Sisterchicks Go Brit!
Praise for
The Sisterchicks Series
“Robin has done it again! You and your Sisterchicks will love taking this new adventure together.”
—KAREN KINGSBURY, New York Times best-selling
author of Between Sundays and Ever After
“Get ready for a wild ride through the back streets of Oxford and London’s busy underground. Sisterchicks Go Brit! is a joy to read and a delightful reminder that it’s never too late in life to take a risk. You’ll be cheering as these women dare to follow their hearts and be inspired to revive the dreams lying dormant in your own heart. Thanks, Robin, for treating us to another Sisterchicks adventure full of friendship, faith, and fun.”
—MELANIE DOBSON, author of Going for Broke and
The Black Cloister
“My only complaint about Robin’s latest is that now I want to hop a plane to England! But combine a cup of Earl Grey tea and this charming story, and you’re halfway there. Another delightful tale about women helping women to live their lives to the fullest.”
—MELODY CARLSON, author of These Boots Weren’t
Made for Walking and A Mile in My Flip-Flops
“Funny, touching, and true to life, Sisterchicks Do the Hula! will have you doing the hula (and loving it!) by the last page. Grab your grass skirt, girlfriend—this is one trip you don’t want to miss! Robin Jones Gunn is the perfect tour guide for this joy-filled Hawaiian adventure. You’ll feel the sand between your toes, taste sweet pineapple juice, see amazing rainbows—all without having to put on a bathing suit! Your travel partners, two turning-forty chicks, will feel like old friends the minute you hit the beach.”
—LIZ CURTIS HIGGS, best-selling author of Bookends,
Mixed Signals, and Grace in Thine Eyes
“Sisterchicks in Gondolas! is a true delight. The characters shine, and evocative language will make any reader want to visit Venice. Biblical truths are portrayed simply yet will touch hearts and lives with their realistic application.”
—Romantic Times magazine
“If you have a keen sense of adventure, you will love exploring the world with Robin Jones Gunn’s Sisterchicks series … The author makes sisterhood and friendship into an incredible treasure, and she uses Scripture in a way to challenge, uplift, and encourage the readers. This is an excellent read.”
—BOOK BARGAINS AND PREVIEWS for Sisterchicks
in Gondolas!
“Robin Jones Gunn makes traversing midlife seem almost welcoming because she has that rare gift of communicating hope amid trial and inner chaos. Robin has found an effective mode of gently lending some instruction to women who sometimes feel overwrought and undone by life’s unexpected curves. women and older teens will relish Sisterchicks Down Under! Who says growing older can’t be fun if you have a friend to share the journey?”
—FAITHFULREADER.COM
SISTERCHICKS GO BRIT!
PUBLISHED BY MULTNOMAH BOOKS
12265 Oracle Boulevard, Suite 200
Colorado Springs, Colorado 80921
All Scripture quotations, unless otherwise indicated, are taken from the Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers Inc., Wheaton, Illinois 60189. All rights reserved. Scripture quotations marked (NIV) are taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version®. NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan Publishing House. All rights reserved. Other Scripture quotations on this page–this page are taken from The Message by Eugene H. Peterson. Copyright 1993, 1994, 1995, 1996, 2000, 2001, 2002. Used by permission of NavPress Publishing Group. All rights reserved.
The characters and events in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual persons or events is coincidental.
Copyright © 2008 by Robin’s Nest Productions Inc.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Published in the United States by WaterBrook Multnomah, an imprint of the Crown Publishing Group, a division of Random House Inc., New York.
MULTNOMAH and its mountain colophon are registered trademarks of Random House Inc.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Gunn, Robin Jones, 1955-
Sisterchicks go Brit! : a novel / Robin Jones Gunn.
p. cm.
eISBN: 978-0-307-56143-5
1. Women travelers—Fiction. 2. Female friendship—Fiction. 3. Americans—Great Britain—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3557.U4866S5627 2008
813′.54—dc22
2007047056
v3.1_r1
OTHER BOOKS BY ROBIN JONES GUNN
Sisterchicks® Devotional: Take Flight!
Gardenias for Breakfast
Finding Father Christmas
SISTERCHICKS® NOVELS
Sisterchicks on the Loose!
Sisterchicks Do the Hula!
Sisterchicks in Sombreros!
Sisterchicks Down Under!
Sisterchicks Say Ooh La La!
Sisterchicks in Gondolas!
THE GLENBROOKE SERIES
Secrets
Whispers
Echoes
Sunsets
Clouds
Waterfalls
Woodlands
Wildflowers
TEEN NOVELS
The Christy Miller Series
The Sierra Jensen Series
Christy & Todd: The College Years
The Katie Weldon Series
GIFT BOOKS
Tea at Glenbrooke
Mothering by Heart
Gentle Passages
For Julee and Marion
with “Sisterchicks Forever” memories
of our Oxford tour and teatime in Olney
Deep in your hearts you know
that every promise of the LORD your God
has come true.
Not a single one has failed!
JOSHUA 23:14
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Other Books by This Author
Dedication
Epigraph
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Epilogue
Reader’s Guide
Some dreams and wishes, I believe, are of the dormant, time-released variety. They aren’t forgotten over many years or through many changes in life. They don’t shrink during their hibernation. They simply wait to come true when the dreamer and the wisher need to believe all over again.
Kellie and I definitely needed to believe all over again.
Kellie’s dream was to have an interior-design business.
My wish was to go to England. Ever since I was fifteen, I had wished I could stand on Westminster Bridge in London and gaze up into the golden face of Big Ben. Silly, I know. But that was my wish.
Never did either of us ima
gine that Kellie’s dream would overlap my wish when we were both fifty-four years old. We were, by our own unspoken rules, past the point in life at which one should venture out in a new direction.
But that was before we met Opal.
A bright-eyed, seventy-nine-year-old pixie of a woman, Opal slipped her silken hand into mine on the doorstep of her English cottage and said, “Elizabeth, my dear, do you know what the dearest kindness is that a woman can offer herself in the autumn of her years?”
I shook my head.
“It is the gift of giving herself permission to take risks.”
And then she winked at me.
That’s when I understood that sometimes a hibernating dream or a dormant wish must be ushered out of its cavelike sleeping chambers and nudged right up to the cliff’s edge of possibility. It must take a deep breath and step off the edge into nothing but untamed air. In that risk-taking moment, the wish just might discover its wings and fly. I’ve seen it happen.
I never would have known any of this if I hadn’t been late to meet Kellie for coffee two years ago. I dashed into Brew-La-La to escape the jellybean-sized drops of warm, Floridian rain.
Right behind me was a petite feather of a woman dressed in a bright green jogging set. She was shielded from the drops by a spotted gray umbrella, making her look like an overgrown mushroom.
I held the door for her and located Kellie across the café, ensconced in one of the cranberry red chairs in our usual corner. She waved to me with a beckoning “over here” sort of hand motion. The walking mushroom responded by striding across the room and planting herself in the cranberry red chair intended for me.
In that moment my dormant wish was nudged toward the mouth of its cave, only I didn’t know it. Kellie’s dream was about to be ushered right to the cliff’s edge of reason, but she had no clue what was coming.
All I did was hold open the door. All Kellie did was wave. Everything else happened at a blink-of-an-eye speed after that.
Several months ago Kellie and I were retelling our story to one of Kellie’s clients. As usual, we started with the encounter at Brew-La-La. Kellie described the winsome way Opal walked through the open door and made herself at home in the middle of our lives.
Kellie’s client said, “She sounds like your fairy godmother in disguise.”
“Disguised as a mushroom,” I said and quickly added the description of Opal’s green “stem” and toadstool-colored umbrella.
I also said that while we didn’t consider Opal to be fairy godmother material, she did qualify for the British sort of fairy. “In English literature fairies are known for their mischievous antics. What Opal did right before our eyes was as quintessentially pixie as you can get.”
Then Kellie said, “I don’t think it was Opal the Fairy Godmother who granted my dream and Liz’s wish. I think it was our heavenly Father.”
I nodded in agreement.
“He’s the One who knows what dreams lie dormant in the cave of every human heart,” Kellie added. “He’s the One who nudges us forward and invites us to trust Him.”
I watched Kellie’s client tear up, and I knew my friend was working in her vein of gold. Women invited her into their homes to rearrange their furniture. Before she left, Kellie often rearranged their hearts.
As for my wish, in many ways I’m still living it. My husband, Roger, said, “You always did like getting lost inside a good story.” My life does feel like a good story. Only I don’t feel lost inside it. I feel at home.
Sometimes I think about how it felt, stepping off the cliff’s edge into that untamed air. I remember the sense of being embraced by the everlasting arms of the Maker of all dreams and all wishes. He held both Kellie and me close in that free fall of faith, and it was there, in that closeness, that I could hear His heart more clearly than I had in years.
All of this because of Opal and her reminder that we’re never too old to take a risk.
That Opal.
On that pivotal day at the Brew-La-La, the first thing I noticed about the tiny, determined woman as she assumed command from the cranberry red chair was her British accent.
“I do appreciate your willingness to meet with me here on rather short notice. I’m Opal. I spoke with you yesterday.” She adjusted her trifocals and with an open palm patted the side of her poofed-up white hair.
Kellie gave me a what-is-going-on-here look. All I could do was shrug.
“As I indicated on the phone,” Opal continued, “I’m fully prepared to pay your regular fees. My only question is, when might you be able to provide me with an estimate?”
“I’m sorry,” Kellie said in a tone that revealed her instinctively smooth and professional demeanor. “I think you might have me confused with someone else.”
Opal blinked. “Are you not an interior designer?”
The truthful answer for Kellie was yes. She was, as a hobby, an interior designer.
“Who were you expecting to meet?” I asked.
Flustered, Opal reached for her pocketbook, undid the clasp, and rummaged around. Instead of a note or a business card, she extracted a handkerchief and held it in her left hand as if for moral support. “I have the name here somewhere.” She looked at Kellie again. “Are you certain you are not a designer? I thought I recognized you from Sunshine Manor.”
Kellie smiled. “My aunt used to live at Sunshine Manor. Did you know Martha Wojckski?”
Opal’s expression lifted. “Yes, of course I knew Martha. Her apartment was beautifully decorated. Which is exactly why I’m meeting with a designer. I’m afraid I’ll go mad if I don’t have a change of color on the walls soon. Do you happen to know who designed your aunt’s apartment?”
Kellie blushed. “Actually, I did.”
Opal sat up straight. “Then I should like to engage you for the work needed on my apartment.”
“I’m not a professional interior designer,” Kellie said quickly. She looked to me for backup, but I didn’t agree. Kellie had done wonders with my small home, and her home was a masterpiece. She had wanted to pursue designing for well over a decade but had never taken the first step toward that dream. If Opal was going to push Kellie off the cliff by inviting her to take this risk, I wasn’t going to stop her.
“You did such a lovely job with your aunt’s apartment. If you’re available, I would certainly like to hire you.”
“What about the other designer you were going to meet here?” Kellie asked.
Opal looked around and glanced at her watch. “I don’t think she’s coming. We only had a tentative meeting arranged, which is why I was so hopeful when I saw you wave. In her message yesterday she said she was reluctant to take on the project since I live at Sunshine Manor. Apparently there are difficulties in working within the limitations set by the association.”
While Opal was talking, I had been giving Kellie all the nonverbals I thought she needed to recognize this as a golden opportunity she had better snatch.
Kellie may have had one eye on my affirming expressions, but she definitely had both ears open to Opal.
“I know,” Kellie said to Opal. “They do have some strict rules. I found a way to work around some of the restrictions. They aren’t that complicated. We just have to file the necessary forms.”
“Does this mean you’ll come to give me an estimate?”
Kellie swallowed.
I gave her my most encouraging smile.
“All right,” Kellie said with a hesitant sort of nod. “Sure. Why not? When would you like me to come?”
The next afternoon I accompanied Kellie to Opal’s apartment. My presence was partly for support and partly because I was fascinated by Opal. Her accent reminded me of Mrs. Roberts, a woman who had been important to me during high school.
Sunshine Manor was all of two blocks from Brew-La-La. We found number 2017 and knocked. Opal opened the door, and I offered one of my best smiles to Kellie’s first unofficial client.
I don’t have a lot of stunning attribu
tes like Kellie with her gorgeous, thick auburn hair and her warm, perceptive eyes. My hair is flyaway and fair like my skin. But I do know how to smile. I can almost always get others, even pouting children, to smile back when I give them a generous grin.
Opal invited us inside. “May I offer you some tea?”
Kellie and I slid into straight-backed chairs at a round table in the corner. A pudgy, rose-strewn china teapot and a plate of gingersnaps awaited us. We sipped Earl Grey from china teacups balanced on saucers, and I felt like we were little girls playing dress-up. This was a stretch for us. Kellie and I were decaf-grande-triple-nonfat-latte-in-a-to-go-cup kind of women.
I tried out what I hoped was proper British tea-party conversation. “Have you lived here long, Opal?”
“Not long. Sixteen years. My husband lived in Orlando as a child. He was determined to return and spend his final days in the sunshine. He did exactly that. I’ve been alone the past eight years.”
“Where did you live before coming here?” Kellie asked.
“I lived nearly all my life in a small town in England called Olney.”
“I always wanted to go to England.” I sat up a bit straighter. “Especially London.”
“Is that so?”
I nodded with the same eagerness I had felt about England since I was fifteen.
“Do you have plans to visit London soon, then?” Opal asked.
“No, not soon. Someday maybe.”
“Maybe sooner than later,” Opal said cheerfully. “You’ll find London to be a delightful city.”
I leaned forward in my best tea-party posture and shared my small secret with Opal. “I’ve always had a hopeless crush on Big Ben.”
Opal studied me as she swallowed a nibble of her gingersnap.
Kellie, of course, knew of my fascination with all things British but particularly the top tourist sights of London. However, when the disclosure of my long-held wish was followed by a pensive silence, she moved the conversation to another topic.
“What sort of decorating ideas did you have in mind for your apartment, Opal?”
Turning her attention to Kellie, Opal said, “I am ready for a complete change. I would like a more cheerful color for these walls. Yellow, I think. One can live within the belly of a pale salmon for only so long.”