We suck at throwing a surprise party.” A guy who looked like he could bench a semi truck came forward with a couple champagne glasses in hand. I was still trying to determine whether I’d landed in Oz when the giant, whose shoulders and strut gave him away as a starting linebacker, handed me a glass. I took it automatically, trying to ignore everyone looking at me like I was an experiment gone wrong. “We might have screwed up the surprise part, but we certainly won’t screw up the ‘party’ part.” The giant handed the other glass to Jude, then slid a flask out of his jacket pocket. Unscrewing the cap, he lifted it. “To the new master and mistress of this California castle. May the parties be wild and the sex even wilder.” Winking back at us, he shouted, “Cheers!” A chorus of, “Cheers!” exploded, but I was beyond words. Even one-syllable ones. I wasn’t sure what twilight zone I’d found myself in, but I wanted out.
