Sisterchicks in Sombreros

  From one sisterchick to another …

  “I just finished Sisterchicks Do the Hula! and had to tell you how wonderful it was! I really can’t put into words how this book touched me, deep down in my soul. Like I was thirsty for something and your book was a cool drink of water. As I was reading the last page, I had tears in my eyes, not wanting the story to end and thankful that I could come along on the journey also. Thank you so much!”

  —LISA

  “I am from the UK. Last weekend I bought Sisterchicks on the Loose! I can honestly say I never in my life read a book so fast! I laughed out loud, even cried in places, and struggled to put it down. It made me realise I, too, have a Sisterchick who should be treasured.”

  —TRACEY

  “A friend gave Sisterchicks Do the Hula! to me for my birthday. I couldn’t put it down. I’m thirty-five and feeling way too old for my age. Thank you for the breath of fresh air. I felt like God had you write it just for me!

  —KARA

  “I just finished Sisterchicks on the Loose! and loved it. In fact, I devoured it. I hated to see it end. It had to be one of the best books on friendship that I have read. Love your sense of humor; I laughed out loud many times reading it. You have such a heart for Jesus and a wonderful spirit.”

  —DEBBIE

  “The ladies’ book club at our church is discussing Sisterchicks on the Loose! next month. I am very excited because I loved the book. I have also read Sisterchicks Do the Hula!—it is great. Keep writing! And faster, if you can!”

  —MARILYN

  “Thank you for the return trip to Oahu this morning! [Sisterchicks Do the Hula!] It is snowing and sleeting outside, but I was enjoying the beautiful blues that only Hawai’i has. Thank you for giving me a ‘garland of hosannas’ and for reminding me to do the hula with God’s rhythm of grace.”

  —MARBARA

  “I just finished Sisterchicks Do the Hula! and I loved it! Actually, I found myself sneaking into the bathroom away from my loving husband and ever-present children to read more. You have written marvelous fiction that leaves me feeling closer to God.”

  —MARY

  “Look out, Finland! Look out, England! Look out, good ol’ U.S. of A.! It’s Sisterchicks on the Loose!.… Gunn’s bouncy, conversational style and steady servings of insight feed the soul and warm the heart. Over forty? The best is yet to come!”

  —ROMANTIC TIMES MAGAZINE

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  SISTERCHICKS IN SOMBREROS

  published by Multnomah Publishers, Inc.

  © 2004 by Robin’s Ink, LLC

  Sisterchicks is a trademark of Multnomah Publishers, Inc.

  Unless otherwise indicated, Scripture quotations are from:

  The Message by Eugene H. Peterson © 1993, 1994, 1995, 1996, 2000, 2001, 2002

  Used by permission of NavPress Publishing Group

  Other Scripture quotations are from:

  Holy Bible, New Living Translation (NLT)

  © 1996. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc.

  All rights reserved.

  The Holy Bible, New King James Version (NKJV) © 1984 by Thomas Nelson, Inc.

  Multnomah is a trademark of Multnomah Publishers, Inc. and is registered in the U.S.

  Patent and Trademark Office. The colophon is a trademark of Multnomah Publishers, Inc.

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission.

  For information:

  MULTNOMAH PUBLISHERS, INC. • P.O. BOX 1720 • SISTERS, OR 97759

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Gunn, Robin Jones, 1955-

  Sisterchicks in sombreros : a Sisterchicks novel / Robin Jones Gunn.

  p. cm.

  eISBN: 978-0-307-56376-7

  1. Inheritance and succession—Fiction. 2. Canadians—Mexico—Fiction. 3. Women travelers—Fiction. 4. Sisters—Fiction. 5. Mexico—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3557.U4866S564 2004

  813’.54--dc22

  2004015655

  v3.1_r1

  OTHER BOOKS BY ROBIN JONES GUNN

  SISTERCHICK NOVELS

  Sisterchicks on the Loose!

  Sisterchicks Do the Hula!

  Sisterchicks in Sombreros!

  Sisterchicks Down Under! (April 2005)

  THE GLENBROOKE SERIES

  Secrets

  Whispers

  Echoes

  Sunsets

  Clouds

  Waterfalls

  Woodlands

  Wildflowers

  GIFT BOOKS

  Tea at Glenbrooke

  Mothering by Heart

  Gentle Passages

  www.sisterchicks.com • www.robingunn.com

  To Julie, my “almost twin” sister, who planned my surprise birthday party when I turned sixteen and never pinched me on the underside of my arm.

  Well, maybe once.

  I’m so glad we figured out how to be friends early on. I don’t know who I’d be without you.

  To Janet, who cruised with me to Mexico, dined on dancing ladies over tea in Ensenada, and endured my moaning after the spa treatment that made her skin well and gave my skin welts.

  I’d share sombreros with you any day, dear hermanachica!

  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

  Epilogue

  Discussion Questions

  “God can do anything, you know—far more than you could ever imagine or guess or request in your wildest dreams!

  He does it not by pushing us around but by working within us, his Spirit deeply and gently within us.”

  EPHESIANS 3:20

  Most of my life I secretly admired my sister, Joanne. But until high school, I didn’t I like her. And it wasn’t until we were in our forties that I treasured her.

  We’re only sixteen months apart in age. Joanne is the older one. Blond and sweet, with a great laugh. I was known as the bossy baby sister, always ready to make a fuss so I would be noticed.

  Our mom used to dress us in matching outfits and tell people, “They’re almost twins, you know.” Joanne and I hated that. How can you be “almost twins”? Aren’t twins supposed to have a lot of similarities? Joanne and I have only two—the same creamy, fair skin and the same funny nose.

  By the time I was eight, I had grown a full inch taller than Joanne. That was the year we moved from Saskatoon to British Columbia, and everyone who met us assumed I was the older of the two Clayton girls. I know Joanne shrunk a little every time someone called her Melanie, while I reveled in finally receiving top billing.

  When Joanne got her driver’s license, our quirky power balance was upset again because I
was suddenly at her mercy if I wanted to go anywhere. We argued all the time.

  That is, until my sixteenth birthday.

  I asked Joanne to drive me across town to a friend’s house, but a sassy look crossed Joanne’s face, and she said, “I don’t know, Melanie. What’s it worth to you?”

  I snapped back with, “I don’t know, Joanne. What’s it worth to you not to show up at school Monday with two black eyes?”

  Instead of being intimidated, my sister laughed at me. She drove the whole way with a snicker just begging to burst out from her lips. I was so steamed that, when we pulled up in front of my friend’s house, I turned to Joanne and said, “When I get my license, I’ll never drive you anywhere, even if you have two broken legs and plead with me to take you to the hospital.”

  Joanne only laughed more.

  I slammed the car door and marched up to the house, vowing never to speak to my sister again. Just then the front door swung open, and all my closest friends yelled, “Surprise!” Joanne was standing behind me, grinning like a goose. The surprise birthday party had been her idea down to the last detail.

  Stunned, I turned to her, and with an apology that encompassed my entire malicious career as a sister, I whispered, “I’m sorry.”

  Joanne teared up and said in a sincere but playful voice, “Me, too, Melly Jelly Belly.”

  I hugged her in front of my waiting friends. “Thanks, Joanna Banana.”

  And that was it; we became friends.

  We always had shared a bedroom, but after that we shared our clothes and makeup as well as our secret crushes and dreams for the future. Joanne wanted to be a nurse. I wanted to be something more glamorous like an interior decorator or a pastry chef and took a variety of classes at the community college, changing my major each semester.

  I tried on a variety of careers and was as surprised as anyone when the one that stuck was running the front desk at a dental office, which is what I do even now. That’s where I met my husband, Ethan. He came in for a root canal and left with my phone number. That was almost seventeen years ago.

  In that same time span my saintly sister graduated with honors from nursing school in Toronto, dedicated herself to long hours healing the infirm, sent generous gifts to my two daughters on their birthdays, and spent five years in India. She worked at a safe house that rescued juvenile girls off the streets who had been sold into prostitution. Now you can see why I admire her.

  After Joanne returned to Toronto, I often wondered if she regretted not marrying Russell what’s-his-name while she had the chance. It’s the sort of question one sister can ask another, but I’d never come right out and asked her.

  We fell into a routine with our relationship after we both passed forty. She would call every few weeks and ask about Ethan and the girls and if I had seen Mom and Dad. I’d answer in short sentences, and then I’d ask about her job and her dog, Russell. Yes, she named her schnauzer Russell. After Russell what’s-his-name, I presumed.

  I kept thinking that during one of those predictable phone conversations I would say, “How’s Russell?” And when she started to talk about her schnauzer, I’d say, “No, I mean the other Russell.” Then I’d find out what really happened and why she took off for India for so long.

  But I never quite managed to pull that one off.

  That was, until last year, when Joanne and I unexpectedly crossed another bridge between friendship and sistership. Or maybe I should say we set sail on a ship that took us to a new place as sisters because that’s literally what happened.

  I would never have taken off on such a lark, if the choice truly had been mine. But it wasn’t.

  I look back now and realize that in the same way we don’t choose our relatives, I think it’s also true we don’t choose the best moments of our lives. God chooses them for us, the same way He chose two sisters like Joanne and me, who are “almost twins,” to turn us into the best friend neither of us ever thought we had.

  Last November, on the last Saturday of the month, I stood in the garage untangling a string of twinkle lights and thought, Who came up with the term Father Christmas?

  At our house, it’s more like Mother Christmas. I’m the one who knows where all the decorations are stored. I organize the festivities, buy the gifts, address the cards, initiate the parties, and single-handedly festoon the house. Without the information stored in my brain and without the loving labor of my two hands, Christmas wouldn’t come to our humble abode in Langley, which is a suburb of Vancouver.

  I always start with a long list of what needs to be done and tell myself to start earlier than I did the previous year. Untangling the lights on November 29 was a pretty good running start.

  That was, until Aunt Winnie called.

  “Melanie, dear, you must come over at once. My lawyer is here, and he doesn’t speak a word of Spanish.”

  “Aunt Winnie, what are you talking about?”

  “The letter. It has your name on it. You have to be here when the conference call comes through. The call with Joanne. This is most disturbing. Please don’t dawdle.”

  She hung up without saying good-bye, and I growled at the phone. Untangling Aunt Winnie had not been on my list that day.

  “What’s going on?” my husband asked, as I stomped down the hall.

  I repeated the cryptic message and pulled a change of clothes from the closet. Jeans and a sweatshirt weren’t appropriate attire to visit Aunt Winnie.

  “Sounds strange,” Ethan muttered. “Even for your wacky aunt. What do you think she’s trying to pull?”

  “Who knows? She was completely rattled.”

  “More than usual?”

  “Yes, more than usual.”

  I slipped into my gray wool skirt and tried to straighten the permanently creased waistband. “And she’s not wacky, Ethan. Please don’t say that in front of the girls.”

  “Right. Not wacky. Eccentric. Isn’t that what you told the girls?”

  “Yes. Is this blouse too wrinkled?” Before Ethan could answer, I pulled it off and grabbed the tried-and-true black turtleneck.

  “I thought your aunt was on a cruise to Alaska.”

  “No, she leaves sometime next week for Mexico, not Alaska. Alaska was last July. Panama Canal was in October.”

  “That woman goes on more cruises than anyone I’ve ever met. Why can’t you tell her you’ll come see her when she comes back from her cruise?”

  “Her lawyer is there, Ethan. What am I supposed to do? If you had heard her on the phone, you’d be on your way over there, too.”

  “Do you want me to go with you?”

  “No. I’ll call if there’s any reason for you to come. Joy has her Girl Guides meeting at two o’clock, and Brianna is babysitting at four, but I should be back by then.”

  Ethan looked at me skeptically. “If you’re not back by five, do you want me to order pizza for dinner?”

  “No, I’ll be back before then.” I brushed past Ethan and reached for my purse. “If you really want to help, you can finish untangling the Christmas lights and pull out all the bins with the decorations.”

  I backed out of the driveway, chiding myself for being so brusque with Ethan. He was right; Aunt Winnie was wacky. She was demanding. I didn’t know why I was defending her instead of siding with my husband. My only comfort was that Winnie would be on her cruise next week, and I could concentrate on what I needed to do at home.

  Turning right onto Highway 1, I sped up for the forty-minute stretch into Vancouver and made a mental list of all the possible reasons her lawyer was there.

  I wonder if Aunt Winnie is in some sort of financial trouble.

  One of the enigmas of my aunt was that no one in the family knew where her money came from or how much she had. Uncle Harlan had passed away three years ago. He and my father were brothers and came from a long line of simple, rural-type Canadians. The money that had funneled into Harlan and Winnie’s forty-eight-year marriage came from some undisclosed source on Winnie’s side.r />
  Arriving in Vancouver as a mist of chilling rain dotted the windshield, I cut across town on King Edward Avenue and headed for Aunt Winnie’s luxurious apartment with its spectacular view of English Bay. As the elevator took me to the tenth floor, I straightened my skirt and checked my posture.

  “Is that Melanie?” Aunt Winnie sang out as Mei Lee, her housekeeper, welcomed me inside the permanently rose-scented apartment. Today tinges of burnt toast lingered in the air.

  I noticed that the mahogany furniture had been rearranged to make a clear path through the Victorian-style living room for what Aunt Winnie called her “Scoot-About.” Several weeks ago she saw the motorized wheelchair advertised on TV and picked up her phone to order one. I wasn’t convinced she needed the assistance, but she was enamored with her new device.

  “Hello, Aunt Winnie.” I went to her side and pressed my cheek against hers. “How are you feeling?”

  Her tightly curled silver hair framed her oval face like the crocheted lace on the throw pillows that lined her sofa. She held out a piece of paper to me. “Most disturbing news I’ve had in a month. No, six months. Most upsetting.”

  The stationery, I noted, was from El Banco del Sol in Mexico. The only words in English were my sister’s and my names, which appeared in the middle of a sentence at the top of the page.

  “What does this say?” I asked my aunt.

  “I have no idea. Tea?” Aunt Winnie rang a small silver bicycle bell attached to the right handle of her Scoot-About. It was the sort of bell my girls had on their tricycles years ago, the kind that makes a cheerful brring-brring sound with a flick of the thumb. On the front of her Scoot-About hung a woven wicker basket, also of the tricycle variety, complete with pink and lavender plastic streamers.

  I was glad Ethan hadn’t come with me. No matter what Aunt Winnie had to say, I’m sure my husband wouldn’t have been able to see past the basket with the plastic streamers.