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On the first truly chilly Florida evening, Doctor Zhivago is playing on the TV in the living room at the Manse while some of my most holiday-spirited recruits—Stephen, Stevezie, Sir Ken—join me in decorating the Christmas tree. The balsam pine candle burns sweetly on the coffee table, mingling with the scent of the hot apple cider slowly mulling away in the crockpot and the fresh bag of kettlecorn Jon is taking out of the microwave. After having heroically helped with hauling all the decorations out of the garage earlier, Jeff has been stretched out snoozing on and off on the sofa for the last half hour while my boyfriend Denis has been dutifully doing laundry on the unoccupied portion of the cushions. “Hey how’s that popcorn coming, asshole?” Denis wonders loudly in the direction of the kitchen. “Folding all your wife’s teeny little undies is hungry work,” he adds, smirking at me. I roll my eyes and hand a box of bird ornaments to Sir Ken. “Here, put some of these where I can’t reach, will ya?” Ken chuckles a bit, winks at me. “My pleasure, Missus.” “Denis is the tallest, he should really be doing this,” I say, staring Denis down with a bitch face. Denis holds out his hands helplessly. “What? I’m doing my job here.” Jon comes into the room, walks around the sofa and places the popcorn on the table, along with napkins. “Don’t get any crumbs and shit on our clothes now, douchebag.” Denis grins, takes a break from his task and grabs a big handful out of the bowl. “Well, now I’ll eat and decorate while you fold, buddy.” Stephen steps back from the tree, places his hands on his hips and tilts his head. “Hmmm, we need a few more candy canes on the right side there, Steve.” “I’m all out, are there more, babe?” “Yeah there ought to be some under that box over there—” “Hey whatever happened to our other Ken?” Stephen asks as he hands the canes to Stevezie. I blink, look around and shrug. “Ryan was supposed to convince Pen and Andy to come up here and take a break from editing to decorate with us.” “Want me to scare them out of the basement?” Denis asks. I sigh and sit down on the sofa between Jon and Jeff. “Pen’s probably roped him into editing as well. Tell her there’s popcorn and she’ll change her mind, I hope.” “I’ll haul them up, just hang tight,” Denis says as he strolls out of the room. Jeff rouses a little when he hears me munching on the popcorn, sniffs the air. “Hmmm, is it snack time?” he mumbles as he sits himself up and stretches his arms above his head. “Oh look, Zhivago is on the train already!” I pat Jeff’s shoulder and smile at him. “Have a good nap?” “I’m sorry I missed half the movie. I hate to miss out on Julie Christie doing anything.” “You’re not kidding,” Stephen says. “Almost nobody compares to her.” “You worked with her, Sir, what was she like on the Hamlet set?” I ask as I munch away. Ken grins proudly, blushes a bit. “She was a real treat. At first, she really didn’t think she could do Shakespeare at all—she fancied herself a lower form of actress for some preposterous reason—but I wore her down, convinced her she was perfect, and lo and behold, she was terrific as usual. And oh so gorgeous in all those period costumes. It was a lark!” “Was it weird with her playing your mom?” Jon asks. “You must’ve had a crush on her as a young man at some point.” Ken shrugs, places the last bird near the top of the tree. “Well, I was simply chuffed to even have her involved. And as for that… well, we’re all just actors after all.” “Yeah, Jon, it’s called acting,” Denis says. “That’s not something you are liable to pick up on the set of Death to Smoochy.” “I’ll never live that one down,” Jon says with a shrug. “Fair enough, though.” I beam over at my fourth husband, flutter my eyes at him. “You are by far, the finest and sexiest Hamlet in cinema, Kenny.” He chuckles and lightly bows his head. “Much appreciated, Madam.” “Awe, you are so adorable,” I say, suddenly flushed with hormonal adoration as I jump up and go to give him a big hug. “My Shakespeare hero forever.” “Aweeeeee,” everyone else moans in half mock disgust and half genuine tenderness. Just then, Penélope rushes into the room, heads straight for the big bowl of popcorn, Andy, Ryan and Denis in her wake. “Popcorn popcorn popcorn!” she says with glee. Andy stretches his arms out, opening his chest broadly. “Thanks for the reprieve. You lose track of time so easily in that cave down there.” I turn to catch a hug from him before he drops his arms. “Thank you for helping her,” I whisper. “Yeah well, it’s not like she is wanting for filmmaking expertise around here,” Andy says, humbly scratching at his hair. “And the director gene in her is strong.” “Andy and Pen are fun to watch,” Ryan says. “I just sit back and absorb and just give two cents every so often.” “How’s that soundtrack mixing in so far?” Ken asks. “I think it’s phenomenal,” Ryan replies. “Epic, even.” Penélope claps her hands. “It’s perfect, Père Ken! Uncle Patrick is the best!” she says, then grabs more popcorn as she focusses on the TV for the first time. She stares at the screen for a moment and her eyes grow wide. “Ohhh… el is muy guapo,” she says off-handedly. “Who is that?” Stephen chuckles. “Oh, looks like somebody has a crush on Omar.” “She’s definitely yours, Mamba,” Stevezie adds with a big grin. I sigh and stare at my daughter with pride. “Who could ever resist those big brown bedroom eyes?” ***************** Despite our best efforts, we all nod off on the sofa before the end of the film, and the living room is filled with the warm light from the tree as well as the occasional snore from Stephen. The sudden orchestral music of the end credits rouses me a bit, and I realize I’ve been using Andy’s shoulder as a pillow. Penélope is zonked out between Ken and Ryan, cozy as can be. Jon is reclined in his special chair with Stephen practically draped on the armrest of the sofa closest to him. Stevezie and Jeff are both laid out on the carpet in front of the TV, and empty popcorn bowl resting between them. Denis is nowhere to be found—most likely putting away all the laundry upstairs. I yawn and turn my head, blinking several times to focus on the snoozing figure stretched out on the chaise longue section on the other end of the sofa. I rub my face with one hand and wonder to myself when exactly my amoureux had dropped in to join us. “Denis,” I whisper in his direction. He’s motionless, his face as soft and approachable in repose as he is in waking life. When he doesn’t react, I slowly sit up and slide across the cushion, gently lean over and leave the tiniest peck on his temple. “Mon réveur,” I say in his ear as I touch his chest. He sucks in a breath right before his eyes fly open and he blinks at me blearily. “Madam,” he mumbles through his yawn. “What time is it?” I shake my head, kiss his temple again. “J’sais pas, mon amoureux. Mais c’est l’heure du dodo.” A small, warm ember of a smile. “Exactemente,” he says as he pushes himself up more into a sitting position. He wraps one arm around my shoulders and holds me close as he kisses my cheek. He rests his head against mine, sets his other hand over my heart. “Comment se sent-elle?” “C’est beau, c’est beau, merci,” I reply.
“Comment ça va?”
“Je vais très bien aussi,” I say, adding a nod. I place my hand over his and squeeze it. “Et toi?” He starts to smile, decides to answer in silence. “—But I am… le tired—” I snort and tears pop out onto my cheeks as I try not to laugh too loudly. I turn my head to see his big knowing grin and I can barely stand it. The stupid things from my youth that I’ve shared with him… “—But no, seriously—” Denis continues in my mind’s ear. “—I am very tired, but I am blessed, I am happy, I am excited for future projects—” “—I’m glad to hear it—” I reply, rubbing his chest. “—Just don’t wear yourself out, mon cher. Not like last time—” “—You mean not knowing I had COVID and sleeping for five days after months of junkets? Definitely not part of the plan this time, my love—” I sigh and speak aloud, but softly. “It just seems like every other day you’re doing all these Q and As and interviews. So much recognition, so much love, everyone practically throwing trophies at you everywhere you go. I don’t know where we will find all the room for these fancy awards.” He shrugs with a little laugh. “J’sais pas non plus.” He lifts his hand to point over at the sleepyheads all around. “—But it looks like I would be just as tired if I stayed here—” I giggle and shake my head. “—Christmas is hard work—” “—I am looking forward to Pen’s film, though—” he adds, a twinkle of pride in his eyes. “—Did she get any post done today?—” “—Yes, in fact, Denis had to drag her and Andy and Ryan up out of the basement to help us with the decorating. Still aiming for Christmas Day premiere date—” Denis smiles, lifts his chin. “Je crois en elle. She will do it.” “Both you and Ryan will be here, right? For the ceremony?” “Of course, Sayyadina,” he says soothingly, caressing my face. “—I know our schedules have been pretty wild lately, but we would not miss it for the world—” He studies my face a few extra seconds, appears about to kiss me, but then asks, “Is there something… sans, chérie?” My knee-jerk reaction is to close off my thoughts and feelings for a minute as I gather how to explain what he only barely sensed in me just then. We stare at each other a moment, and I know he knows something’s amiss. I wonder how patient he will be, not being able to read my mind… now and in the near future. I take a deep breath, but it turns into a yawn. He still waits, his eyes filled to the brim with anticipation and concern. I touch his cheek, idly scratch his beard. Then I shake my head. “Nothing, Denis. C’est rien, vraiment—” “Are you sure, Madam?” he says, almost in panic. He takes up both my hands and squeezes harder than ever before. “—Let me help you if I can, please—” I keep shaking my head, even though I feel a knot in my chest. “—You’ll have to learn to trust me again if we can no longer speak like this—” He touches my face, nods once, never losing eye contact with me, only closes them the second our lips finally meet. The kiss is as earnest as he is, and quickly becomes a bit too hot. And I suddenly realize that that’s why he kisses this way; as an alternative means of reading my mind at its most vulnerable state. And it works. Denis breaks the kiss. “Madam, you worry too much,” he whispers in all seriousness as he strokes my cheek with his thumb. “Ne t’en fais pas pour moi.” A squint into my slight embarrassment. “I just want everything for you. I want the whole world for you.” “I already have it, my love,” he says, his smile returning. “Je t’aime.” I sniffle and hug him, burying my face in his chest. “Je t’aime, Denis, mon grand réveur.”