Free Skipping Christmas by John Grisham Page A

don’t know why she couldn’t wear the one from last year or the year before, but why argue? Shoes were a buck-forty. Purse another ninety. Closets’re full of purses and shoes, but don’t get me started. We’lltop seven grand at this rate. Please let me go on the cruise.”
    Inspired by Luther, Yank was keeping a precise tally on the Christmas damage. Twice a week he dashed in for updates. What he would do with the results was uncertain. Most likely nothing, and he knew it. “You’re my hero,” he said again, and left as quickly as he’d arrived.
    They’re all envious, Luther thought to himself. At this moment, crunch time with only a week to go, and the holiday madness growing each day, they’re all jealous as hell. Some, like Stanley, were reluctant to admit it. Others, like Yank, were downright proud of Luther.
    Too late to tan. Luther walked to his window and enjoyed the view of a cold rain falling on the city. Gray skies, barren trees, a few leaves scattering with the wind, traffic backed up on the streets in the distance. How lovely, he thought smugly. He patted his flat stomach, then went downstairs and had a diet soda with Biff, the travel agent.
    At the buzzer, Nora bolted from the Bronze-Mat and grabbed a towel. Sweating was not something she particularly enjoyed, and she wiped herself with a vengeance.
    She was wearing a very small red bikini, one that had looked great on the young slinky model in the catalog, one she knew she’d never wear in public but Luther had insisted on anyway. He’d gawked at the model and threatened to order the thing himself. It wasn’t too expensive, so Nora now owned it.
    She glanced in the mirror and again blushed at the sight of herself in such a skimpy garment. Sure she was losing weight. Sure she was getting a tan. But it would take five years of starvation and hard labor in the gym to do justice to what she was wearing at that moment.
    She dressed quickly, pulling her slacks and sweater on over the bikini. Luther swore he tanned in the nude, but she wasn’t stripping for anyone.
    Even dressed, she still felt like a slut. The thing was tight in all the wrong places, and when she walked, well, it wasn’t exactly comfortable. She couldn’t wait to race home, take it off, throw it away, and enjoy a long hot bath.
    She’d made it safely out of Tans Forever and rounded a corner when she came face-to-face with the Reverend Doug Zabriskie, their minister. He was laden with shopping bags, while sheheld nothing but her overcoat. He was pale, she was red-faced and still sweating. He was comfortable in his old tweed jacket, overcoat, collar, black shirt. Nora’s bikini was cutting off her circulation and shrinking by the moment.
    They hugged politely. “Missed you last Sunday,” he said, the same irritating habit he’d picked up years ago.
    “We’re so busy,” she said, checking her forehead for sweat.
    “Are you okay, Nora?”
    “Fine,” she snapped.
    “You look a little winded.”
    “A lot of walking,” she said, lying to her minister.
    For some reason he glanced down at her shoes. She certainly wasn’t wearing sneakers.
    “Could we chat for a moment?” he asked.
    “Well, sure,” she said. There was an empty bench near the railing of the concourse. The Reverend lugged his bags over and piled them beside it. When Nora sat, Luther’s little red bikini shifted again and something gave way, a strap perhaps, just above her hip, and something was sliding down there. Her slacks were loose, nottight at all, and there was plenty of room for movement.
    “I’ve heard lots of rumors,” he began softly. He had the annoying habit of getting close to your face when he spoke. Nora crossed and recrossed her legs, and with each maneuver made things worse.
    “What kind of rumors?” she asked stiffly.
    “Well, I’ll be very honest, Nora,” he said, leaning even lower and closer. “I hear it from a good source that you and Luther have decided not to observe Christmas