The Confessions of Edward Day by Valerie Martin

arranged never to see his face again—with no harm to either of us—I would have done it. At the moment, all I could do was continue on my course back into Teddy’s house. I went up the stairs, closed the door of my bedroom, and stretched out on the bed. I didn’t want to talk to anyone.
    H owever, as there’s no such thing as a reclusive actor, after a brief nap, I rejoined the party on the porch. The men were playing cards and the women were in the kitchen torturing vegetables and the dreaded tofu into a casserole. There was no pairing off and no music, just general bonhomie until after dinner when we heard the band strike up “The Star-Spangled Banner” in the bandstand at the nearby park where, Teddy toldus, there would soon be an impressive fireworks display, well worth “toddling over” to see. Off we went.
    It was too American for words, this Jersey shore. The grilling hot dogs, the ice-cream cart, the stand purveying that strangest of all confections, cotton candy; gossiping oldsters, darting children, a bevy of sweating young parents dancing under the cover of an open tent near the bandstand—the scene was so innocent and good-natured it warmed my anxious heart. I sidled up to Madeleine, who, with Peter Davis, was admiring the singer, a middle-aged Mafioso with a voice as smooth as olive oil. With mock politesse, I asked if she would give me the honor of a dance.
    It worked; she smiled, held out her hand, and in a few moments she was in my arms under the tent. I swelled with confidence. I’m an excellent dancer and, it turned out, so was she. We whipped through a brisk number and then I held her close as the band segued into a surprisingly soulful, languid arrangement of “Blue Moon.” She rested her cheek against my chest, her hips brushed my own, but I was careful not to introduce into this public embrace anything resembling erotic play She’d surprised me with her reaction to the admittedly poor joke I’d made at Mindy’s expense, showing me a prudishness and respect for the proprieties that was unusual in young women of my acquaintance and completely at odds with her frankly provocative behavior on the beach the night before. She was complicated, and I liked her better for that. When the crooner hit the line “Please adore me,” I whispered the words into her ear. She chuckled, looking up at me. “This is nice,” she said.
    “It is,” I agreed. “Let’s dance all night.”
    And we did. When the music stopped and the dancers abandoned the tent for the lawn where the fireworks were about to begin, we ambled over to our group arm in arm. Teddy and Mindy, kneeling on a blanket, handed out beers from the cooler. It was a clear, hot night, the sky a perfect blue-black canvas for a pyrotechnic display. Without warning the first volley sent a white streak heavenward and all were riveted by a fountain of sparkling diamonds raining harmlessly down upon us. Madeleine stood in front of me, her head resting against my chest. “Oh look,” she said as a diaphanous red flower blossomed overhead. The booms of the rockets crackled in the air and the displays grew more complex. I slipped my arms around her waist and joined in the soft exclamations of the crowd. A collective “Aaaah!” greeted a spectacular burst made of bright ribbons, red, white, and blue, of course, which exploded into half a dozen concentric rings inside of which more ribbons shot up to another level of shimmering rings. Everyone knew the end was near. The pauses between explosions extended, giving the designers time to coordinate their missiles. It’s like sex, I thought, glancing about me at the raised faces, all bright with expectancy. The air over the firing station was flushed with hellish red smoke. I could hear the ratcheting of the machinery and the boom and hiss of multiple shots as a dozen streamers rippled past. Not far off, literally by the light of the rocket’s red glare, I spotted the only spectator besides myself who