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crying openly. Willy was looking pleased, her smile on him as warm as the sun. The sound of corks popping shot through the air, and John saw, at the back of the room, Donald opening champagne and pouring it into tall crystal glasses as Mark entered the room with more bottles in his arms and Anne and others followed with ice buckets.
    John shook hands again with the actor and with Harrison and was relieved when Donald approached with glasses of champagne.
    “A toast!” Donald yelled, and once everyone had a glass, they all drank a toast to John’s success as an artist.
    John went to Willy and put his arm around her as they toasted him. He was happy, and he felt that this toast, this unanimous wish of good luck to him by all the people who knew him best, would wipe out any jinx placed on him by the slide show.
    Then the formality of the moment passed, and people broke into groups, some coming up to shake John’s hand and wish him well, others crowding around the actor. Erica Hart, never one to ignore a good-looking man, was one of the first to be at the actor’s side, and John and Willy, standing nearby, could hear him explaining just how theghost head had worked. Conversation stopped a moment while everyone looked at the powerful miniature cassette player he had had strapped to his belt, which had sent out the sounds of creaking and clanking and laughter. The music for the slide show had come from a tape Harrison had made and asked Mark to put in his cassette player, which was hooked to stereo speakers. It was all entirely explainable, and very clever.
    Still, when at last all the guests had left, Mark and Anne and Willy and John collapsed with drinks in front of the dying fire, and John confessed that he had not been entirely thrilled by the surprise.
    “I didn’t know what to do,” Anne said. “Harrison called me yesterday and said he had a surprise going-away presentation for you, something he had worked on especially. Mark and I didn’t know what to do; we really couldn’t refuse.”
    “I think he hates me,” John said.
    “Oh, I don’t think so,” Willy protested.
    Mark agreed. “I don’t think he hates you at all, John. Perhaps he’s just jealous of you. What artist wouldn’t be jealous of you, giving up the crass materialistic world to go off and be an honest artist. What you’re doing looks noble and brave compared to what he’s been doing all his life.”
    “Still, that’s no reason to curse me,” John said.
    “Oh, John, I really think you’re taking this too seriously,” Willy said.
    “Well, I don’t think you’re taking it seriously enough!” John snapped.
    “I didn’t realize you were so superstitious,” Willy replied quietly.
    “I’m not, Willy,” John said. “It’s just that—Oh, hell.” He couldn’t explain.
    Willy rose from her chair and crossed the room to snuggle down on the sofa next to John. She touched his arm. “It will be all right,” she said. “It really will. You know it will, John. Once we’re on our way, it will all be lovely, and someday you’ll laugh at tonight.”
    “She’s right, buddy,” Mark said. “That old snake doesn’t have the power to curse you even if he wanted to. Forget about his stupid slide show. Remember all the stuff you’ve been told by your teachers and critics and artist friends. You can do it. You’re going to do it. God, think of it, John, you’re on your own now! You’re going to go off and live your dream.”
    “Yeah,” John said, relaxing, grinning. “It really is going to happen.”
    The four began to talk about plans for the next day then, when the movers wouldcome and when Willy and John would arrive for dinner and to spend the night at the Hunters’.
    The fire died down, and the room grew dark. Outside, the wind blew autumn leaves against the windows with little pattering noises. Even though it was late, the four sat talking, not wanting the night to end. They were all enjoying the sense of being on the edge of