of his hand, he silences the room. 

“Will you marry me?” he asks, suddenly serious while slipping a giant strawberry onto my ring finger - the Polish McGyver always uses what’s at hand. 

“Yes!” I respond. The party goes from Hawaiian theme to wedding theme in an instant and we end the evening with toasts of “cheers” and "na zdrowie.” Such fun!

***

“The bed won’t fit there,” the medical equipment guy says to me. He’s referring to the space where, less than a week earlier, 65 people filled their plates with the food I’d prepared for my stepdaughter’s wedding reception. The wedding was moved up so Jack could attend. His 2016 treatment had gone well but cancer recurred in early 2018. Now it’s October and he has only a few more weeks to live. The buffet space is being filled with a hospital bed.

“Let’s try,” I reply. “I don’t know where else it can go.” Jack’s smoking room is steps in one direction and his bathroom a few more in the other. But the deliverer is right: there is a metal support post in the middle of the room and the space between the wall and the post may be just a titch too short to accommodate the bed. If Jack were here, he’d know precisely if it would fit. But he’s upstairs asleep on the couch where he’s spent most of the past week.  

I cross my fingers and he maneuvers the frame into the space. I hear a scratch of metal on metal but it’s wedged. 

“Oh good.” I say, relieved. Jack’s decided he’s going to die with medical assistance and he wants to do it at home. A month later, that’s exactly what happens, surrounded by his closest family. I can think of no better place than in the shadow of the bar.*  

***

After Jack’s death, the heart of the house moves from the basement to the main floor. Sure, I host two more New Year’s Eve events but then COVID brings a sudden halt to parties and shifts all our priorities. 

Now I am working with an architect to redesign my garage as my own laneway suite while at the same time working with designers and my handyman to convert my house to two furnished rental units. I have neither space nor need for a 70s rec room and as tough as it is to do, I am looking for a new home for the bar, a place where it can be loved and used, as Jack and I did for those seven wonderful years. 

If you or someone you know would like to come and remove my bar, it is free to a good home. If no-one wants it intact, I will try to incorporate elements of it in my new smaller digs in the backyard. 

It is a spectacular piece and deserves to live on beyond my memories. 

* See the series beginning here on the last 10 days of Jack’s life including his MAID death.