I was never in love before I met Ivan, although I surely did try to convince myself that the flutter, the flips in my gut, were indications of this elusive emotion countless times before.

As much as I was seduced into Harlequin romance paper-back novels, imagining my knight in shining armour, in reality I would scoff, let my cynical nature guffaw at happily-ever-after endings. I rationalized my obsession with this dime-store drivel as research; I knew it was formula writing. Even before I invested in writing courses and seriously tried to expand my abilities, I was sure that any fool could write this slop. I kept reading.

There must be a continual biological influence, the need to find a dominate male who can take the role of hunter and protector. Without realizing it, the shopping list was imbedded in my subconscious. I approved most of them, without the use of coupons or guarantees, but the men, well, the best I can rationalize is that regardless my compliance, were not impressed by my credentials. Perhaps they smelled my passive desire to conquer, my misgivings, the ability to compromise, so that I could declare my goals validated.

I was operating from a blurred sense of expectation. It took a half century later, long after Ivan's death for me to understand that not only have I loved once in my life-I was in love.

I'd known Ivan for years before our love affair began. He was my first boss when I was working as a part-time associate in a retail store, earning money to continue my education. There was a powerful connection, but one denied by both of us. Marital status, an age difference and the obvious difference in our positions of power kept us within the confines of our flirtations.

Years later we ran into each other in a shopping mall. The first thing he said to me was "Man, have you ever gained weight." A sure fire pick-up line

He invited me to a cocktail party that night. He was a director of a major jewellery retailer supervising estate jewellery. Over coffee he told me about his adventures, purchasing a Faberge egg in Europe and finding a buyer in New York. He'd barely stepped off an International flight before boarding a flight to NYC to sell the treasure, making a hundred thousand dollar profit for the company.

He regaled me with stories about the United Kingdom agents and the history of so many items he had in inventory. I was bedazzled by his anecdotes and rushed home to dress for the party, a downtown, invitation-only preview for selected clientele of the estate exhibition at the flagship store.

There was sensuality to the cocktail party, a seduction aimed at invited guests who were encouraged to spend money. I was an unlikely customer, but I easily accepted a flute of champagne and noshed on smoked salmon and Beluga caviar.
Surprisingly, there were several staff members whom I'd worked with behind the jewellery counter during my part-time years. I was genuinely delighted to see them again. While Ivan was busy enchanting potential customers with his stories and subtle sales approach, I sipped sparkling wine and caught up with old colleagues. They told me that the collection was moving to Montreal after the week in Toronto and I immediately launched into my memories of that city.

"Montreal is the only city I know where making love and eating decadent food is worth the cost of the flight." I said.

Suddenly an 'En Route' credit card came skimming across the counter. It stopped directly in front of me, challenging my reaction.

"Perhaps the next time you decide to go to Quebec, you might consider travelling with an old friend."

In the space of a few square yards, in the middle of a noisy room, everyone became silent.

I looked down at the credit card, at my old friends' shocked faces and finally at Ivan. I picked up the credit card and put it into my pocket.

Ivan was almost immediately summoned to assist in closing a sale. I left the group completely unsure as to what had happened and what I'd promised with the small gesture.

For the rest of the night we sought out each others eyes, questioning, validating our intentions.

I didn't know what to do with the credit card. I had no idea whether I was working on remote control, drama or sincerity. The man in the designer suit kept moving through the room, his eyes constantly following me as I tried to admire the collections displayed in the showcases. I was convinced that the only escape left was a quick departure. I asked for my coat and Ivan was immediately at my side.

"I have a reservation at the Florentine Court. I'll be ready to leave in ten minutes," he said.

It was a ten minute walk from the store to the restaurant. We continued our banter until halfway there. I turned to him and simply asked, "Most men are afraid of me, why aren't you?"

He laughed. "Nothing has happened. If you want to continue, you'll call me tomorrow. We are simply going out for dinner."

Like most women, I was baffled. I was used to a reactionary response to compliments and would succumb or deny fulfilment based on some subliminal shopping list. Being told, in no uncertain terms, that I was the one who was in charge of the future was intimidating and frightening. In spite of this power, I was terrified. How much easier it was, I thought, to simply gauge every scene, the passive role of being the one who could halt the seduction at any moment without explanation.

The bastard was asking for a clear commitment, perhaps not for the rest of our lives, then surely the tumble in linens. I'd given Ivan back the credit card during dinner, but it now came down to a phone call.

After a restless night and a disruptive morning, I made the call.

By the time we got to Montreal, we'd torn up the sheets in a dozen hotels. Montreal was a page in our lives, but one that continues to remain firmly cemented in my eternity. My declaration about Montreal at that cocktail party, turned into childish naivete.


Ivan had spent twelve hours on his feet selling dreams and making profit for his company, yet he made a reservation at 'Les Halles,' a fabulous Montreal restaurant in its day. I don't remember what we ate, it was the chef's menu, but I remember dessert, peppered strawberries and Armagnac, France's hidden cognac.

We took a ride in the rain on a horse-drawn carriage through the cobblestone streets of Old Montreal. We got back to the hotel, soaked and a little drunk. We both paused behind the door, giddy with having survived both our skin soaked chill and our debauchery in the streets of Montreal.

Ivan started a bath, filled it with bubbles from an expensive purchase at a cosmetic counter. The room was infused with the scent of serenity and comfort. We crawled into the bathtub, floating a brandy glass between us, our awkward nakedness long forgotten.

That night as he reached over, spooning, cuddling me and pulling me so close that his heartbeat was the lullaby, the finale to our weekend, we didn't make love. We slept peacefully until the morrow, returning to our lives in Toronto.

I suppose if I had a line of reference, a bridge between child-like expectations and really loving a man, this might have been the night, the memory that has survived all these years, the floods, the tornadoes and hurricanes that snuck on both of us; the night that I understood that I was 'in love' with Ivan Rogers. In between then and now, death, including his own, horrific life challenges and disappointments might lead witnesses of this romantic moment to think that was my epiphany.

Nothing could be further from the truth.

It was the commitment, sometimes shadowed in distain, occasionally mirrored with disappointment, revulsion and judgement.

We never went to Montreal again together. We never made love in that sensuous city, but we never let go.

Ivan's famous quote, the one he repeated and I believed, was his declaration that we always held hands.

"Yes, if we let go," he said. "We might kill each other."