oar into the air, exploding with
a deafening bang over the bay, lighting it all in a dazzling
canopy of sparkling orange and white that’s reflected in a
glittering shower over the still calm water of the bay. My
jaw drops as several more rockets fire into the air and
explode in a kaleidoscope of color.
I can’t recall ever seeing a display this impressive,
except perhaps on television, and it never looks this good
on TV. They’re all in time to the music. Volley after volley,
bang after bang, and light after light as the crowd answers
with gasps and ooohs and ahhs. It is out of this world.
On the pontoon in the bay several silver fountains of
light shoot up twenty feet in the air, changing color through
blue, red, orange, and back to silver—and yet more
rockets explode as the music reaches its crescendo.
My face is beginning to ache from the ridiculous grin of
wonder plastered across it. I glance at Fifty, and he’s the
same, marveling like a child at the sensational show. For
the finale a volley of six rockets shoot into the dark and
explode simultaneously, bathing us in a glorious golden
light as the crowd erupts into frantic, enthusiastic applause.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the MC calls out as the
cheers and whistles fade. “Just one note to add at the end
of this wonderful evening; your generosity has raised a
of this wonderful evening; your generosity has raised a
total of one million, eight hundred and fifty three thousand
dollars!”
Spontaneous applause erupts again, and out on the
pontoon, a message lights up in silver streams of sparks
forming the words Thank You From Coping Together,
sparkling and shimmering over the water.
“Oh, Christian . . . that was wonderful.” I grin up at
him and he bends down to kiss me.
“Time to go,” he murmurs, a broad smile on his
beautiful face, and his words hold so much promise.
Suddenly, I feel very tired.
He glances up again, and Taylor is close, the crowd
dispersing around us. They don’t speak but something
passes between them.
“S
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