5. Marry the Nice One

My first marriage failed; my second has endured and flourished.

After Canadian voters tossed out the federal Liberals in 1984, and Brian Mulroney and the Conservative Party took over in Ottawa, I moved back to Montreal for the second time and took a position at a bank in government affairs. Jonathan, a casual acquaintance from the Hill whom a mutual friend had introduced me to, was another casualty of the changed political tide and moved back to Montreal, where he had grown up. We ran into each other on the street.

I wondered why I hadn’t been interested in getting to know him better while we both lived in Ottawa. Despite our mutual friend, our paths had only crossed a couple of times.

Our first date, if you can call it that, was not exactly a romantic invitation. Jonathan asked me to attend a fund-raising dinner for the African projects of the Cardinal Léger Foundation.

“My company is sponsoring a table, and my father is on the board of this foundation. Can you go?”

I thought the evening went as well as could be expected for a business event, but I wanted to get to know him better. He didn’t think I was interested.

Taking matters into my own hands, I asked Jonathan for dinner at a nice restaurant with a group of my buddies, including our mutual friend. I picked him up, brought flowers, and ensured he saw that I could relax and have fun. We enjoyed a great meal, laughed, had a lively dinner discussion fueled by a few bottles of wine, and then went dancing. I knew right then that this guy would always make me laugh. The date ended the next morning, and if he didn’t know whether I was interested before that moment, he knew it then.

And the rest is history. But it almost wasn’t.

I say that because even after our promising real date, our relationship was near-miss. I was reminded of this when I found a little red handbag in the back of my closet during a recent housecleaning spree. I purchased the bag on our trip to Italy a few months after we started dating. Full of enthusiasm and youthful confidence, we had planned to spend two weeks together. The small handbag in my favourite shade of red that I have kept all these years unleashes memories of our first trip each time I hold it in my hands.

I bought it in Florence, at a leather boutique near the Ponte Vecchio. I can still vividly recall the old-world charm of the shop, with mahogany shelves stretching up to the ceiling, filled with exquisite handbags of every colour and size. Along the walls were display cases overflowing with beautiful leather gloves. Everything was expensive. I visited the store at least twice, lingering over the merchandise and attempting to resist the temptation. Finally, I gave in and purchased a small red handbag, disregarding both my budget and common sense.

The bag was stunning, but the trip wasn’t going particularly well. There was tension. I liked to sleep in and needed coffee before I could function. No caffeine meant a headache that felt like a vice-grip progressively tightening around my skull. Jonathan shot out of bed at dawn like a rocket, eager to consult the Michelin Green Guide. He would calculate how many churches and museums we could visit that day. I preferred to spend the late afternoon people-watching in a café or bar, sipping a glass of wine. He needed to see another museum before it closed.

After that inaugural trip, I wasn’t hopeful about our relationship. Yet somehow, we found our way across our differences.

I was nervous, at first, about bringing Jonathan home and introducing him to my family. Not because he was Jewish and my parents were devoutly Catholic, but because my parents' home was modest, they were immigrants, and my upbringing was so different from his own. In high school, my best friends' fathers were the director of a funeral home and the owner of a pizza parlour. My father served Niagara wines, which in those days did not have the cachet they do today. His parents seemed so much more sophisticated and accomplished. His father, Victor, had been a Quebec cabinet minister, was just completing a long tenure as CEO of the Canadian Council of Christians and Jews and would soon become Canada’s Commissioner of Official Languages. His mother, Sheila, was a professor of Social Work at McGill University.

Jonathan’s parents lived in a comfortable home in Westmount situated on a quiet street with handsome two-storey Georgian Revival houses showing off pretty flower boxes and manicured small lawns. This is where he had spent his childhood. It was located two blocks from the private boys’ school he had attended. He and his two siblings had graduated from Harvard. Jonathan’s parents were prominent members of Montreal’s vibrant Jewish community. This was a world apart from where I grew up.

The first time I was invited to meet his parents was for a Rosh Hashana dinner, which marked the Jewish New Year. The table set for twelve was worthy of a magazine spread: three glasses, an array of silver, folded white linen napkins and antique Minton plates at each place. Jonathan’s father presided at one end and his mother from the other. A French wine was served, which his father had carefully decanted into a heavy crystal decanter. The conversation was lively and centred around politics and current events, with Jonathan’s mother asking questions and keeping the discussion animated.

After enjoying apples and honey and receiving an explanation about the symbolic significance, during the lull between courses, Jonathan’s brother took the opportunity to inquire extensively about my background. The others seated around the table listened to this friendly interrogation.

I found a way to escape by offering to help Jonathan's mother finish clearing the first course. In the kitchen, she asked for my assistance in making the mashed potatoes and, to my surprise, handed me a box.

“It's my little secret,” she confided with a smile.

It was an elegant Westmount dinner, yet here was this woman serving instant mashed potatoes. Sheila, I quickly learned, was not known for her culinary prowess, but she was a gracious hostess who could hold her own alongside her accomplished husband. She was the polar opposite of my mother, who had the remarkable ability to single-handedly prepare a delicious meal with several complex dishes but rarely expressed her opinions and kept her emotions in tight check. While the atmosphere at the dinner was markedly different from any that had ever taken place in my parents’ home, I did realize that Jonathan and I were both raised by loving parents.

Jonathan proposed marriage two years later, on December 23, confiding that he didn’t want to show up at my parents’ home for his second Polish Christmas extravaganza without some big news.

In the spring that followed, we married on a Friday morning under a chuppah in my in-laws’ living room with my parents and a dozen close friends in attendance. In my mid-thirties, I was definitely mature enough to be making this decision. Jonathan and I walked down the staircase together. I wore a navy Prada suit. The rabbi, newly arrived in Montreal, was happy to marry an inter-faith couple. He didn’t ask us questions or wonder if I might convert to Judaism. I had no plans to do so.

Conversion was never discussed by either family. Jonathan’s father simply told him he was making a good choice, his only reaction to marrying someone who was not Jewish. My father’s reaction has also stayed with me.

“Where I am from,” my father said, “Jews have not always had an easy time. I hope you know you may witness or experience some difficult moments by marrying someone Jewish. But we think Jonathan is a good man."

My parents were happy for me. The next day our families attended a symbolic ceremony in the chapel at St. Patrick’s Basilica, made possible by my Jewish father-in-law's connection with a Catholic priest. Even in my mid-thirties, the Catholic charade mattered to me as long as my parents were around. In the evening, we invited our friends to a dinner and party.

That Jonathan and I have lasted thirty-five years is a testament to the nice guy he is. Of all the consequential decisions in my life, staying married is the only one entirely dependent on maintaining a high-wire balancing act with another person. Jonathan has made it easy. But then, he is a skilled acrobat.

We agree on the essential things—at least what is important to us—children, politics, money, and the opera. Jonathan also has a strong sense of family, which at times helped bolster my relationship with mine. Regarding the opera, we agree we don’t have to attend. Several years ago, following an invitation to a salmon fishing lodge on the Saguenay River, we added fishing to the list. As beautiful and majestic as the river was, donning hip waders and standing in frigid water for five hours was an experience we agreed we did not need to repeat.

We developed a strategy in our personal and professional lives: divide and conquer, leveraging our differences and respective strengths. Following this strategy, I take charge of all significant home investments and decisions, as practical matters and details seem to elude Jonathan. Asking him to change a light bulb is out of the question, and seeking his opinion on whether it's time to install a new roof would be pointless.

Early in our marriage, I purchased a large piece of furniture for our dining room. The neighbours on the block bet on how long it would take Jonathan to notice its presence after it was delivered. Three weeks!

“When did we get that?” he said one day as he walked through the dining room. He didn’t even pause to examine it.

When we got married, we also started working together at a communications and public relations firm I had co-founded a couple of years earlier after leaving my bank job. Our strategy worked here as well. Jonathan excelled at navigating clients through challenging corporate crises and reorganizations with his ability to zero in on the broader implications of what was at stake with any business issue. Meanwhile, I excelled at managing the intricate details required for tasks like producing an annual report or organizing corporate events. At home, we had a rule: no work-related discussions.

After so many years, I am stunned by how I still feel about the nice guy who sleeps in my bed every night. I have no one else I would rather spend time with. He's my best friend, grounding me when I overthink and nudging me to appreciate the moment. I value his challenges to be my best.

As exciting as those early intoxicating days of love were, I wouldn’t exchange them for anything I have today. The butterflies in my stomach have flown away. What has replaced them is deep trust, unwavering commitment and loyalty, a desire to support, and a quiet, constant love.

Using the jigsaw puzzle analogy, I'd say our marriage isn't just a piece of the puzzle of my life; it's the entire frame. Everything falls into place within it.

The little red bag is a souvenir of our first trip together and a reminder that two very different people nearly missed out on a lifetime of happiness. Jonathan also turned out to be a quick study. On vacations, he still gets up early, but he’s learned to quietly slip out and visit a church or museum and then return to wake me with a coffee.