Sierra Jensen Collection, Vol 3 Sierra Jensen Collection, Vol 3

by Robin Jones Gunn

  “We’re really sorry,” Christy said, keeping step with her aunt.

  “I know. I accepted your apology the first time you offered it. Now let’s stay together, and everything will be fine.”

  Sierra thought for a moment that it might have been better if Marti had exploded and yelled at them. It was terrible to go through her drawn-out scolding and repeated instructions. They entered the scarf shop, and Sierra and Christy played the roles of interested and attentive nieces, helping Marti select three scarves.

  “I believe the next stop should be a clothing store for you, Sierra. You said you would like to buy a dress or perhaps a new skirt. I want to treat you. Did you see a shop that interested you along the way, or should we keep going?”

  “It’s okay, really,” Sierra began. Christy pressed her finger into Sierra’s back. It had become Christy’s signal to tell Sierra not to argue with Marti. “Actually, I saw a shop about three doors back that had some gauze skirts in the window.”

  “Gauze skirts?” Marti questioned. “Those hippie clothes?”

  Sierra paused before nodding. “We could look there.”

  “If you’re sure that’s what you want.”

  Marti led the way to the shop. When they entered, the fragrance of heavy incense greeted them. Little bells chimed over the door, and exotic music played in the background. Posters with satanic emblems hung on the walls, and fake green snakes crawled out of the ceiling. Sierra immediately turned around and went back outside.

  “That was not my kind of shop,” she said.

  “Well, I should hope not,” Marti said.

  “I like natural-looking clothes like the ones in their window, but that’s all I like. The clothes are nice, but the other stuff they’re promoting in there isn’t.”

  “Why don’t we keep going down the street?” Christy suggested. “There are lots more shops.”

  The threesome slowed their pace a little as the sun warmed them and more people crowded the streets. To Sierra, it felt as if they were in the States and this was an elite outdoor shopping center built to resemble an old European marketplace. Only this was the real thing. People speaking different languages brushed past them while the scent of strong black coffee wafted from the tiny sidewalk bakeries. In all the windows, the small shops displayed their finest wares behind thick glass, hoping to entice shoppers into their stores.

  Marti, Sierra, and Christy lingered at a shop that sold nothing but tea. The wall behind the long mahogany counter was lined from ceiling to floor with dozens of bins of loose tea leaves. The scent of the mixtures filled the room. Each time Sierra drew in a breath of the fruit teas, black teas, and rich Ceylon and oolong leaves, she felt as if she had just tasted something delicious.

  “I have to buy some,” she said to Marti and Christy. “Do you guys mind waiting a minute? I’d like to get in line and buy some tea.”

  “Here’s some money,” Marti said.

  “Thanks, but I have enough. I’m only going to buy a small bag.”

  Sierra studied the names of various teas as she made her way forward in line. Every time a customer pointed to a bin, one of the two white-aproned clerks pulled it open and ladled out the leaves with a metal scoop. The tea was weighed in kilos, Sierra noticed. She decided half a kilo would be more than enough. Using gestures, nods, and the clerk’s heavily accented English, Sierra was able to buy exactly what she wanted: jasmine spice. It smelled wonderful. She felt sophisticated and cultured. They exited the shop, leaving the exotic aromas behind as the door shut.

  “That was fun,” Sierra said. “Thanks for being patient.”

  “Not a problem,” Marti said, pulling a lipstick tube from her purse and dabbing some color on her lips. “I could use a drink and maybe some lunch. How about you girls?”

  “Do they have water anywhere in this country?” Sierra asked. “With all the snow in the Alps, you would think a drinking fountain would be on every corner.”

  “In here,” Marti said, directing them into a bakery. “Bottled water is in the refrigerated case, Sierra. What would you like, Christy?”

  “One of those,” Christy said, pointing to a fat, flaky, blond-colored pastry in the case. A thin line of chocolate was drizzled over the delicacy.

  The minute Sierra saw it, she said, “Definitely one of those for me, too.”

  Marti stepped forward and ordered for the girls. Sierra noticed that once again Marti’s voice rose. She seemed to think the clerks could understand her only if she spoke loudly and exaggerated each word.

  The trio took the white, glossy pastry bags outside. A father and son were leaving their seats on a window bench, providing an open seat for their group. Saying something in German, the man motioned for them to sit down. They nodded their thanks, and all three squeezed onto the brightly painted red bench.

  “This is heaven,” Sierra said, turning her face up to catch the warmth of the midday sun as she devoured her first bite of pastry. “What do they put in these? Mrs. Kraus needs this recipe so she can add these to the menu at Mama Bear’s.”

  “It’s probably marzipan,” Marti commented. “Very popular in their pastries here.”

  “What kind did you get?” Sierra asked Marti.

  “Nothing. A diet Coke is all I wanted.”

  “How can you be in Switzerland in a bakery like that and not get anything?” Sierra asked. This time Christy didn’t try to stop her.

  “Think of all the butter and sugar in those rolls!” Marti said.

  “I don’t have to think,” Christy said. “I’m experiencing it.”

  “It will go right to your thighs,” Marti warned.

  “Here, have a bite of mine,” Sierra urged.

  “No thank you.”

  “Come on! One little bite. It tastes incredible! When are you ever going to be able to get a pastry like this again—and especially in Switzerland?” Sierra broke off the end of her roll using the bag as a glove and offered the sweet to Marti. “Please. Try it.”

  “I don’t know why it’s such an issue for you,” Marti said.

  Christy leaned over and said, “Come on, Aunt Marti! You’re going to walk off all those calories this afternoon anyhow. Live a little.”

  Shaking her short dark hair to show she’d given in, Marti reached over and took the chunk of pastry from Sierra. The two girls waited for Marti’s response.

  Marti reluctantly drew the dainty morsel to her mouth and slowly took a bite. “Oh, that was good!” she said, savoring the pastry.

  Sierra and Christy both giggled. “We told you! Go back in there and buy one for yourself.”

  “Do you think I should?” Marti’s expression was like a little girl’s. The transformation from dictator to uncertain child amazed Sierra.

  “Definitely,” Christy said. “If you don’t go in there and buy one, Sierra and I are going to buy you one—and you know what happens when the two of us are let loose in these small shops.”

  “Say no more,” Marti said, holding up a hand. “I’m on my way.” She sprang from her seat. Grinning coyly over her shoulder, Marti entered the shop.

  “You know,” Sierra said, tearing off a piece of her pastry, “I like your aunt when she’s on sugar.”

  Christy laughed. “She’s a complex woman, isn’t she?” Christy held up a piece of pastry and slowly placed it in her mouth.

  “She’s exhausted,” Sierra said.

  “I thought she said she slept well last night.”

  “No, I mean she’s exhausted from hiding something deep inside for so long. It keeps trying to leak out, and she spends most of her time on guard, making sure she doesn’t let up and allow her pain to surface.”

  “Whose psych book did you read?” Christy said, turning to study Sierra.

  “Nobody’s. It’s only my humble opinion. You don’t have to agree with it.”

  “That’s the scary part. It makes sense. I might agree with you.”

  “All we have to do is wait for the right moment and ask the ri
ght question, and she’ll let it all out,” Sierra said.

  “Don’t count on it,” Christy said.

  The bell over the pastry shop door jingled, and Marti stepped out with her own glossy white pastry bag in hand and a mischievous grin on her face.

  She sat down and said in a lowered voice, “I also got us truffles. Did you see their chocolates? World class. Absolutely exquisite. Here’s one for you, and one for you, and one for me. Bon appetit!”

  Sierra gave Christy a look that said, “Told you. We’re wearing down all her defenses.”

  Christy took a bite of her truffle and began to chew it.

  “No, no, no!” Marti scolded. “You don’t chew a truffle! You let it dissolve slowly on your tongue. Savor the experience.”

  Sierra took a tiny bite of the rich chocolate and let it dissolve in her closed mouth. It was good. Very good.

  “You’re right,” she said to Marti. “Make the moment last as long as you can.”

  “Chocolate should be a tender experience,” Marti said. She closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath. “I can’t remember the last time I had chocolate like this.”

  “Did Nelson bring you chocolates?” Sierra asked.

  Marti slowly opened her eyes and looked down at her pastry bag, then over at Sierra. People were milling around the street, entering and exiting shops. It seemed as though everything clicked into slow motion as Marti said, “Nelson brought me anything I wanted, including chocolates.”

  “Whatever happened to him?” Christy ventured.

  Sierra admired Christy’s bravery. But then, how hard was it for Christy to step over a wall Sierra had just brought down?

  It appeared the answer was on the edge of Marti’s chocolate-smudged lips, as if she were about to divulge some secret. Then her lips closed, and she seemed to swallow more than her last bite of truffle.

  “Perhaps I’ll tell you sometime,” she said in a hollow voice. Marti reached into her pastry bag and broke off a portion of the flaky croissant. She chewed it slowly, mechanically. Sierra couldn’t tell whether Marti was savoring the pastry or if she had lost her taste for everything and was only going through the motions. It seemed to represent the way Sierra believed Marti went through life—making all the right moves without enjoying any of it.

  They sat silently in the strong heat of the August sun, eating their pastries, each swept up in her own thoughts.

  twelve

  SIERRA CHEWED HER PASTRY SLOWLY. She could feel the persistent sun on her face. Voices floated through the street. Overhead, she heard a bird call to its mate. The summer breeze blew across her bare legs, just lightly enough to make its presence known.

  For many years, Sierra had compared the Holy Spirit to the wind, as it said in the Bible, noting that it was always there, no matter how faint the breeze. The wind went where it wanted to go, and its path was easy to detect because it moved objects and people. But no one had ever seen the wind.

  Sitting on the bench in Basel, Sierra felt that something deep inside her was coming alive. Was it desire? Passion? A sugar rush?

  No. This was something emotional and spiritual blended together. The stirring was strong and vibrant. It made Sierra realize she wanted to enjoy to the absolute fullest this life God had given her. She wanted to be more aware of the Holy Spirit’s “breeze” blowing through her life. She wanted its effects and presence to be evident in her. She knew she didn’t want to turn out like Marti, living by schedules and goals, not tasting the sweetness that was before her.

  Sierra realized that, lately, she had been setting up her life like Marti did. Sierra had rules, standards, goals for college. Her summer had been packed with working, volunteering at the homeless shelter, and being at church nearly every time the doors opened. For the first time, Sierra saw that she had organized a lot of the spontaneity and joy right out of life.

  Then something else occurred to Sierra. She realized what her father had meant when he gave her the purity ring. He’d told her to enjoy herself. Sierra had all her goals in place, but where was the good clean fun in her life? This last-minute trip had awakened those impulses in her, and she liked it. This vitality felt good—freeing. And it felt right. Finally, Sierra was being true to who she was and who God had made her to be.

  “What was that verse, Christy?”

  Christy licked her fingers and wadded her empty pastry bag into a little ball. “Which verse? First Peter 4:8—that one Alex quoted yesterday?”

  “Yes. What did it say about love?”

  “I just read it in my Bible this morning and underlined it. It said, ‘Above all, love each other deeply, because love covers over a multitude of sins.’ ”

  “That’s it,” Sierra said. “Love each other deeply. How did Alex say it? Oh yeah, ‘fervently.’ “Sierra thought another moment and then said, “You do that, Christy. You love people fervently. I like that about you. I want to be like that.”

  Christy began to blush.

  “You know what I don’t understand?” Marti interjected. “How did you two become such good friends? When I was your age, Christy, I would never have enjoyed being friends with someone three years younger than myself. I certainly wouldn’t have considered her to be a genuine friend.”

  “There’s really only about two years difference between us,” Christy said. “But it doesn’t seem like even that much.”

  “It’s because I’m so mature,” Sierra said playfully in a deep voice.

  Marti said, “I find that to be true.”

  “I was only kidding,” Sierra said.

  “I wasn’t. You both are so much more aware of yourselves and of life than I was at your age. Mind you, I don’t agree with the fervor of your Christianity, but I do think it’s been an advantage for you both in some ways.”

  “It’s not supposed to be an advantage,” Christy said. “It’s supposed to be my whole life.”

  “Oh, Christina! Can’t you simply take the compliment without trying to correct me? I was being nice.”

  “I noticed that,” Sierra commented.

  Marti and Christy both looked at Sierra.

  “I meant, I noticed you were being nice, Marti. I thought it was nice that you were complimenting us. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. See, Christina? That’s the proper way to respond to a compliment.”

  “I appreciate your comment, too.” Christy said.

  “Good,” Marti said. She paused and then added, “I suppose we should get going. On to a dress shop?”

  “How about a picnic?” Sierra asked.

  “Isn’t that what we just had?” Marti asked back.

  “We picked up a map from the information booth,” Christy said. “Sierra and I were thinking it would be fun to do some hiking and take a picnic snack up into the Alps.”

  “We’re already taking a walk,” Marti said, appearing unclear as to why a walk in the mountains would be more appealing than taking a stroll down this wonderful row of shops.

  “Maybe tomorrow?” Christy asked hopefully.

  “You’ll have plenty of time to hike these mountains if you come to school here,” Marti said, making her way into the crowds along the street.

  Christy tossed her bag into a trash can. “Sierra won’t.”

  “Sierra needs a dress,” Marti said firmly. “We still haven’t eaten at a really nice restaurant, and Sierra certainly won’t be allowed in wearing those baggy shorts.”

  The rest of the afternoon was spent fulfilling Marti’s goal of finding nice clothes for Sierra. They returned to the hotel by cab since they had walked so far and now had their arms loaded with bags.

  “I’ll ask the concierge to make reservations for us at seven,” Marti announced as they entered the hotel lobby. “That gives you nearly two hours to rest, shower, and dress up. And do wear the black skirt, Sierra, not the gypsy one.”

  “Yes, Aunt Marti,” Sierra teased in a nasal-sounding voice.

  Marti turned sharply and gave Sierra an intensely disappr
oving look. Sierra knew she would never joke around like that again.

  “Are you going to take a shower?” Sierra asked Christy as they tossed all their bags onto the beds.

  “I’m thinking about it. You know what? I think my arms got sunburned. Can you believe that?”

  “The sun was pretty hot when we were sitting in front of the bakery,” Sierra said. “My checks feel red.”

  “They are a little,” Christy said, examining Sierra’s face. “How do you do that?”

  “Do what?”

  “You look perfectly fresh, like you don’t need a shower at all. Your hair is perfect and your face is perfect.”

  “My hair is never perfect. My hair has a mind of its own. It never cooperates with me,” Sierra said, grabbing a handful of the long, unruly strands.

  “Alex sure liked it,” Christy teased. “Why don’t you see if we got any phone messages?”

  “You read my mind,” Sierra said.

  While Christy was in the shower, Sierra tried to figure out how to work the message retrieval service on the phone. An instruction sheet printed in German, English, French, and Italian was in the top drawer of the desk. It didn’t help. Even the English instructions were hard to decipher. When Sierra finally pushed the right buttons, she was rewarded with the sound of Alex’s deep voice on the other end.

  “This is Alexander, and I am calling for See-hair-a. I will be at my cousin’s house today helping him repair his automobile. If you do not already have arrangements for tomorrow, I would like to take you on a picnic. I will call again tonight, and we can make our plans. Ciao.”

  There was a click on the end of the receiver and a zing inside Sierra’s heart. Alex hadn’t forgotten about her. He wanted to take her on a picnic tomorrow. Or rather, to take Sierra and Christy on a picnic. Marti had to let them go. Sierra hoped Marti would be in a good mood at dinner when Sierra asked permission.