Richard waved his hand to stop the laughter. 'I do have one more thing to say, though.' The gathering groaned in unison. 'Help!' he said, 'I feel like Nelson at the '64 convention.'

By this time, people were roaring with laughter. Tears of mirth rolled down Atherton's face, and Charles Warren was grinning like a Cheshire cat. Looking around, Ann was filled with happy pride; it was turning out to be a wonderful evening.

Undaunted, Richard went on. 'I am going to get this out, no matter how hard you try to stop me.' He paused for effect and to catch his breath. Then, with a grand sweeping motion, he shouted, 'Everybody to the window!'

And everyone did as he commanded, although they were somewhat puzzled. The guests were far behind Mark, however, who, primed for surprises and hoping for another one, had gotten there first.

'Kill the lights, please,' Richard said dramatically when everyone had assembled before the huge picture windows.

The room was plunged in darkness almost before his sentence was completed.

Outside, in the dark night sky, there suddenly appeared, as if by magic—for money can certainly do magical things—one of the most spectacular displays of fireworks that any of them had ever seen. Greens and blues and yellows and reds, brighter than a rainbow, scattered the sky with continual showers of color, lighting up the night into a neon day. There were rockets and streamers and sparklers, all crackling and spitting until they achieved their full height some hundred and fifty feet above the lake, where suddenly they seemed to meld together into bold and sizzling multicolored letters, spelling out:

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MARK AND DAMIEN!

At first, no one applauded. They were too stunned. They just gasped. And then the clapping and the cheering began, and there were hugs and kisses all around.

'I can't believe it, Dad!' Mark cried, and he ran over to give his father a hug.

Damien just smiled. Although he was just as thrilled as Mark, he couldn't express it as Mark was able to. His emotions were much more internal, much more controlled.

The only person not totally absorbed in the incredible pyrotechnic display was Buher, who once again took the opportunity to single Damien out. He stood directly behind the boy and a little off to one side, so that he could whisper in Damien's ear and not be heard by anyone else.

'A boy's thirteenth birthday,' he said, 'is considered by many as the start of puberty. Of manhood. Jews, for example, have what they call their bar mitzvah. In Hebrew, that means "Son of the Commandment" or "Man of Duty."’

Damien had no idea what he was talking about, but again, he chose to be polite. 'Does it really?' he asked, his gaze still focused on the fireworks.

'You, too, will be initiated,' said Buher.

Damien looked at him. Their eyes locked.