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Skipping Christmas

By John Grisham

One

The gate was packed with weary travelers, most of them standing and huddled along the

walls because the meager allotment of plastic chairs had long since been taken. Every

plane that came and went held at least eighty passengers, yet the gate had seats for only a

few dozen.

There seemed to be a thousand waiting for the 7 P.M. flight to Miami. They were

bundled up and heavily laden, and after fighting the traffic and the check-in and the mobs

along the concourse they were subdued, as a whole. It was the Sunday after Thanksgiving,

one of the busiest days of the year for air travel, and as they jostled and got pushed

farther into the gate many asked themselves, not for the first time, why, exactly, they had

chosen this day to fly.

The reasons were varied and irrelevant at the moment. Some tried to smile. Some tried to

read, but the crush and the noise made it difficult. Others just stared at the floor and

waited. Nearby a skinny black Santa Claus clanged an irksome bell and droned out

holiday greetings.

A small family approached, and when they saw the gate number and the mob they

stopped along the edge of the concourse and began their wait. The daughter was young

and pretty. Her name was Blair, and she was obviously leaving. Her parents were not.

The three gazed at the crowd, and they, too, at that moment, silently asked themselves

why they had picked this day to travel.

The tears were over, at least most of them. Blair was twenty-three, fresh from graduate

school with a handsome resume but not ready for a career. A friend from college was in

Africa with the Peace Corps, and this had inspired Blair to dedicate the next two years to

helping others. Her assignment was eastern Peru, where she would teach primitive little

children how to read. She would live in a lean-to with no plumbing, no electricity, no

phone, and she was anxious to begin her journey.

The flight would take her to Miami, then to Lima, then by bus for three days into the

mountains, into another century. For the first time in her young and sheltered life, Blair

would spend Christmas away from home. Her mother clutched her hand and tried to be

strong.

The good-byes had all been said. "Are you sure this is what you want?" had been asked

for the hundredth time.

Luther, her father, studied the mob with a scowl on his face. What madness," he said to

himself. He had dropped them at the curb, then driven miles to park in a satellite lot. A

packed shuttle bus had delivered him back to Departures, and from there he had elbowed

his way with his wife and daughter down to this gate. He was sad that Blair was leaving,

and he detested the swarming horde of people. He was in a foul mood. Things would get

worse for Luther.

The harried gate agents came to life and the passengers inched forward. The first

announcement was made, the one asking those who needed extra time and those in first

class to come forward. The pushing and shoving rose to the next level.

"I guess we'd better go," Luther said to his daughter, his only child.

They hugged again and fought back the tears. Blair smiled and said, "The year will fly by.

I'll be home next Christmas."

Nora, her mother, bit her lip and nodded and kissed her once more. "Please be careful,"

she said because she couldn't stop saying it.

"I'll be fine."

They released her and watched helplessly as she joined a long line and inched away,

away from them, away from home and security and everything she'd ever known. As she

handed over her boarding pass, Blair turned and smiled at them one last time.

"Oh well," Luther said. "Enough of this. She's going to be fine."

Nora could think of nothing to say as she watched her daughter disappear. They turned

and fell in with the foot traffic, one long crowded march down the concourse, past the

Santa Claus with the irksome bell, past the tiny shops packed with people.

It was raining when they left the terminal and found the line for the shuttle back to the

satellite, and it was pouring when the shuttle sloshed its way through the lot and dropped

them off, two hundred yards from their car. It cost Luther $7.00 to free himself and his

car from the greed of the airport authority.

When they were moving toward the city, Nora finally spoke. "Will she be okay?" she

asked. He had heard that question so often that his response was an automatic grunt.

"Sure."

"Do you really think so?"

"Sure." Whether he did or he didn't, what did it matter at this point? She was gone; they

couldn't stop her.

He gripped the wheel with both hands and silently cursed the traffic slowing in front of

him. He couldn't tell if his wife was crying or not. Luther wanted only to get home and

dry off, sit by the fire, and read a magazine.

He was within two miles of home when she announced, "I need a few things from the

grocery."

"It's raining," he said.

"I still need them."

"Can't it wait?"

"You can stay in the car. Just take a minute. Go to Chip's. It's open today."

So he headed for Chip's, a place he despised not only for its outrageous prices and snooty

staff but also for its impossible location. It was still raining of course she couldn't pick a

Kroger where you could park and make a dash. No, she wanted Chip's, where you parked

and hiked.

Only sometimes you couldn't park at all. The lot was full. The fire lanes were packed. He

searched in vain for ten minutes before Nora said, "Just drop me at the curb." She was

frustrated at his inability to find a suitable spot.

He wheeled into a space near a burger joint and demanded, "Give me a list."

"I'll go," she said, but only in feigned protest. Luther would hike through the rain and

they both knew it.

"Gimme a list."

"Just white chocolate and a pound of pistachios," she said, relieved.

"That's all?"

"Yes, and make sure it's Logan's chocolate, one-pound bar, and Lance Brothers

pistachios."

"And this couldn't wait?"

"No, Luther, it cannot wait. I'm doing dessert for lunch tomorrow. If you don't want to go,

then hush up and I'll go."

He slammed the door. His third step was into a shallow pothole. Cold water soaked his

right ankle and oozed down quickly into his shoe. He froze for a second and caught his

breath, then stepped away on his toes, trying desperately to spot other puddles while

dodging traffic.

Chip's believed in high prices and modest rent. It was on a side alley, not visible from

anywhere really. Next to it was a wine shop run by a European of some strain who

claimed to be French but was rumored to be Hungarian. His English was awful but he'd

learned the language of price gouging. Probably learned it from Chip's next door. In fact

all the shops in the District, as it was known, strove to be discriminating.

And every shop was full. Another Santa clanged away with the same bell outside the

cheese shop. "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer rattled from a hidden speaker above the

sidewalk in front of Mother Earth, where the crunchy people were no doubt still wearing

their sandals. Luther hated the store-refused to set foot inside. Nora bought organic herbs

there, for what reason he'd never been certain. The old Mexican who owned the cigar

store was happily stringing lights in his window, pipe stuck in the corner of his mouth,

smoke drifting behind him, fake snow already sprayed on a fake tree.

There was a chance of real snow later in the night. The shoppers wasted no time as they

hustled in and out of the stores. The sock on Luther's right foot was now frozen to his

ankle.

There were no shopping baskets near the checkout at Chip's, and of course this was a bad

sign. Luther didn't need one, but it meant the place was packed. The aisles were narrow

and the inventory was laid out in such a way that nothing made sense. Regardless of what

was on your list, you had to crisscross the place half a dozen times to finish up.

A stock boy was working hard on a display of Christmas chocolates. A sign by the

butcher demanded that all good customers order their Christmas turkeys immediately.

New Christmas wines were in! And Christmas hams!

What a waste, Luther thought to himself. Why do we eat so much and drink so much in

the celebration of the birth of Christ? He found the pistachios near the bread. Odd how

that made sense at Chip's. The white chocolate was nowhere near the baking section, so

Luther cursed under his breath and trudged along the aisles, looking at everything. He got

bumped by a shopping cart. No apology, no one noticed. "God Rest Ye Merry

Gentlemen" was coming from above, as if Luther was supposed to be comforted. Might

as well be "Frosty the Snowman."

Two aisles over, next to a selection of rice from around the world, there was a shelf of

baking chocolates. As he stepped closer, he recognized a one-pound bar of Logan's.

Another step closer and it suddenly disappeared, snatched from his grasp by a harshlooking

woman who never saw him. The little space reserved for Logan's was empty, and

in the next desperate moment Luther saw not another speck of white chocolate. Lots of

dark and medium chips and such, but nothing white.

The express line was, of course, slower than the other two. Chip's outrageous prices

forced its customers to buy in small quantities, but this had no effect whatsoever on the

speed with which they came and went. Each item was lifted, inspected, and manually

entered into the register by an unpleasant cashier. Sacking was hit or miss, though around

Christmas the sackers came to life with smiles and enthusiasm and astounding recall of

customers' names. It was the tipping season, yet another unseemly aspect of Christmas

that Luther loathed.

Six bucks and change for a pound of pistachios. He shoved the eager young sacker away,

and for a second thought he might have to strike him to keep his precious pistachios out

of another bag. He stuffed them into the pocket of his overcoat and quickly left the store.

A crowd had stopped to watch the old Mexican decorate his cigar store window. He was

plugging in little robots who trudged through the fake snow, and this delighted the crowd

no end, Luther was forced to move off the curb, and in doing so he stepped just left

instead of just right. His left foot sank into five inches of cold slush. He froze for a split

second, sucking in lungfuls of cold air, cursing the old Mexican and his robots and his

fans and the damned pistachios. He yanked his foot upward and slung dirty water on his

pants leg, and standing at the curb, with two frozen feet and the bell clanging away and

"Santa Claus Is Coming to Town" blaring from the loudspeaker and the sidewalk blocked

by revelers, Luther began to hate Christmas.

The water had seeped into his toes by the time he reached his car. "No white chocolate,"

he hissed at Nora as he crawled behind the wheel.

She was wiping her eyes.

"What is it now?" he demanded.

"I just talked to Blair."

"What? How? Is she all right?"

"She called from the airplane. She's fine." Nora was biting her lip, trying to recover.

Exactly how much does it cost to phone home from thirty thousand feet? Luther

wondered. He'd seen phones on planes. Any credit card'll do. Blair had one he'd given her,

the type where the bills are sent to Mom and Dad. From a cell phone up there to a cell

phone down here, probably at least ten bucks.

And for what? I'm fine, Mom. Haven't seen you in almost an hour. We all love each other.

We'll all miss each other. Gotta go, Mom.

The engine was running though Luther didn't remember starting it.

"You forgot the white chocolate?" Nora asked, fully recovered.

"No. I didn't forget it. They didn't have any."

"Did you ask Rex?"

"Who's Rex?"

"The butcher."

"No, Nora, for some reason I didn't think to ask the butcher if he had any white chocolate

hidden among his chops and livers."

She yanked the door handle with all the frustration she could muster. "I have to have it.

Thanks for nothing." And she was gone.

I hope you step in frozen water, Luther grumbled to himself. He fumed and muttered

other unpleasantries. He switched the heater vents to the floorboard to thaw his feet, then

watched the large people come and go at the burger place. Traffic was stalled on the

streets beyond.

How nice it would be to avoid Christmas, he began to think. A snap of the fingers and it's

January 2. No tree, no shopping, no meaningless gifts, no tipping, no clutter and

wrappings, no traffic and crowds, no fruitcakes, no liquor and hams that no one needed,

no "Rudolph" and "Frosty," no office party, no wasted money. His list grew long. He

huddled over the wheel, smiling now, waiting for heat down below, dreaming pleasantly

of escape.

She was back, with a small brown sack which she tossed beside him just carefully enough

not to crack the chocolate while letting him know that she'd found it and he hadn't.

"Everybody knows you have to ask," she said sharply as she yanked at her shoulder

harness.

"Odd way of marketing," Luther mused, in reverse now. "Hide it by the butcher, make it

scarce, folks'll clamor for it. I'm sure they charge more if it's hidden."

"Oh hush, Luther"

"Are your feet wet?"

"No. Yours?"

"No."

"Then why'd you ask?"

"Just worried."

"Do you think she'll be all right?"

"She's on an airplane. You just talked to her."

"I mean down there, in the jungle."

"Stop worrying, okay? The Peace Corps wouldn't send her into a dangerous place."

"It won't be the same."

"What?"

"Christmas."

It certainly will not, Luther almost said. Oddly, he was smiling as he worked his way

through traffic.

Two

With his feet toasty and besocked with heavy wool, Luther fell fast asleep and woke up

even faster. Nora was roaming. She was in the bathroom flushing and flipping lights, then

she left for the kitchen, where she fixed an herbal tea, then he heard her down the hall in

Blair's room, no doubt staring at the walls and sniffling over where the years had gone.

Then she was back in bed, rolling and jerking covers and trying her best to wake him.

She wanted dialogue, a sounding board. She wanted Luther to assure her Blair was safe

from the horrors of the Peruvian jungle.

But Luther was frozen, not flinching at any joint, breathing as heavily as possible because

if the dialogue began again it would run for hours. He pretended to snore and that settled

her down.

It was after eleven when she grew still. Luther was wild-eyed, and his feet were

smoldering. When he was absolutely certain she was asleep, he eased from the bed,

ripped off the heavy socks and tossed them into a corner, and tiptoed down the hall to the

kitchen for a glass of water. Then a pot of decaf.

An hour later he was in his basement office, at his desk with files open, the computer

humming, spreadsheets in the printer, an investigator searching for evidence. Luther was

a tax accountant by trade, so his records were meticulous. The evidence piled up and he

forgot about sleep.

A year earlier, the Luther Krank family had spent $6,100 on Christmas-$6,100!-$6,100

on decorations, lights, flowers, a new Frosty, and a Canadian spruce; $6,100 on hams,

turkeys, pecans, cheese balls, and cookies no one ate; $6,100 on wines and liquors and

cigars around the office; $6,100 on fruitcakes from the firemen and the rescue squad, and

calendars from the police association; $6,100 on Luther for a cashmere sweater he

secretly loathed and a sports jacket he'd worn twice and an ostrich skin wallet that was

quite expensive and quite ugly and frankly he didn't like the feel of. On Nora for a dress

she wore to the company's Christmas dinner and her own cashmere sweater, which had

not been seen since she unwrapped it, and a designer scarf she loved, $6,100. On Blair

$6,100 for an overcoat, gloves and boots, and a Walkman for her jogging, and, of course,

the latest, slimmest cell phone on the market-$6,100 on lesser gifts for a select handful of

distant relatives, most on Nora's side-$6,100 on Christmas cards from a stationer three

doors down from Chip's, in the District, where all prices were double; $6,100 for the

party, an annual Christmas Eve bash at the Krank home,

And what was left of it? Perhaps a useful item or two, but nothing much-$6,100!

With great relish Luther tallied the damage, as if it had been inflicted by someone else.

All evidence was coming neatly together and making a very strong case,

He waffled a bit at the end, where he'd saved the charity numbers. Gifts to the church, to

the toy drive, to the homeless shelter and the food bank. But he raced through the

benevolence and came right back to the awful conclusion: $6,100 for Christmas. -

"Nine percent of my adjusted gross," he said in disbelief. "Six thousand, one hundred.

Cash. All but six hundred nondeductible."

In his distress, he did something he rarely did. Luther reached for the bottle of cognac in

his desk drawer, and knocked back a few drinks.

He slept from three to six, and roared to life during his shower. Nora wanted to fret over

coffee and oatmeal, but Luther would have none of it. He read the paper, laughed at the

comics, assured her twice that Blair was having a ball, then kissed her and raced away to

the office, a

The travel agency was in the atrium of Luther's building. He walked by it at least twice

each day, seldom glancing at the window displays of beaches and mountains and

sailboats and pyramids. It was there for those lucky enough to travel. Luther had never

stepped inside, never thought about it actually. Their vacation was five days at the beach,

in a friend's condo, and with his workload they were lucky to get that.

He stole away just after ten. He used the stairs so he wouldn't have to explain anything,

and darted through the door of Regency Travel. Biff was waiting for him.

Biff had a large flower in her hair and a waxy bronze tan, and she looked as if she'd just

dropped by the shop for a few hours between beaches. Her comely smile stopped Luther

cold, and her first words left him flabbergasted. "You need a cruise," she said.

"How'd you know?" he managed to mumble. Her hand was out, grabbing his, shaking it,

leading him to her long desk, where she placed him on one side while she perched herself

on the other. Long bronze legs, Luther noted. Beach legs.

"December is the best time of year for a cruise," she began, and Luther was already sold.

The brochures came in a torrent. She unfolded them across her desk, under his dreamy

eyes.

"You work in the building?" she asked, easing near the issue of money.

"Wiley & Beck, sixth floor," Luther said without removing his eyes from the floating

palaces, the endless beaches.

"Bail bondsmen?" she said.

Luther flinched just a bit. "No. Tax accountants."

"Sorry," she said, kicking herself. The pale skin, the dark eye circles, the standard blue

oxford-cloth button-down with bad imitation prep school tie. She should have known

better. Oh well. She reached for even glossier brochures. "Don't believe we get too many

from your firm."

"We don't do vacations very well. Lots of work. I like this one right here."

"Great choice."

They settled on the Island Princess, a spanking-new mammoth vessel with rooms for

three thousand, four pools, three casinos, nonstop food, eight stops in the Caribbean, and

the list went on and on. Luther left with a stack of brochures and scurried back to his

office six floors up.

The ambush was carefully planned. First, he worked late, which was certainly not

unusual, but at any rate helped set the stage for the evening. He got lucky with the

weather because it was still dreary. Hard to get in the spirit of the season when the skies

were damp and gray. And much easier to dream about ten luxurious days in the sun.

If Nora wasn't worrying about Blair, then he'd certainly get her started. He'd simply

mention some dreadful piece of news about a new virus or perhaps a Colombian village

massacre, and that would set her off. Keep her mind off the joys of Christmas. Won't be

the same without Blair, will it?

Why don't we take a break this year? Go hide. Go escape. Indulge ourselves.

Sure enough, Nora was off in the jungle. She hugged him and smiled and tried to hide the

fact that she'd been crying. Her day had gone reasonably well. She'd survived the ladies'

luncheon and spent two hours at the children's clinic, part of her grinding volunteer

schedule.

While she heated up the pasta, he sneaked a reggae CD into the stereo, but didn't push

Play. Timing was crucial.

They chatted about Blair, and not long into the dinner Nora kicked the door open. "It'll be

so different this Christmas, won't it, Luther?"

"Yes it will," he said sadly, swallowing hard. "Nothing'll be the same."

"For the first time in twenty-three years, she won't be here."

"It might even be depressing. Lots of depression at Christmas, you know." Luther quickly

swallowed and his fork grew still.

"I'd love to just forget about it," she said, her words ebbing at the end.

Luther flinched and cocked his good ear in her direction.

"What is it?" she asked.

"Well!!" he said dramatically, shoving his plate forward. "Now that you mention it.

There's something I want to discuss with you."

"Finish your pasta."

"I'm finished," he announced, jumping to his feet. His briefcase was just a few steps away,

and he attacked it.

"Luther, what are you doing?"

"Hang on."

He stood across the table from her, papers in both hands. "Here's my idea," he said

proudly. "And it's brilliant."

"Why am I nervous?"

He unfolded a spreadsheet, and began pointing. "Here, my dear, is what we did last

Christmas. Six thousand, one hundred dollars we spent on Christmas. Six thousand, one

hundred dollars."

"I heard you the first time."

"And precious little to show for it. The vast majority of it down the drain. Wasted. And

that, of course, does not include my time, your time, the traffic, stress, worry, bickering,

ill-will, sleep loss-all the wonderful things that we pour into the holiday season."

"Where is this going?"

"Thanks for asking." Luther dropped the spreadsheets and, quick as a magician, presented

the Island Princess to his wife. Brochures covered the table. "Where is this going, my

dear? It's going to the Caribbean. Ten days of total luxury on the Island Princess, the

fanciest cruise ship in the world. The Bahamas, Jamaica, Grand Cayman, oops., wait a

minute, "

Luther dashed into the den, hit the Play button, waited for the first notes, adjusted the

volume, then dashed back to the kitchen where Nora was inspecting a brochure.

"What's that?" she asked.

"Reggae, the stuff they listen to down there. Anyway, where was I?"

"You were island hopping."

"Right, we'll snorkel on Grand Cayman, windsurf in Jamaica, lie on the beaches. Ten

days, Nora, ten fabulous days"

"I'll have to lose some weight."

"We'll both go on a diet. Whatta you say?"

"What's the catch?"

"The catch is simple. We don't do Christmas. We save the money, spend it on ourselves

for once. Not a dime on food we won't eat or clothes we won't wear or gifts no one needs.

Not one red cent. It's a boycott, Nora, a complete boycott of Christmas."

"Sounds awful."

"No, it's wonderful. And it's just for one year. Let's take a break. Blair's not here. She'll be

back next year and we can jump back into the Christmas chaos, if that's what you want.

Come on, Nora, please. We skip Christmas, save the money, and go splash in the

Caribbean for ten days."

"How much will it cost?"

"Three thousand bucks."

"So we save money?"

"Absolutely."

"When do we leave?"

"High noon, Christmas Day."

They stared at each other for a long time.

The deal was closed in bed, with the television on but muted, with magazines scattered

over the sheets, all unread, with the brochures not Far away on the night table. Luther

was scanning a financial newspaper but seeing little. Nora had a paperback but the pages

weren't turning.

The deal breaker had been their charitable giving. She simply refused to forgo it, or skip

it, as Luther insisted on saying. She had reluctantly agreed to buy no gifts. She also wept

at the thought of no tree, though Luther had mercilessly driven home the point that they

yelled at each other every Christmas when they decorated the damned thing. And no

Frosty on the roof ? When every house on the street would have one? Which brought up

the issue of public ridicule. Wouldn't they be scorned for ignoring Christmas?

So what, Luther had replied over and over. Their friends and neighbors might disapprove

at first, but secretly they would burn with envy. Ten days in the Caribbean, Nora, he kept

telling her. Their friends and neighbors won't be laughing when they're shoveling snow,

will they? No jeers from the spectators when we're roasting in the sun and they're bloated

on turkey and dressing. No smirks when we return thin and tanned and completely

unafraid of going to the mailbox.

Nora had seldom seen him so determined. He methodically killed all her arguments, one

by one, until nothing was left but their charitable giving.

"You're going to let a lousy six hundred bucks stand between us and a Caribbean cruise?"

Luther asked with great sarcasm.

"No, you are," she replied coolly.

And with that they went to their corners and tried to read.

But after a tense, silent hour, Luther kicked off the sheets and yanked off the wool socks

and said, "All right. Let's match last year's charitable gifts, but not a penny more."

She flung her paperback and went for his neck. They embraced, kissed, then she reached

for the brochures.

Three

Though it was Luther's scheme, Nora was the first to be tested. The call came on Tuesday

morning, from a pricklish man she didn't much care for. His name was Aubie, and he

owned The Pumpkin Seed, a pompous little stationery store with a silly name and absurd

prices.

After the obligatory greeting, Aubie came right to the point. "Just a bit worried about

your Christmas cards, Mrs. Krank," he said, trying to seem deeply concerned.

"Why are you worried?" Nora asked. She did not like being hounded by a crabby

shopkeeper who would barely speak to her the rest of the year.

"Oh well, you always select the most beautiful cards, Mrs. Krank, and we need to order

them now." He was bad at flattery. Every customer got the same line.

According to Luther's audit, The Pumpkin Seed had collected $318 from the Kranks last

Christmas for cards, and at the moment it did seem somewhat extravagant. Not a major

expense, but what did they get from it? Luther flatly refused to help with the addressing

and stamping, and he flew hot every time she asked if so-and-so should be added to or

deleted from their list. He also refused to offer so much as a glance at any of the cards

they received, and Nora had to admit to herself that there was a diminishing joy in getting

them.

So she stood straight and said, "We're not ordering cards this year." She could almost

hear Luther applauding.

"Do what?"

"You heard me."

"May I ask why not?"

"You certainly may not."

To which Aubie had no response. He stuttered something then hung up, and for a

moment Nora was filled with pride. She wavered, though, as she thought of the questions

that would be raised. Her sister, their minister's wife, friends on the literacy board, her

aunt in a retirement village-all would ask, at some point, what happened to their

Christmas cards.

Lost in the mail? Ran out of time?

No. She would tell them the truth. No Christmas for us this year; Blair's gone and we're

taking a cruise. And if you missed the cards that much, then I'll send you two next year.

Rallying, with a fresh cup of coffee, Nora asked herself how many of those on her list

would even notice. She received a few dozen each year, a dwindling number, she

admitted, and she kept no log of who bothered and who didn't. In the turmoil of

Christmas, who really had time to fret over a card that didn't come?

Which brought up another of Luther's favorite holiday gripes-the emergency stash. Nora

kept an extra supply so she could respond immediately to an unexpected card. Every year

they received two or three from total strangers and a few from folks who hadn't sent them

before, and within twenty-four hours she'd dash off the Kranks' holiday greetings in

response, always with her standard handwritten note of good cheer and peace be with you.

Of course it was foolish.

She decided that she wouldn't miss the entire ritual of Christmas cards. She wouldn't miss

the tedium of writing all those little messages, and hand-addressing a hundred or so

envelopes, and stamping them, and mailing them, and worrying about who she forgot.

She wouldn't miss the bulk they added to the daily mail, and the hastily opened envelopes,

and the standard greetings from people as hurried as herself.

Freed of Christmas cards, Nora called Luther for a little propping. He was at his desk.

She replayed the encounter with Aubie. "That little worm," Luther mumbled.

"Congratulations," he said when she finished.

"It wasn't hard at all," she gushed.

"Just think of all those beaches, dear, just waiting down there."

"What have you eaten?" she asked.

"Nothing. I'm still at three hundred calories."

"Me too."

When she hung up, Luther returned to the task at hand. He wasn't crunching numbers or

grappling with IRS regs, as usual, but instead he was drafting a letter to his colleagues.

His first Christmas letter. In it, he was carefully and artfully explaining to the office why

he would not be participating in the holiday rituals, and, in turn, he would appreciate it if

everyone else just left him alone. He would buy no gifts and would accept none. Thank

you anyway. He would not attend the firm's black-tie Christmas dinner, nor would he be

there for the drunken mess they called the office party. He didn't want the cognac and the

ham that certain clients gave to all the big shots each year. He wasn't angry and he would

not yell "Humbug!" at anyone who offered him a "Merry Christmas."

He was simply skipping Christmas. And taking a cruise instead.

He spent most of the quiet morning on his letter, and typed it himself. He would place a

copy on every desk at Wiley & Beck.