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

by Robin Jones Gunn

  Brutus emerged from his doghouse and bounded out to meet them.

  “Back!” Sierra yelled. “Don’t even think about jumping on us. You stay in your house.”

  “Yeah,” Gavin echoed. “Be a-spittable, Brutus. At least you get your own bed tonight.”

  Sierra opened the back door, kicking away the now soggy yellow leaves and calling to her brothers to hurry up. When they entered the warm, fragrant kitchen, and Mrs. Jensen saw the stack of blankets, her eyes grew huge.

  “What are you doing? Did those get wet? Sierra, why didn’t you stop them?”

  “I … they …”

  Mrs. Jensen ran a hand over the top blanket and snapped at Sierra, “Take these down to the basement and put them in the dryer on low. Make sure it’s low, or these wool ones will be ruined. Don’t put more than two in at a time. You boys get cleaned up. I don’t want you going outside anymore. It’s too wet.”

  Sierra briskly grabbed the blankets from her brothers and tromped down to the cold, musty basement, muttering all the way, “ ‘Get the boys, Sierra-ella.’ ‘Check on your grandmother, Sierra-ella.’ ‘Stoke the fire, wash the floors, scrub the hearth, pluck the chicken, mend the …”

  Before she could continue her exaggerated chore list, Sierra noticed her dad coming up the basement stairs with a plunger in his hand. Their old house often had plumbing problems.

  “The upstairs bathroom is already clogged.” He looked as stressed as his wife, and his jaw was set as if to say, “Get outta my way.”

  Sierra flattened herself and the bundle of blankets against the wall as her dad marched past her. Apparently she wasn’t the only one who was suffering from a Cinderella complex this holiday.

  As he passed by, Sierra’s dad’s concretely set jaw opened only wide enough for him to mutter, “This is going to be a long weekend.”

  two

  ALL SIERRA WANTED TO DO was to find a quiet place to hide so she could read Paul’s letter. But as soon as the first round of blankets was in the dryer, she still needed to check on Granna Mae. She loved her dear, though often confused, grandma. The letter would have to wait a few more minutes while Sierra flew up the stairs to check on Granna Mae.

  If the rest of us are this stressed, she wondered, how is Granna Mae handling all the activity?

  This large Victorian house was actually Granna Mae’s; she had lived here her entire married life, and her nine children had grown up here. Sierra’s father was the oldest, and Emma was the youngest. The second oldest son, Paul, had died in Vietnam. The rest were still alive, and three of them—Frieda, Matthew, and Emma—were coming with their families for the Thanksgiving weekend.

  Almost a year ago, Sierra’s family had moved in with Granna Mae because she could no longer live on her own. Her condition varied; some days she was bright as a berry, but other days she needed to be watched constantly so she wouldn’t wander off in a daze.

  Sierra knocked softly on Granna Mae’s bedroom door. When Sierra didn’t hear a reply, she called out, “Granna Mae, may I come in?”

  She pushed the door open and peeked inside. Granna Mae was asleep in her cozy recliner by the window with the radio softly playing classical music. Sierra tiptoed past the bed mats lining the floor, and reaching for a quilt from the end of Granna Mae’s bed, she slipped it over the sleeping woman.

  Outside, the rain pelted the windows. Sierra pulled down the shades and closed the heavy curtains to quiet the room and buffer the chill from the original 1915 windows. She stepped away, intending to leave the room, but then she stopped. Her pile of clothes and other belongings she would need for the weekend were stacked against the wall by the dresser, next to her bed mat. Her mom had insisted that Sierra and her little brothers clean their rooms exceptionally well and then take the things they needed over the weekend to the room where they would be sleeping so they wouldn’t disturb the guests who had claimed their rooms.

  In the middle of Sierra’s stack on the floor was her favorite birthday gift. She tiptoed over to draw it out of the clothes. The instant her fingers touched the cool metal frame, Sierra smiled. She pulled out the picture and held it close in the dimness of the quiet bedroom. Soft violin and cello music floated from the radio as she took in the picture’s image: Paul.

  The framed photo showed Paul standing in hiking gear deep in the Scottish Highlands, with the wind whipping his dark hair across his forehead and giving his cheeks a ruddy glow. Apparently he had been talking when he turned to face the camera because he looked as if he had just burst out laughing. Sierra focused on his eyes. One eyebrow was up slightly, and his blue-gray eyes almost shimmered, as if they caught the reflection off some pristine lake below him.

  From where he stood on top of a rocky crag, the view behind him went on forever. And what a hopelessly romantic view it was: bright blue skies and velvet green hills dotted by windswept clumps of rose-tinted heather.

  To Sierra, this wasn’t just a picture. It wasn’t merely a photograph. What she held in her hands was a window. A window framed in shiny brass. A window that allowed her to look out of her little corner of the world to see the view from Paul’s life.

  Since June, when Paul had gone to Scotland to stay with his recently widowed grandmother and to attend school in Edinburgh, Sierra had wondered what his world was like. She had prayed for this unique guy ever since their chance meeting at Heathrow Airport in London last January.

  When Sierra’s sister, Tawni, moved to Southern California and began to date Paul’s brother, Jeremy, Paul’s and Sierra’s lives intersected again. Then, when she was given an assignment from her Christian high school to help out at the Highland House, she discovered that Paul’s uncle Mac ran the homeless shelter. Paul even worked there at the same time Sierra did.

  Yet, despite all the bizarre coincidences and connections, Paul showed no special interest in Sierra. He had embarrassed her one night at Carla’s Café, a charming coffeehouse in downtown Portland, when he had asked if she had a crush on him.

  Sierra’s answer apparently surprised Paul. She had stated that she wondered if maybe God brought people into others’ lives at different times for specific reasons. She told Paul she thought they had met so she could pray for him, since, practically against her will, she had been prompted innumerable times to do just that.

  Much seemed to have changed inside Paul during the first few months he was in Scotland. By the end of the summer, he had contacted Sierra and asked her to correspond with him. He suggested they write via “snail-mail,” instead of e-mail, which she preferred, since he wanted their words to take their time traveling back and forth and not to be shot instantly from one end of the world to the other.

  For weeks now they had been corresponding. Sierra wrote to Paul nearly every day, even if it was just a postcard or a few lines on a piece of notebook paper in class. And Paul wrote to her often. His words brought descriptions of the classes he attended, the people he spent time with, the funny things his grandmother said, and the way the autumn sun looked against the windowpane of his grandmother’s cottage right before it slid behind the hills. Paul also wrote about what was on his heart—his feelings, his prayers, his quiet thoughts. He shared openly with Sierra, and she did the same.

  All along she had had only words to aid her in looking into Paul Mackenzie’s life. Now she had a window in her hand. Through this brass-framed window she saw more than the hills, the heather, and the brown leather jacket Paul had worn when they first met. She could now see the face, the eyes, and the smile of the guy who had turned her emotions inside out. No one had ever done that to her before—not like this.

  Sierra felt a smile pull up the corners of her mouth as she ran her fingers across the clear glass of her picture, her window. She remembered how her fingers had trembled when her mom handed her the package from Paul on the day before her birthday. Sierra had ripped open the padded mailing envelope right there in the kitchen while her mom and her little brother Gavin watched. The gift came wrapped simply, in tan-fl
ecked tissue tied with thin jute cord. Sierra remembered carefully pulling off the jute, thinking she could use it to macramé something—a bracelet, maybe. The tiny attached card said, “Happy Birthday, Daffodil Queen,” which was Paul’s nickname for her.

  When she pulled out the picture, Gavin said, “That’s all you got? Just a picture?”

  Sierra wanted to cry when she looked at Paul’s handsome face. If her mother and Gavin hadn’t been there, she most certainly would have kissed the glass.

  Now, in the stillness of Granna Mae’s room, while the echo of another round of voices filled the entryway and circled up the stairs, Sierra pressed her lips to her index finger and touched Paul’s windburned cheek with her finger. She knew she still had his unread words waiting for her in her pocket.

  Balancing his picture on her crossed legs, Sierra reached for the letter and adjusted her position so she could get as much light as possible from the one low-lit lamp on Granna Mae’s nightstand.

  She unfolded the paper and read, her lips moving silently:

  When it rains it seems the world

  Takes on a somber hue

  My soul is hushed

  I lift my pen

  And write a song for You.

  Sierra, my friend, it’s a rainy night here. Can you tell? I’m at my grandmother’s. I read your last letter on the train on the way home from school for the weekend, and I must confess I read every word twice. All three pages.

  I think what you said about your sister is true. It was good for her to write that letter to her birth mother, even though she hasn’t heard back from her—even if she never does.

  Jeremy e-mailed me last week that he thinks Tawni is going to go back to school. Has she told you yet? He’s been encouraging her to start with some night classes at the community college. I thought about you and all your big decisions about college next year. I remember what it was like having to send off all those applications before November 1 during my senior year. I’m glad you found out about the scholarship application and sent it in time. I imagine you’ll have no trouble landing any scholarship you apply for. I hadn’t realized you were a 4.0 girl. I should have guessed. You always do seem to have an answer for everything.

  A sudden knock on the door made Sierra jump. Before she could stuff Paul’s picture back in her stack of clothes or tuck away the letter, the door opened and her oldest brother, Cody, stepped in with his wife, Katrina, and their irrepressible toddler, Tyler.

  “There’s Auntie Sara,” Cody said, using Tyler’s nickname for Sierra as he released Tyler’s hand so he could run over to Sierra where she sat cross-legged on the floor.

  Sierra shot a cautious glance over at Granna Mae sleeping in the recliner. Cody followed her eyes and quickly apologized.

  “Sorry,” he said softly. “I didn’t realize Granna Mae was napping.”

  Before Sierra could move, Tyler pounced on her. The heel of his little hiking boot crashed into the glass in Paul’s picture.

  “Tyler!” Sierra yelled.

  He pulled back, startled by her response. The bend in his leg caught the corner of Paul’s letter and tore the onionskin paper in two.

  “Tyler!” she yelled again.

  “Sierra,” Katrina said with a definite scold in her voice.

  Sierra grabbed the pieces of the letter and stuffed them into her pocket. With the other hand, she quickly reached for Tyler’s curious fingers as they were going for the shards of broken glass. “Don’t touch. It will cut you.”

  “What’s going on?” Granna Mae asked, blinking and pulling the blanket off her lap.

  “It’s okay,” Cody said, going over to his grandmother and giving her a hug.

  Katrina scooped Tyler off of Sierra’s lap just as the startled and confused boy burst into tears. Without a word, Katrina headed for the bedroom door. Sierra knew her sister-in-law was mad.

  “I’m sorry,” Sierra said to her retreating back.

  Tyler squirmed in his mom’s arms, trying to get down. “Auntie Sara!” he cried. “I want Auntie Sara!”

  Carrying her wailing son, Katrina left the room and closed the door behind her. Sierra heard Tyler’s cries fading down the hallway. Cody, meanwhile, was trying to settle Granna Mae back down in her chair. In a soothing voice, he told her what was going on.

  Sierra could still feel her heart pounding. How could so much have gone wrong so fast? Blinking to keep back the tears, she looked at the broken glass frame still balanced on her leg. At least the glass hadn’t sliced into the photo or through her jeans, or so she hoped.

  Rising and walking to the trash can by the door, Sierra let the broken pieces slip into the trash. She lifted the picture and examined it more closely. A tiny shard of glass still stuck in the photo. She tapped the back of the frame over the trash, dislodging the sharp fragment. Checking the photo again, she bit her lower lip when she realized the shard had left a mark. It was a tiny cut over Paul’s heart.

  three

  “HE DIDN’T MEAN TO DO IT,” Katrina said firmly to Sierra.

  The two of them stood in the back corner of the kitchen while the rest of the group went through Mrs. Jensen’s “chow line” and scooped their own bowls of soup from three large pots she had simmering on the stove. Everyone had arrived except Wesley and Tawni. The noise level in the tiny kitchen was unbearable. This many people had been at Sierra’s birthday party the weekend before, but the noise hadn’t irritated her the way this laughter and chattering did.

  “I know,” Sierra said. “He startled me, that’s all. I didn’t want him to get cut on the glass.”

  “I appreciate that,” Katrina replied. “I’ll be glad to replace whatever was broken. Was it a picture frame?”

  Sierra nodded. “Don’t worry. It’s okay. The frame is fine. I can buy glass for it.”

  She smiled. Katrina smiled back.

  “Where’s Tyler now?” Sierra asked.

  “He fell asleep on Gavin’s bed. He didn’t sleep in the car on the way here as I hoped he would, so he crashed as soon as he stopped crying.”

  “I’d better check on him,” Sierra said. “He might be frightened when he wakes up, if he doesn’t know where he is.”

  Katrina nodded. “Thanks, Sierra. Do you want me to bring some soup up for you?”

  “No, but you might want to see if anyone is taking some up for Granna Mae. I’m afraid we’ve rattled her, and Dad thought it would be better if she ate in her room rather than coming down for dinner.”

  “I’ll check on her,” Katrina said.

  Sierra smiled as she slid past the swarm of relatives and retreated to the quieter upstairs. She stopped by the hall closet to grab a flashlight off the upper shelf. When she was little, she thought this was a magical closet that led directly to Narnia. Tonight she would have welcomed a journey into that fictional world. A cup of tea with Mrs. Beaver would have been a treat.

  Tyler was sound asleep on Gavin’s bed, so Sierra positioned herself snugly in the beanbag chair in the corner. She kept the flashlight low and pulled the torn letter from her pocket, determined to read the entire missive before the evening was over. Scanning the sentences until she caught up to where she had left off, she read:

  … You always do seem to have an answer for everything. I mean that in a good way. You know what you want and what your life is all about. I wish I’d had that much clarity when I was your age. I guess God just allowed me to take a little more of a winding trail to get to that point. But here I am. And I can honestly say I’ve never felt this much peace or this close to God. It’s a good thing. Or what is it you said your friends say? It’s a “God-thing”? Yes, it’s definitely a God-thing.

  My grandmother has insisted we ration the heating fuel this fall. I told you her cottage is old—make that ancient. When it’s cold and wet here, it’s really cold and wet. I have turned into a man of many layers. Even sitting around the house, I wear at least three layers with a wool sweater on top. I tried wearing my down jacket to dinner tonight, but
Grandma said I was being rude and hit me with a wooden cooking spoon. (It didn’t hurt a bit—couldn’t feel a thing through all the layers!)

  So as I write this in my “thrifty Scotch” bedroom, I’m wearing my down jacket and am wrapped in a wool blanket. Don’t tell Granny, but I pinched one of her wee candles, and I have it lit here on the writing desk to thaw out my fingers between paragraphs.…

  Ah, there; warm again. Now, what was I saying? It’s a dark and stormy night here. The raindrops fling themselves at my window like desperadoes shouting, “Let us in! It has to be warmer in there than it is out here!” Ha! Little do the raindrops know it’s the same temperature in here as it is out there. And in here one must deal with “the Grandmother.” Out there all they have to deal with is the wind. Hmm … I’m thinking I might join them.

  May the peace of Christ be upon you, dear Sierra.

  Paul

  Sierra drew in a deep breath and turned off the flashlight. She always felt the same when she finished reading one of Paul’s letters: wonderfully warmed and terribly disappointed. She felt disappointed that his words had stopped and the little bit of him she had in her hands had come to an end. And she felt warm on the inside. She wondered if Paul felt the same way when he read her letters.

  Quietly lifting the shade on the window behind her, Sierra peeked out at the rainy world. The raindrops were just as Paul had described them: desperadoes beating against the glass. It made her wonder if Paul had any idea he was such a wonderful poet. She decided to tell him that in her next letter, a letter she would begin to write now.

  With soft steps, she made her way over to Dillon’s desk and reached for a pen and a blank piece of paper in the drawer. Returning to the beanbag chair with a book for a lap table, she balanced the flashlight on the windowsill so it shone away from the peacefully sleeping Tyler. Sierra began her letter.

  Dear Poet,

  You are, you know. I loved your “When It Rains” poem. Your timing is perfect because it’s raining here, too. And I’m also thinking of you. Downstairs about a gazillion relatives have congregated so we can all be together for Thanksgiving tomorrow. But I’ve found a quiet spot beside a window where the desperado raindrops are now begging me to let them in. The funniest thing is that none of them sound like a western desperado. They all have Scottish accents! Did you send them here to harass me? And if so, why didn’t you come along with them? I would have let you in, and I can guarantee it’s warmer inside here than it is outside on this dark and stormy night.