Shakespeare's Christmas by Charlaine Harris Read Free Book Online

the ratty Christmas decorations. I missed my house. I missed my gym.
    I would have given anything to be selfish enough to jump in my car and drive home.
    I took slow, deep breaths, like I did before I attempted to lift a weight that was a real challenge. Like I did before we sparred in karate class.
    Mom drove past Bartley’s dilapidated motel, and I glanced into its U of rooms. There was a car parked there—that, in itself, was nearly amazing—and it looked like . . . my heart began to stutter in an uncomfortable way.
    I shook my head. Couldn’t be.
    We parked on the street in front of the white-painted brick house all lit up like a birthday cake. There was a white-and-silver paper wedding bell fixed to the front door. A stout redhead stood just within the foyer . . . Margie Lipscom. I’d known her as a plump brunette.
    My mother got patted, my sister got hugged, and I was greeted with a shriek.
    “Oh, Lily! Girl, you look beautiful!” Margie exclaimed. She grabbed me and embraced me. I endured it. Margie was my age, had never been a particular friend of mine; she had grown closer to my sister when they began working together. Margie had always been a hooter and a hugger. She was going to fuss extra over me now, because she felt sorry for me.
    “Isn’t she even prettier, Frieda?” Margie said to my mother. Overcompensating for her discomfort.
    “Lily has always been lovely,” my mother said calmly.
    “Well, let’s go see everyone!” Margie grabbed my hand and led me into the living room. I was biting the inside of my mouth. I was having a little flutter of panic and anger, the sort of nervous spasm I hadn’t had in a long time. A long, long time.
    I found a smile and fixed it on my face.
    After I’d nodded to everyone and said, “Tell you later,” in answer to almost every query, I was able to sit in a straight chair that had been crammed into a corner of the crowded living room. After that, all I had to do was aim a pleasant look in the direction of the loudest speaker, and I was fine.
    This was a lingerie shower, and I’d gotten Varena a present when I’d shopped for myself in Montrose. She hadn’t expected a gift from me, hadn’t noticed me bring it into the house. She looked up at me in surprise when she read the card on the front. I may have imagined it, but she looked a little apprehensive.
    My gift was a nightgown, full-length, with spaghetti straps and lace panels—sheer lace panels—over the breasts. It was black. It was beautiful. It was really, really sexy. As Varena was ripping off the paper, I was suddenly convinced I’d made a terrible mistake. The most daring garment Varena had received so far was a tiger-print teddy, and there had been some red faces over that.
    When Varena shook out the gown and held it up, there was a moment of silence, during which I decided I might as well sneak out the back way. Then Varena said, “Wow. This is for the wedding night.” And there was a chorus of “Oooo” and “Oh, boy!”
    “Lily, this is beautiful,” Varena said directly. “And I bet Dill’s gonna thank you, too!”
    There was a chorus of laughter, and then the next gift was passed to my sister to open.
    I relaxed and coasted on autopilot for the rest of the evening.
    During the punch and cakes, the talk turned to Bartley’s purse snatcher. This seemed an urban sort of crime for Bartley, so I paid attention. Margie was saying, “And he stole Diane’s purse right off her arm and ran off with it!”
    “Did she get a good look at him?” the minister’s wife asked. Lou O’Shea was a buxom brunette with a ski-jump nose and intelligent eyes. I’d never met her before. I hadn’t been to church, in Bartley or anywhere else, in years.
    “Just a black guy, medium height,” Margie said. “Could be a hundred people.”
    “She’s all right?” my mother asked.
    “Well, he knocked her down to the sidewalk, so she had some scrapes and bruises. It could’ve been a lot worse.”
    After a