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I head down to the gym room one morning, intending to have a nice quiet yoga session, only to hear more commotion emanating from it than usual. The entry door is emblazoned with a sign on a sheet of 8x11 copy paper that says in bright red handwritten capital letters: NO STEVEZIES ALLOWED. I press my ear to the door and make out several familiar voices shouting and laughing back and forth. I slowly crack the door open and sneak a peek around the edge to see that the gym has been turned into a kind of staging area of sorts, where Andy has apparently gathered a bunch of card tables and boxes and chairs and some non-Stevezie Manse dwellers to assist with wedding day preparations.
But at the moment, in the centre of the room, is a table tennis setup, where Andy and Martin are in the middle of an intense contest, with everyone standing around cheering them on. I enter the room completely unnoticed and stand against the door, watching as their volleying starts to speed up, pushing the two players to their limits. More than a few bets are called out between my husbands and boyfriends, but they seem so equally matched it’s impossible to predict the outcome.
Finally, Andy smashes the little yellow ball with all his might and it flies past Martin’s paddle by half and inch.
“HORSE COCKS!” Martin yells, punching the air with his paddle-free hand. He just as soon grins and laughs, walking over to high five Andy and give him a full body hug. Everyone else starts exchanging cash and cursing over their luck or lack thereof.
I start a loud, slow clap and walk toward them, catching them unawares. “Well done. Well done. This is exactly the Christmas spirit I hoped to inculcate in this household.”
“Heads up, everyone, the Exec is on set!” Andy says as he shuffles up to me, all grins and giggles, and gives me a solid one-armed hug. “I hope you don’t mind we took over in here. All the party supplies started arriving and I had nowhere to store it all until the big day.”
“As long as you go over the books with me at the end of the week, Serkis, we’re golden.”
He snaps a little salute. “You got it, boss.”
I walk up to the table, where Martin is leaning, catching his breath and dripping sweat. He points at Andy and shakes his head. “There shall be a rematch, mate.”
“Just name the time!” Andy says, going to Stephen to collect his winnings.
I take my handkerchief from my back pocket and wipe Martin’s dewy brow, then give him a little kiss.
“I’m schvitzed to all buggery,” he says, shaking his head.
“You’re still cute,” I say, patting his back. “A commendable effort, that.”
“I think he’s juicing,” Martin jokes. “Him and his muscles.”
“While you’re here, you’ll want a butcher’s at the plan, Madam,” Andy says as he and Denis unroll a poster-sized schematic of a ginormous boat on one side of the tennis table.
“I know a guy who knows a guy who can get us a yacht big enough to make Beyoncé jealous,” Denis says, proudly crossing his arms over his chest. “It would be a crime not to have the year’s biggest bacchanal on this thing.”
My eyes widen at the floor plans for this monstrosity—it has three levels, huge galley kitchen, four bedrooms and a wide party space just short of ballroom-sized. I glance up at Andy. “Jesus, what’s this gonna set us back?”
“Oh I’m taking care of it, Madam, don’t you worry,” Denis says, waving one hand dismissively. “I’m calling in a favor.”
Jon laughs as he steps up to the table. “You mean we are calling in a favor,” he says, patting Denis’ shoulder as he catches my look. “Stephen and I sweetened the pot for this guy who knows the guy.”
I stare at the three of them, gauging just how serious they are, more than a bit touched at their teamwork, then I look back to Andy. “Who’s catering this thing?”
“That’s where Tommy Lee’s currently pulling a favor,” Andy says, jabbing a thumb behind him toward where Tommy is, sitting in a lounge chair on his cell phone, looking over a notepad as he grunts and hums at whatever is being iterated. “He’s on the line with the owner at Xixa.”
“Oh, yes, good one,” I say, rubbing my hands together. “Nothing like top-notch Mexican and mescal to warm us up in December.”
A big knock on the gym’s double doors.
“Delivery!” says Jeff’s voice. “A little help!”
Martin runs over and opens the door, and both Jeff and Ken wheel in their handtrucks piled high with cardboard boxes.
“I think we got enough string lights to cover a Trojan horse!” Ken declares as he starts unloading the boxes to one corner of the room.
“And enough tinsel to mummify ten Elton Johns!” Jeff adds. “Oh hey, Red! Ken and I volunteered to get the decorations for the yacht. Stephen told us to make it extra Christmassy.”
“Nothing gayer than Christmas!” Stephen says, grinning like a fool and rubbing his hands together. “I can’t wait to do some stringin’!”
I sigh and turn to Jon. “Please don’t let Stephen overexert himself,” I say in all seriousness. “I don’t need him spending another holiday in the hospital.”
Jon squeezes my shoulder, gives me a thumbs up. “I’ll slip him a Xanax if he gets too uppity.”
“Thanks,” I say, kissing his cheek. Then I step back and clap my hands loudly. “Hey everyone! I’m thrilled and very touched that y’all are so enthused about making Stevezie’s wedding a real bash. But please remember, you can’t leak ANY details whatsoever. I know it comes easier to you to keep a secret from me, but try your damndest not to share with him. I want him to be truly surprised.”
Every man to the last nods in agreement, or in Stephen’s case, snaps a salute.
Andy spins his finger in the air and turns around to address the group. “Right, you heard the boss. Let’s keep it secret and keep it safe. We got a lot done today, so let’s shut the gate for now. Madam needs her yoga hour.”
A couple of hoots and approving whistles, and everyone starts tidying up, quickly packing and piling things to one corner, so as to take up as little of my uncluttered meditation space as possible. I cross my arms over my chest, watch my dear dwellers’ cooperative powers with no small degree of pride in my heart. As they finish, each one stops to give me a kiss on their way out of the room.
My producer is the last one left. “All yours, Pickle,” he says with a little theatrical bow. He smiles and takes both my hands in his, gives me a quick kiss. “It’s going to be a very happy Christmas, I think. Especially for Steve. I’m a bit jealous that he’s getting to marry you for the third time.”
I laugh and pull him close for a good strong hug. “I’ll marry you again one day, mark my words.”