EPUBBING with NICOLA FURLONG

I come from a large Catholic family and have always wanted to write a series about family, fun, friendship and forgiveness.

Welcome to THE SISTERHOOD OF SHEPHERDS, my new cozy, heart-warming fictional series set in the small seaside town of Silver Shores, Oregon.

Home of the Shepherd sisters—Faith, Hope and Charly—their families and their Sweet Shepherd Nursery.

Everyone has regrets; sometimes we wish we had the chance and the courage to make amends.

These “cold cases of the heart” are at the centre of the three sisters’ ongoing efforts to answer a personal calling and assist others in atoning for past wrongs.

Their inspirational journey is one of discovery, heartache, humor and redemption.

So…please, join the SISTERHOOD OF SHEPHERDS, read the excerpt below from the first novel, HEARTSONG, and experience friendship, family, fun and forgiveness.

HEARTSONG is currently being considered by agents for publication so your thoughts, suggestions and feedback (either by commenting below or emailing me @ epubbing (at) shaw (dot) ca) would be greatly appreciated.

Thank you for taking the time to visit the Sweet Shepherd Nursery and for sending me your reaction. Cheers!

THE SISTERHOOD OF SHEPHERDS: HEARTSONG

Chapter One

The best place to seek God is in a garden. You can dig for him there. George Bernard Shaw

Charly Shepherd gasped in dismay at the sudden torrent of raindrops. She tugged a waterproof hood over her long blonde hair. At the first clap of thunder, she broke into a run. Her lime-green rubber boots sloshing, she raced through mud, slip-sliding around the old Cape Cod house and hustling along the grassy track to the nursery.

In mid-flight, Charly glanced up at the roof. Gracie the flying pig weathervane spun wildly, chasing its curly bronze tail.

It was late winter in the small seaside town of Silver Shores, Oregon, so rain wasn’t unexpected; in fact, it was welcome, especially in the retail gardening community. The past winter had brought mere dustings of snow inland and lower than average rainfall on the Pacific Coast.

As manager of the Sweet Shepherd Nursery, a five-acre farm specializing in plants for butterflies and hummingbirds, Charly should have delighted in the deluge. And she might have, except for the thunder.

The fertile land behind the big yellow house stretched out before her. It was a familiar sight: three acres of bedding plants, a couple of large greenhouses and several outbuildings. A vista she had appreciated all her life. Today, it was a muted patchwork of greens and browns, but soon the scene would be braided by startling rows of yellow, purple and pink, a palette favored by hummingbirds and butterflies.

No matter what challenges Charly was facing in her life, this vivid, ever-changing landscape energized her, sustained her and reminded her of greater things. As her dear father Barry had often told her when she was growing up, “These’re God’s acres, child, not ours.” Bone tired from digging or weeding, and fuming over not being able to hang out with friends, Charly would respond, “Fine. Why isn’t He here hauling manure?”

Her father usually chuckled and instead of scolding his youngest daughter, offered her a glimpse of heaven. He taught her about spiral patterns as they examined the whorls of the western giant hyssop; and about Greek mythology when he explained that the achillea, or common yarrow, was named after Achilles because his soldiers had favored it to treat wounds.

Truth be known, Charly had relished those times alone with her father. No older sisters to compete with or be ordered about by; just the land and her dad.

Those precious occasions hadn’t happened very often while she was growing up. The little nursery, which supported the Shepherd parents and their three daughters Faith, Hope and Charly, required much manual labor. And with their mother’s part-time teaching and housekeeping responsibilities, it was up to one or more of the girls to pitch in most mornings, evenings and weekends. There was never enough money to pay for hired help.

As the eldest, Faith had obediently taken her turn in the dirt. Though energetic, the plump strawberry blonde lacked focus and her family quickly learned not to give her tasks requiring patience or precision. Over time, she slipped into the fetch-it and cleanup roles, and as long as the impulsive daydreamer was given free rein, Faith accomplished a great deal.

Hope, on the other hand, was almost too precise, too focused, and quickly developed a love for insects, not plants. She often became sidetracked while working, her slender fingers holding a pupa or spider instead of secateurs, her gardening responsibilities long forgotten. This interest eventually paid off when she studied biology and entomology and helped her family become one of the first organic nurseries in the state.

For Charly, it was simple. One spring afternoon in her late teens, while she was spreading mushroom manure, Charly become conscious that she was humming and enjoying her labors and hadn’t given one thought to anything or anyone else. From that moment on, she couldn’t wait to get into the garden, to pinch back seedlings or deadhead spent blossoms, for she knew that horticulture would be her future.

Time stood still when she dug or plucked or watered. Now thirty-seven, she still embraced Shaw’s words, which her father had carved over the little potting shed: The best place to seek God is in a garden. Her mind emptied of all worries and she embraced natural sight and sound, be it a nodding columbine or a hummingbird climbing a ladder of hollyhock blossoms. The only thing better was being the mother of two: nine-year-old Scotty and twelve-year-old Melissa.

Sliding to a stop near a mound of freshly-turned earth, Charly shouted: “No!” She stood by herself in the Sweet Shepherd Nursery. And tried not to cry. The combination of thunder and falling temperatures had changed the rain from friend to foe.

Hail now drilled down, stinging her face and exploding into white shards, as ice pellets pummeled the dark earth, crushing thousands of young green plants. Wiping out a chunk of this year’s income.

Fear swept through her like the chilly winter wind.

Chapter Two

A garden is always a series of losses set against a few triumphs, like life itself. May Sarton

“It’ll all come right in the end,” Barry Shepherd said, gently laying a gnarled hand on his youngest child’s shoulder. “We’ve seen our share of drought and pestilence and we’ve always managed to come through, haven’t we, Charly?”

The pair stood, still wearing their waterproof jackets and boots, in the middle of the planting beds. The rain and hail were finally over, a fresh breeze carried the rich scent of moist earth, and condensation blossomed on the greenhouses. Nearby, a mangy gray squirrel darted across the potting shed roof and tiny bushtits danced excitedly in and out of the laurel hedgerow that partially surrounded the property.

“I…I guess so, Dad. It’s just so hard to see everything ruined. We had such good luck with germination, especially with the aquilegias, crocosmias and agastaches. We could be in real trouble now, ‘cause I didn’t order any of those plants.”

Although the Sweet Shepherd Nursery could have followed the practice of some gardening centers—buying all their stock from wholesalers—both Barry and Charly preferred to propagate as much from seed as possible. Not only did this guarantee the final product, but they reveled in the creation of life. Since they were limited by climate, greenhouse space and available land, the pair exhausted many winter hours reviewing catalogs and discussing plant attributes and past sales before carefully choosing species that suited both the Oregon coast’s semi-Mediterranean climate and the local butterflies and birds.

Charly possessed an uncanny instinct for seed germination and had dedicated many challenging but happy hours to carefully testing soil mixes, heating methods and light intensities. She was an expert in collecting and caring for the mature seeds and understood the various steps required, whether soaking, chilling or shell nicking, to ensure sprouting success with each species.

Now as they eyed the sodden ground, the true extent of the damage to their plants was evident. Row upon row of recently transplanted seedlings lay twisted and flattened in the dark wet soil. Water drops continued to plink down from the roofs of the nearby greenhouses and twigs swirled in muddy puddles dotting the narrow walkways.

Charly sighed and patted her father’s hand. “Oh, Dad…all that work—prepping the soil, casting the best seeds, watering—all wasted.”

“Hard work’s never wasted, child, you know that. Why, only last week you were telling me about your idea for a simpler sowing system. That didn’t come from watching YouTube.”

Charly had to smile. She turned and looked at her father. Behind his thick glasses, his eyes were a startling blue. “YouTube, Dad? My nine-year-old spinning you ‘round the Web again?”

It was the older man’s turn to grin. “Heavens to Betsy, why not? Just because I’m into my sixth decade on God’s green earth’s no reason not to be hip.” He frowned. “Or is it cool?”

Charly laughed before reaching up to bestow a quick kiss on her father’s fleshy cheek. “As Scotty would say, ‘You’re totally honking, Dad.’ How ‘bout a cup of tea? I might even dig out some cookies. The kids’ll be home soon and there’s nothing we can do here ‘til it dries out.”

“Now you’re the one who’s totally honking,” Barry replied, his size fourteen rubber boots already on the move.

…want to read more of THE SISTERHOOD OF SHEPHERDS: HEARTSONG?

Please let me know by adding a comment below or emailing me @ epubbing (at) shaw (dot) ca! Thank you.