It has been a strange summer weather-wise where I live (understatement!), with weeks of unseasonably cold weather, followed by surprising heatwaves, then cold again, then hot. At the beginning of August, we thought we’d seen the last of the sunshine and that fall had moved in way too early—only to have it come back with force around the middle of the month. Now it’s the end of August, but it feels like high summer.
I’ve been taking advantage of the glorious blue skies and visiting Lakelse Lake Picnic site, aka “my” lake :D, as much as I possibly can, even if it’s just for a quick dip. Lakelse Lake Picnic Site has been a big part of my summer, a source of infinite joy (that’s not an exaggeration) and huge balm for my sorrows, for over 45 years now. A fact that both delights and boggles me! On her golden sands, I feel Holly Smale’s words in the novel from I Know How This Ends to my bones: “Time is somehow before me and also every memory is there too.”
I moved to Terrace in 1979. Driving into town that first time, I was horrified. Had we moved back to Kamloops? The lawns had the same parched, burnt-to-beige color. Every strip of dirt was hard-baked clay. My legs stuck to the ivory vinyl seats of the station wagon. My hair was wet on my neck and glued by sweat to my forehead. It was HOT.
My brother and I unpacked our rooms and tried to explore, but it was too warm. For days, we lived in our sprinkler and wading pool. Then water restrictions ruled; no sprinkler all day. We could fill the pool once a day, but a whole day of three kids playing in one small pool quickly creates a grass clippings and dead bug infested mess. It lost its appeal. One day, our mother, driven to desperation by the heat and our constant whining, announced we were going to the lake.
A lake? Finally, something that sounded interesting. We packed up chips, green grapes, and sand toys, and off we went. Our legs still stuck to the vinyl seats, but now it didn’t seem as complaint-worthy. Plus, though they stung if you lifted them too quickly, they made farting noises if you lifted them slowly. Endlessly amusing.
“We’ll never get there,” we moaned eventually. Then suddenly we were at the top of a hill, and what could we see shimmering blue between the trees and mountains in the distance? Could it be?
“Look guys, there’s the lake,” my mom confirmed.
“Hooray,” we yelled, dragging out the vowels with heady excitement and enough volume that our mom yelled, “Enough!” (It would become our tradition to repeat those exact words, with feverish glee, every time we spotted the lake in the future.)
Walking the paved path to the graveled picnic area and coming upon the incredible, giant fairy tale trees and the glimmering expanse of water that looked golden in the afternoon sun made me, for the first time, think that maybe, just maybe, this living in Terrace idea could be okay.
We visited the lake almost every day for the rest of the summer. We’d work all morning (my mom could bribe us to do nearly anything with the promise of a lake trip), and by afternoon, it would be so hot that even she wouldn’t feel like working. Thus started a habit I’ve kept for over forty-five years: hit the lake as soon and as often as possible.
Now, when I sit on the rough bark of a natural tree bench that I’ve visited for years, squishing sand through my toes, my mind and my body remember my childhood.
In the water, I am forever eight. My feet delight in the soft-as-silk rippled sand under the water. I still alligator walk and do dolphin dives and continuous back rolls; I can’t help myself. I still know the disgusting but hilarious feeling of a handful of lake bottom on my back or head. A weed grabbing my ankle still makes me shriek, and the underwater whine of boat engines still creeps me out. I daydream about mermaids.
Staring up at the sky, I realize that visiting this spot is the most consistent thing in my life. The water has seen every bathing suit I’ve owned. Every person I’ve tried to be, or thought I was, has walked the beach. I was a child here and a dream-filled teen. This site has known my friends, boyfriends, and the husband I had for over thirty years. I’ve been pregnant on its sands and nursed my newborns in its huge trees’ shade. My children played here, and in a seeming blink, I would arrive on its shores and splash in the waves with my adult son and daughter and her husband.
And in between the magical, happiest of memories times, I mourned on its shores too: the passing of my parents, the death of my marriage, and myriad other smaller, though at the time not inconsequential, hurts and questions. How many tears Lakelse’s golden waters generously carried for me—and how much laughter ripples in her waves again, as I introduce my new love to her beauty, and he’s as taken with her as I am. As I dolphin about and alligator walk with grandkids now!
I swim far from shore as a regular form of meditation and appreciation, contemplating the mountains that frame the lake like the protective walls of a giant bowl, admiring all their various shades of hazy blue in the distance, feeling that some part of me will always and forever be both a mermaid child and a mermaid crone in these waters. And in the ever-changing waters of life.
The drive is shorter to me now that I’m an adult, my car has cloth seats that I don’t stick to, and often I’m alone, though equally often I’ll be meeting my kids and grans somewhere on the “right hand side,” and lovely Lee might be driving out after work. But when I get to that particular place on the hill, I still announce, “There’s the lake!” and my whole body feels it: Hooray! Yeah, this living in Terrace idea is a pretty good one after all.
– – – – – – – – – –
“Lake Days” originally ran in The Terrace Standard in July 2001, and because I liked it so much, I thought it was a lovely one to share once more, edited slightly to adjust for the passage of time—and my editor agreed. Thus, it was reprinted in The Standard on August 25, 2015.
In August 2020, I shared it again on my blog here at evbishop.com because Lakelse was still my favourite of favourite places, only made more special by how little it changed over time, while everything else in life seemed to morph at a crazy pace. Case in point, and beyond special, at that time I had two little grandsons to share my timeless beach with.
Today, August 30, 2025: With the passage (Wow!) of so much more time, and it still being such a special place to me, and having the addition of a precious granddaughter added to my grandsons, as well as a new life partner, I found myself needing to edit this piece again to reflect on and express gratitude for all Lakelse continues to be for me. I fully expect and hope to continue sharing my life with its sandy shores and soft waters, and suspect there will be edited versions and shares in the future.
I hope reading the latest version triggers fond memories of your own childhood. Enjoy these last long days of summer, everyone—and get thee to the lake! ~ Ev
It’s been a long time since I ran a summer reading challenge, so I was super excited when ideas for Summer of Stories jumped into my mind! I hope you’ll join in the fun.
You can take part completely on your own and email me your results at the end, or you can post your process on Facebook and tag me, or (my favourite option! 😁) consider joining The Cabin, my private reader group, and enjoy book lover chat, sharing the books you read for each prompt, and other fun things.
Summer of Stories will run June 21 – August 31, 2025. I’ve even created a printable checklist for you to keep track of your reads.
🌞 Ev Bishop’s Summer of Stories Reading Challenge 🌻
Grab your favorite bevvy, curl up in your comfiest reading chair or outdoor reading space, and enjoy every leisurely, sun-warmed minute of summer reading!
Add to the fun by chatting about progress at The Cabin or sharing about it on Facebook using #EvBishopSummerofStories
📚 How It Works
Choose books that match the prompts below.
Read in any order, at your own pace.
Optional: Share your progress at The Cabin or on Facebook using #EvBishopSummerofStories
🍓 Reading Prompts (1–20)
Visit River’s Sigh B & B Read or revisit any book in Ev Bishop’s River’s Sigh B & B series.
Second Chances and Fresh Starts A story about starting over or returning home.
Small-town Shenanigans Set in a cozy or quirky small town.
It’s a mystery! But it’s not a mystery what this prompt is. Read a mystery!
Women Supporting Women Female friendships or multi-generational bonds shine.
Heatwave Romance A steamy (or sweet!) romance that blooms in the summer.
Family Ties and Tangled Truths A story with family drama, long-held secrets, or emotional healing.
Ev’s Pick Read a stand-alone or novella by Ev Bishop that’s new to you.
Bookstore, Bakery, or B&B Bonus A cozy business is central to the plot.
Under the Stars Read a book entirely outdoors (all at one go or in sessions)
Step into the Second Chance Shop Read any book Ev Bishop’s Second Chance Shop series—where preloved treasures lead to new beginnings. (If you’ve already read Something Old and Something New, record them. They count!)
Christmas in July Dive into a holiday-themed read—or revisit Silver Bells at River’s Sigh B & B for midyear festive magic.
Loyal & True Read Loyal & True by Ev Bishop—a heartfelt story of healing and connection.
Animal Lovers Unite! A book where an animal of any kind plays a prominent role in the plot.
First Love, Lasting Love A romance about rekindled or long-enduring love.
Judge a book by its cover! Pick the prettiest book you see at your favorite place to buy or borrow books and enjoy it cover to cover.
Page-to-Plate A story that inspires you to cook or bake something delicious.
Heartbreak and Healing A book centered around grief, resilience, and emotional rebirth.
Book You’ve Been Meaning to Read Finally crack open that one you’ve been putting off!
Beach Buddy Read a book set near the lake or the ocean.
🎉 Bonus Fun
Create a summer-inspired bookmark or fridge magnet
Share your favorite quote from one of your reads
Make a recipe inspired by one of the books you read.
Post your reading nook or picnic reading spot
Achievement Tiers
Celebrate your reading with these fun rankings!
🥉 Bronze Tier – Story Sampler
Complete 5 prompts You’ve dipped your toes into summer reading and had some bookish adventures!
🥈 Silver Tier – Small-Town Explorer
Complete 10 prompts You’re soaking in the stories and scenery now! Friendships, romance, and second chances are blooming all around you.
🥇 Gold Tier – Reading Hero
Complete 15 or more prompts (including at least 1 Ev Bishop book) You’ve fully embraced the spirit of the challenge! Your heart’s been mended, your spirit recharged, and you’re practically a resident of River’s Sigh B & B.
🌟 Super Reader Bonus
Complete all 20 prompts + 2 bonus fun activities You’re the ultimate summer story adventurer! You’ve laughed, cried, cooked, connected, and lived through every cozy chapter.
🎉 Prizes: E-mail your results, tier, and mailing address to Ev at evbishop@evbishop.com before September 5, 2025, to receive fun book lover participation prizes, plus a chance to win two signed books by Ev Bishop of your choice!
When I came across this lovely saying in French recently, it wrapped around me like the comforting, encouraging, celebratory hug of a dear friend. Little by little, the bird makes his nest.
Ever full of dreams, plans, and schemes (and prone to being very hard on myself, something I’m working diligently to change!), rather than reflect on things I’ve accomplished, I’m someone who finds it easier to focus on everything I haven’t done yet but want to, the project that I haven’t tackled, the idea birthed but not yet brought to fruition. (And I’m one hundred percent sure I’m not alone in this. In fact, I’d go so far, dear reader, as to suggest it’s something you do too!)
Almost simultaneously with discovering that quote, I embarked on a new exciting quest: applying for a couple of Writers in Residence programs. A large part of the application process was creating a CV and a list of publishing credits. As I went through the task of recording each of my published novels, short stories, and poems, documenting awards and honours I’ve received, and summarizing workshops, presentations, panels, and readings I’ve created, led, or taken part in, I was a little . . . well, awed, actually. I have written a lot of things across genres and in many forms, and it was really exciting to see them all laid out in black and white. (It doesn’t diminish my goals and plans for future writing projects in any way, but it was very encouraging: I probably will get around to those dreams and schemes because look at all the things I’ve completed and explored before!)
Petit á petit, l’oiseau fait son nid.
It doesn’t just apply to creative goals or writing aspirations. I’m sometimes impatient about my yard and garden, but those types of activities can’t be rushed. Trees take time to mature and bear fruit, flowers only blossom in their season, and even when plants appear to be dormant, that is only appearance. Beneath the surface, life is just waiting for the right time to burst forth. And when I look back at rose bushes that were once newly planted sticks with just a leaf or two, proving they were alive, or at various masses of perennials that were each, once, just one solitary planting, I’m struck again: little by little. My latest lesson here is two new grape varieties, about which the man who sold them to me advised, “Don’t do anything to them for at least two years, and even better, three. Let them get really rooted and established before pruning.”
Relationships too. We can’t Abracadabra lifelong friendships into being. You build friendships, shared experience by shared experience, laugh by laugh, shared tear by tear.
I’ve tried—and failed—to see if there’s a part of life that the lovely saying doesn’t apply to. And if one of our nests literally or figuratively gets destroyed? Again, the bird (if it’s a robin, anyway!) is a good inspiration. Little by little, the resilient creatures build a new one—often with the same materials and methods if they weren’t the problem.
So that’s me these days, busily, happily enjoying my various nests, some of which I’ve mentioned, some of which I haven’t, all the while knowing that I’m still building and rebuilding. And may I ever be. And may you ever be, too.
My book club recently celebrated its one-year anniversary with a fun twist. Instead of having a book for February that we all read, we had a “book report” meeting. Everyone read a book of their choosing and then chatted about it with the rest of the group.
We were also encouraged to bring a little snack to share, with bonus points if it was somehow related to the book we were sharing. How we shared was entirely up to each person. The organizer encouraged us to “Feel free to keep it simple/casual and just tell us the synopsis of the book and what you thought of your book . . . or go all in and set up a poster board/wear a costume . . . anything goes!”
I chose Earth’s the Right Placefor Love by Elizabeth Berg, which I loved, but I decided to do my “report” on her collected works—so less a report and more a complete fan-girl happy blurt.
I went to my local library, the wonderful Terrace Public Library, and literally signed out every book they had of hers (less the ones that were already in the clutches of other patrons). Then, when it was my turn to share at book club, I set the books out and gave rave reviews of each of her present titles, plus a good few that weren’t there. One of the ones that was missing was A Year of Pleasures—and I was deeply sad about that because, as I explained to the group, it was the first novel I read by her, the one that kicked off a lifelong love for all of her books.
There is something about her characters and storylines that resonates with me in such a deep way that it almost feels holy. A regular theme of hers is the power of seemingly little or simple things and friendships to heal grief and bring meaning to life, etc. (I guess it makes sense that her exploration of such ideas clicks with me, as that’s something I like to explore in my stories too.) Her novels are easy to read, often great fun, and simultaneously beautifully written and profoundly insightful. I never fail to find her work infinitely comforting and encouraging.
Once, going through something complicated with my daughter, I was driving mindlessly, filled with confusion and sorrow, and a thought hit me: I need to read an Elizabeth Berg book. I went directly to the library and found, miracle of miracles, two books by her that I hadn’t yet read. One was Tapestry of Fortunes. It was precisely the balm and wisdom I needed.
Anyway, the book club meeting wrapped up (I felt I had successfully pulled at least a few readers into Elizabeth’s circle. Goal accomplished!), but I was still sad that A Year of Pleasures hadn’t been available for me to rave about in person. Since it was so heavy on my mind, I decided I needed it in my personal library, and I ordered a copy.
I rarely reread books because of the truth in the old (modern?) adage, “Too many books, too little time,” but there are a handful of special ones I revisit. I was nervous about rereading A Year of Pleasures, however, because I’ve also had it happen where I’ve picked up a book I remembered deeply loving only to find my tastes had changed or something about failed to re-light the original passion.
Just a few pages in, though, I let out a happy exhale of relief, and a warm, peaceful, ahhhh–feeling came over me. I was going to love the reread just as much, if not more, than my original read. And then I came across words on page 51 that made me stop reading. I could only stare at the page as recognition hit. “I would try to find joy despite the necessary work of grieving, and I knew full well that work was exactly the right word to describe it.”
When my thirty-plus year marriage ended, forever changing my family and altering my view of who I was, what my life was, and what I thought I had, I went through a grief so deep I couldn’t imagine ever wading through it. (And I’m sure all too many of you can relate—have experienced some seemingly insurmountable grief or pain. I’m sorry. It’s very hard.) Somehow, though, by Grace, God, the Universe . . . I intuited that the only way I’d survive and thrive in this new, unwelcome change was by practicing gratitude (something I’ve written about already) and by seeking out the little, wonderful things in life that just made me . . . happy. Gave me pleasure. I knew, especially at first, that it would take a lot of effort to find these bits of gratitude-inducing joy because the losses and changes I was experiencing threw a dark blanket over everything, but I was determined to not let my loss keep me from seeing or appreciating everything I was still blessed with. (So easy to say, so hard to do at times.) So, for months, I strove intentionally, every day, to do something, however small, just because it made me feel good, struck me as pretty, tasted or smelled delicious.
I resumed reading, continuing to be held rapt by the storyline—and with increasing awareness and something like awe, as every few pages or so, there was another paragraph or one-liner that resonated with me clearly and specifically as something I had done intentionally to help me through that it was like I’d somehow scribed her book in my psyche and was using her words as instructions.
I even started to practice yoga and found much comfort and help in it, especially in the various breathing exercises—something I didn’t remember her character having done!
Elizabeth Berg didn’t set out to create a guide for people going through tough times when she started A Year of Pleasures (or I don’t think that she did). She was just intent on telling a riveting, moving story of a recently widowed woman trying to make her way through grief and build a new life. And the novel really is “just” a wonderfully warm, joyful, tender, touching story—and yet it became something much more to me, obviously. Unbeknownst even to me, it was also a map. One that etched itself on my heart and became a guide when I needed it most. And that is the deep, mysterious, magical power of stories. They become part of us, a wisdom, a solace, a balm . . . possibly just for the time we sink into their pages, but quite possibly in ways far deeper than that.
As a reader, I’m so grateful to not just Elizabeth Berg but to all the other countless authors and poets whose characters, observations about life, insights, or even just beautiful, moving sentences have guided me in my life, shown me where to go next, given clues on how to pick my way through the valley of shadows, maneuver around obstacles, and revealed that there are places and countries—galaxies, even!—literally and metaphorically that in some seasons in life are nearly impossible to see on our own.
As a writer, I can’t honestly say I’ve ever set out to write a map, and yet, while my plots are all different, each of my characters is ultimately going through something hard and wondering if they’ll make it through. It’s only in writing this now that I realize I write for many of the same reasons that I read.
How about you, dear reader? Do you relate to that—the idea of stories being maps that help us maneuver our lives? Are there specific titles or authors who have helped you during hard times?
As some of you know, over the past 2 1/2 years, I have been on an unexpected and unwelcome journey: the break-up of my 30+ year marriage. Early into it, I somehow figured out (I believe it was God/the Universe guiding me) that leaning into gratitude for all I still had would be what would comfort me, would encourage me, would ultimately be what would help me through my deep, deep grief and bring me back to joy. I posted a sign in my home where I would see it every day that said: FOREVER THANKFUL. In the early months, I literally read it aloud multiple times daily.
I am very fortunate because I was always able to see, no matter how much pain I was in, that I had (and have!) endless things to be grateful for.
Fast forward to today. I am freshly back from another first of many recent firsts for me: an amazing solo trip to a yoga retreat in Chacala, Mexico, followed by three days of fun, sun, relaxation, and crazily delicious food in Puerto Vallarta.
The morning after my first yoga session of the retreat, I wrote the following lines (among many other observations!) in my trip journal:
Returning to my room, bare feet loving the varied texture of the smooth-rough-smooth-rougher mixed-stone path beneath me, misting up a little, I had to pause just to inhale deeply. Day 1 of actual retreat barely begun, and I am already overcome with feelings of wellness and joy and abundance and luxury and, most of all, GRATITUDE (which I wrote in all caps, complete with a heart dotting the “i” :D) that I am here in this place—
This physical place: so beautiful it almost defies imagination
This mental place: happy, increasingly confident that I am truly healing, being challenged and growing and learning
This spiritual place: accepting and peaceful, letting go, feeling deeply loved, loving deeply, being—AM—so grateful I’m giddy!
And throughout the week, gratitude came up as a constant theme. In my heart. Expressed by other participants. As a chorus repeated by the instructors. . . .
Then, on the final day of the retreat, one of the instructors finished her class with a short meditation and this beautiful, beautiful song: Grateful by Tony Moss. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4qXVyK-8yTs
It’s hard to put into words how much hearing it when I did meant to me. Let’s just say it really resonated.
Coming home, I looked up the artist’s website and found this comment from him:
“In my years of working with people in the area of conflict resolution, depression, anxiety, and trauma, one thing I’ve learned is that often the answer to our modern worries and troubles is just gratitude – for what’s already been given. Gratitude is not an abstract concept: it is an energetic state, a practice, and a way of being in the world. A good friend once told me, “Often, the most potent prayer is, ‘Thank You.’” ~ T. Moss
The quote fits so well with things I’ve been learning in my personal life and applies so aptly to stuff I think about related to my other work that I was struck anew and in an even deeper way by the song, its message, and its power.
I don’t know if this song will speak to you or for you the way it did and does for me, but I wanted to share it in case it is a balm you need. I highly recommend listening to it with your eyes closed, breathing deeply and slowly.
Much love, dear friends and family. I am very grateful for you,
💕 Ev
P.S. On a not-related-to-Mexico or yoga note, but quite possibly related to a journey you’re on or want to be on in your creative life, I am so, so excited to share that I’m doing another writing workshop with yours truly and the fabulous Jane Young and Andrea Guldin – this time at the Kitimat Public Library Association!
And all this brings me to the question: What are you doing this Saturday (Mar. 9)? Joining us, I hope!
The inspiring day will include three mini-workshops and writing exercises, suitable for writers of every level or genre, so whether you’re an experienced writer or author, a total newbie, or someone in between who writes in spits and spurts and wants to become more disciplined in your practice, we hope you’ll come out! Call to register: (250) 632-8985
I hope this super quick update finds you doing well and happily bundled up in this surprising cold snap with reading and/or writing goals to keep you company.
I realize it’s super short notice, but it felt weird not to share it here in case you happen to live in the Terrace area (or close enough that a spontaneous jaunt is a possibility for you). If any of your hopes or intentions for 2024 (or just in general!) involved wanting to start writing, to get back to writing, or to write more (in any form or genre), this FREE full-day workshop is just the artist date you need to treat yourself to.
Register online here https://www.terracelibrary.ca/programs/workshop/ or by calling the Terrace Public Library at 250-638-8177. Here’s a brief breakdown of the day so you know what to expect. I hope to see you there! 😊
10:00: Kick off, including introductions
10:30 – 12:00: Ev Bishop. Write your heart. From non-fiction articles to poetry to short stories and epic novels, writing about the things you care about most deeply is the key to developing a satisfying, motivated writing practice and finishing pieces.
12:00 – 12:45: lunch
12:45 – 2:15: Jane Stevenson. Setting and location. Physical geography provides a map for our passions—and often our stories. Strengthen your fiction by connecting your readers to a strong sense of place.
2:30 – 4:00: Andrea Guldin. The Hero’s Journey. Incorporate internal motivation into your hero’s journey to create dynamic characters that challenge your protagonist and drive the plot forward.
Starting all the way back in grade four, so when I was nine, I think, I often envisioned myself as the English heroine from old novels who inherited a family estate—in debt up to its window sashes, gloriously ramshackle, with a huge, wild garden, dogs, and a library.
Slightly eccentric, strongly opinionated, and surrounded by books and animal friends, I would play at farming, read copiously, and write my own books. (Um, yes, I may have idolized Beatrix Potter more than a little!)
That daydream version of myself persisted into adulthood with only minor variations, but I married young, had children, and loved the life my husband and I built. I was still a version of my childhood-dream self but also different. Aren’t we all?
And then, almost overnight, I woke to find my life was nothing like what I had believed it was and had been so grateful for—or significant elements of it weren’t, anyway.
It was like being jolted from a dream, an incredibly lovely one, by an excruciating blunt force trauma.
It has been a tough couple of years, especially in the aftermath of Covid, which we all know was also . . . tough . . . (And both these “toughs” are the hugest understatements.)
But now, here I am . . . on my childhood family property. With a large mortgage on a lovely home that some would consider too big for one, and that, sure, could use some work—but more importantly, surrounded by a wildly gorgeous acreage that’s a jungle of greenery, flowers, trees, and abundant growth. I have dogs. There are different types of birds and a ton of toads everywhere, which I love. My kids still enjoy rummaging in my fridge, and my grandkids love to visit.
I am slightly eccentric. My opinions got a bit worn away over time, but I’m working on that. I have dear friends. I’m surrounded by books. And I write them!
All of this, and some other recent events, make me wonder . . . Do we call things into our lives by our fantasies? Are childhood daydreams actually tools of fortune-telling? Or are similarities between where we end up and our early imagining just coincidence? Or maybe it’s just that childhood dreams are sometimes returned to us as a form of comfort . . .
Either way, I am grateful and blessed to be embarking on this new-old dream life, even if it’s still a bit surreal. I was deeply sorrowful to awake from the dream of my marriage, and a part of me may always grieve what I thought was, but that is, after all, how dreams work. We can’t hold onto them. They always end, eventually. It’s inevitable. And then we’re surprised by new ones. There is a lot of joy in my new dream and in those people who participate in it.
So that’s me these days . . . in a very new stage and phase of life. It’s been . . . something.
If you’d like to read fictional stories about other women going through immense changes at midlife (another curiosity: that I would pen such missives before I found myself in the same boat!), please check out my latest novels—and my apologies for being remiss and not updating you about them in a blog post much earlier than now! Just click each cover to find out more.
The countdown is on! It’s hard for me to believe, butSomething New, Book 2 in my brand new The Second Chance Shop series, releases in just 19 more sleeps! If you’ve already read Book 1,Something Old, I suspect you’re looking forward to it immensely (or so I hope, LOL)! But if you haven’t, don’t worry. Just like all my “series” books, Something New is a wonderfully satisfying standalone story in its own right.
To celebrate being so close to launch day – and to wet your whistle a bit 😄 – I thought it would be fun to share a sneak preview! So on that note, without further ado, here is Something New, chapters 1 and 2. Enjoy!
Chapter 1
Early morning wasn’t the best chance of reaching her daughter, but it had been weeks without contact of any kind, so now Gwen was trying—literally—morning, noon, and night.
“Come on, Lily. Come on. Pick up,” she whispered.
“We’re sorry. Your call did not go through. Please try your call again.” The robotic voice pushed Gwen’s heart, already weighed down with ever-present grief and worry, even lower. It was impossible to tell what getting the robot meant. That Lily’s phone was turned off? That she was out of minutes or battery? That she no longer had her phone? Those were the only options Gwen let herself contemplate—No, wait. That wasn’t quite true. She also let herself think that maybe Lily had a text-only plan.
Acting with a hopefulness she didn’t truly feel, Gwen texted—opting for short and to the point this time, since in her last series of texts she had tried, by turns, imploring, heartfelt, and newsy—and each failed to yield any type of response. “Just let us know you’re OK.”
She waited a moment, then slid her phone into the pocket of her hooded sweatshirt and exited the washroom. She needed to shake a leg or the kids would be late. Taking a deep breath and putting a smile on her face, Gwen got on with things.
The snow had finally melted, and the outside world was slowly turning green, but the early March mornings were still frigid. She always felt badly that schools in the north had “spring” break at such a cold time of year—and now, just as everyone was heading back to class, the temperatures would rise. Gwen made sure the three kids were zipped into their winter jackets, then planted a kiss on Zena’s strawberry blonde crown and one on Zach’s ear. She’d been aiming for the top of his auburn brush cut, but he’d wiggled away. Pillar tilted her forehead up, too, waiting for her turn, which made Gwen blink away tears. Nine years old and still so sweet. She gave Pillar two kisses—one above each eyebrow, where her baby-soft skin was pulled tight from double French braids that the little girl had carefully plaited all by herself.
“Have a great day, sweetie.”
“You too, Grandma,” Pillar said in her quiet, serious way. Then a small furrow knit her brow. “Grandma?”
“Yes, hon?”
“How sick do you have to be to stay home from school?”
Gwen, distracted by a search for Zena’s boots, threw her full attention back to Pillar. This was strange. The three kids were never ill. Physically, they were as healthy and active as little goats. “Don’t you feel well?”
“No, I’m fine. I’m just wondering.”
Gwen rested the back of her hand gently on Pillar’s forehead. She didn’t feel warm, and she’d eaten a hearty breakfast with no complaints . . . “If you even feel a little bit sick, you can stay home, okay? Just call me.”
Pillar nodded and looked . . . relieved. A niggle of worry squirmed in Gwen’s stomach, but she forced herself to not overreact. It wasn’t healthy for her—or the kids—to constantly assume something terrible was coming. Besides, classrooms were germ factories. It would be more abnormal if the kids didn’t feel subpar occasionally.
Confirming Zena was still holding her lunch kit, Gwen grabbed Zach’s backpack and passed it to him—for the third time in as many minutes. Then she handed Pillar a sealed envelope with cash for a month’s worth of hot lunch Fridays. She suspected most people used e-Transfer these days and made a mental note to check with the school to see if that was something she should do in the future.
“Have a good day, guys. Walk fast, so you’re not late.”
The trio nodded in unison.
“Zena, I’ll pick you up after kindergarten. Pillar, hon. It’s swimming lesson day. Come straight home, and—”
“Make sure I bring Zach with me, I know. I won’t forget. I promise,” said Pillar in her earnest, serious way, without even a hint of impatience, sarcasm or cheek—and Gwen wished for about the billionth time the little girl hadn’t had to grow up being so responsible, yet at the same was supremely grateful that she was.
And then the kids were out the door in a rush, eager to meet up with their friends.
Gwen shut the door and leaned against it, closing her eyes briefly. Really, it was all going smoothly. Not that much different than—
A panicked rap-rap-rap jolted Gwen from her thoughts. She opened the door to find Zach, his elfin face pale with stress and his beautiful gray eyes pools of concern.
He launched himself into her stomach, wrapping his skinny arms around her waist like he was holding on for dear life. “I forgot to say I love you.”
Gwen staggered a little with the impact but hugged him back just as tightly. “Oh, sweet boy. I love you too.”
He released her, still looking close to tears. “I just don’t want you to forget,” he said in a small voice, quite unlike his usual boisterous one.
Gwen smiled, though her heart felt like it was cracking. “I won’t, I promise—and you don’t forget what I said either.”
Zach nodded, and then, in the way of small children, rallied quickly—or so Gwen desperately hoped was the case; let him, let them, rally quickly—and ran to catch up with his sisters. He turned back for a second as he reached the sidewalk, and Gwen gave him a cheerful wave.
Oh, yeah, Gwen thought sarcastically as her moment-ago thought came back to her. Not that much different than before—except this time around, she was Grandma, not mom. Plus, she had no husband to help her and way less confidence with the whole kid-raising thing. She and Mick had always been such a united team—on all fronts, work and play. How could she manage this new development in her life without him? She wanted to sink to the floor, but the memory of Zach’s desperate grip held her up. She didn’t have time for self-pity. She had two and a half hours before she needed to leave to pick up Zena and about five hours of chores to do in that time.
Going over her mental list, she decided laundry, bills, bathrooms, and groceries were the top priorities. On her way to grab the kids’ dirty clothes—reminding herself that their swim stuff was the critical load—Gwen paused by the bedroom Lily had claimed before she’d taken off this last time.
For a breath, she pretended she wasn’t going to give in, but then she realized that charade would only waste more precious seconds.
She pushed the door open and stepped into the shadowy room, then flicked on the light, though it wasn’t necessary. She had every detail committed to memory, from the small burn mark Lily had left in the carpeting by the window and the immaculately made bed with its sea glass coloured duvet and pillow set, to the collection of framed pictures that always made Gwen feel like her heart was bleeding.
Gwen walked over to the set of framed pictures, the way she always did every single time she entered this room, despite the pain. Her ritual.
In one photo, Lily, Pillar, Zach, and Zena sat on a driftwood log by the river. They were all beaming, and Lily’s pretty, apple-cheeked face, so like Zena’s, gave no clue of the troubles plaguing her thinking or the addictions slowly consuming her. Gwen pressed a hand to her chest, trying to calm her now-racing heartbeat. What clues had she missed when Lily might have been more open to help? How had she failed her so badly?
In another picture—from just three Christmases ago—Lily, plus Gwen’s other two children, Ryan, her eldest, and Sage, the baby, pulled funny faces, each decked out in “ugly” Christmas sweaters that Gwen had secretly thought were adorable. It was a heartwarming picture that always made her smile, even as she sighed. None of them had a clue then that Mick, their healthy, happy-go-lucky father and Gwen’s husband of nearly thirty years, would be stolen by an aneurysm less than a week after taking that picture. Even more shocking to Gwen’s unsuspecting self would’ve been the knowledge that, hard as it still was, it would be the least of the heartbreak she’d soon face.
Last but not least, the third picture: newborn Lily in Mick’s lap staring up at him with that intense, studious way babies have—and young Mick’s face soft with awe and love. Gwen inhaled sharply, stabbed with a vicious double-sided blade of happiness and sorrow at seeing them both unguarded, healthy, whole, full of love.
Suddenly, Gwen couldn’t bear it for one more minute. It was time to clear out this room and let one of her grandkids have it. She gathered the three framed treasured-and-despised reminders to her chest.
Bring them back to me, she prayed in her in head, holding the pictures close. Bring them back. But Mick was gone. And Lily? She was too, and Gwen, if she was honest with herself—something she tried to be—was losing hope that her middle child would ever truly return in any meaningful way. Sometimes Gwen, as much as she missed Mick, thought it was a mercy he had died before they’d ever known how bad Lily would get.
That laundry isn’t going to wash itself. The practical thought, her mind’s usual bent, popped into Gwen’s head and she latched onto it. It really wouldn’t. Slipping back across the hall, she stashed the framed photos in the top drawer of her dresser—not bothering to pretend to herself that she wouldn’t still look at them every day—and got busy.
Load laundry with swimsuits and towels. Check.
Make a grocery list. Check.
Pay bills. Check.
Pare down grocery list. It would be good to use up some of the weird things she had in the pantry and freezer, anyway. Check.
Water new seedlings and check the trays’ temperatures, etc.—without dawdling over them this time. Check.
Wipe down bathrooms. Check.
First load of laundry into dryer. Second load on to wash. Check and check.
Gwen glanced down at her Fitbit, but not to monitor her steps. She wasn’t worried about that. She always got her minimum in. No, it was the time she was after. Shoot! It was good she’d checked. She’d have to shop after she picked up Zena. She’d cut it too close otherwise. Zena was an easygoing, patient kind of kid, but she panicked if she couldn’t see Gwen waiting for her outside the classroom door before the bell even rang—and Gwen didn’t blame her, so she made sure she was never late.
Still, having to push back the grocery shop wasn’t all bad. It left her with enough time to wet mop the kitchen and dining room’s espresso brown flooring—an almost daily necessity. The duplex’s flooring was a feature that caught her eye when she was looking to buy a place for her and the kids. Now she was less enamoured with it. It was pretty, yes, but wow, did the dark, glossy surface ever show dust and dirt of every kind. She set a timer on the stove, so she wouldn’t get caught up in something else and forget to leave in time for Zena, then grabbed the mop.
Truth was, Gwen welcomed chores of any and every kind. Busywork helped distract her from all the fears that she couldn’t quite hold at bay these days. Fears that she couldn’t do this. Couldn’t raise three kids again—three kids hurt and traumatized by their mom’s desertion and who knew what all else they’d experienced or been exposed to. And raise them by herself, at that. On a limited income . . . And then there was the obvious fact that she’d clearly failed Lily somehow—and failed her when she had a lot more energy for parenting and was much more “in the loop” with current issues and other parents. What if she failed her grandkids, too? And how could she not when she couldn’t even narrow down what she and Mick had gotten so wrong? Okay, perhaps chores weren’t a successful distraction today, after all. It would help, maybe, if she had someone to talk to about any of this. But there was no-one.
She couldn’t put it on her other two kids. For one, they were both in Vancouver—so a good sixteen-hour drive or expensive flight away. For two, this was their time to build their own lives. Ryan was just out of law school and putting in crazy hours articling at a downtown firm. Sage was in the last year of her undergrad and juggling full-time work because she wanted to do her Master’s right away. Gwen was proud of them—and they were close, texting almost daily and calling every other weekend at the very least. But their nieces and nephew weren’t their responsibility. Full stop.
And she couldn’t burden her sister Patricia, who also lived in the lower mainland—too far away to offer more than an ear, but even that felt like too much for Gwen to ask for. Trish was up to her armpits in stress of her own as she juggled her career, issues with her two teenage boys, and a rocky patch in her marriage, all while also bearing the brunt of caring for her and Gwen’s aging dad. He was still living on his own and was generally healthy enough but had given them a scare recently. He’d been hospitalized for what they thought was dementia but turned out to be dehydration—so not life threatening exactly, though the fact that he hadn’t been making sure he ate or drank enough day-to-day was very serious in itself. If anything, Gwen should do a better job of being there for Trish.
Her best friend had moved recently—to Costa Rica, of all things! And though they kept up via social media, it wasn’t the same as when they could just pop over to each other’s house for coffee. Her other friends, most of whom she’d known since elementary school, were lovely and kind—but in totally different places in life than she was. They were where she and Mick had been—anticipating empty nests, second phases of life, and retirement. They expressed sympathy about Gwen’s new role but didn’t really get it—something that might be her own fault. After all, she hadn’t really spelled anything out for them. She didn’t want them to judge Lily or think less of her. If Lily came back, got her act together, Gwen didn’t want her to have to overcome gossip.
You’re supposed to be being honest, Gwen’s brain inserted. She flinched. Okay, okay. All that was true about why she hadn’t told her friends every little detail. It was also true, however, that if the phone calls and invitations to “girls’ nights” and “wine Wednesdays” hadn’t pretty much stopped cold turkey once word got out that Gwen had three kids under ten at home again, she might’ve been more likely to share the intimate details of her life.
The stove’s timer shrieked. Gwen jumped, then relief at being yanked out of her pity party poured through her. Raising your grandkids in Lily’s absence is your choice, she reminded herself, and in a strange way, even a privilege.
As she grabbed her grocery list from the counter and her purse from the console table in the entranceway, Gwen did what she always did when sadness over Lily and accompanying doubts and insecurities tormented her. She called Pillar, Zach, and Zena’s sweet faces to mind. Doing so always gave her comfort and bolstered her resolve. She would never stop hoping that Lily turned herself around, but in the meantime, she’d be the rock in the storm that her grandkids needed. She would do her best for them and hope and pray that this time it was enough.
Hitting lock on the keypad by the front door, Gwen headed out to claim Zena.
Chapter 2
Daniel grunted with annoyance as he climbed out from behind the steering wheel of the over-packed minivan and surveyed their new home. Ben and Ashlee had bolted from the vehicle the minute the tires stopped rolling, unlocked the front door as asked—then unhelpfully dumped the keys outside the door and disappeared inside. They were champing at the bit to explore their new digs, or—more likely—eager to fight over the three nearly identical bedrooms upstairs. Daniel would have appreciated his eleven-year-old twins to at least have offered to help bring in boxes from the van, but then again . . . After a fifteen-hour drive from Prince George that should’ve only taken seven or eight hours max, except that they’d blown a tire and had to get a tow because the spare was a dud too, they were all a little cross from too much together time.
“Chill, man. Chill,” he muttered under his breath. “It’s all gonna be okay.” And it really was. Because it had to be. He pushed his hand through his hair—and doing so reminded him he’d wanted to get a haircut before starting his new job on Monday. Rats, but nothing he could do about it now. It was a good thing most people expected IT guys to be a little more casual in appearance.
He took a deep breath, exhaled through his nose, and started hefting boxes from the van and dumping them into his newly acquired house—or half a house? What did you call owning half a duplex? Hopefully not the biggest financial mistake in his life. He could see the pros of sharing roof maintenance, etc. with someone else, and since the place was brand-new—the only finished and sold one in a brand-new subdivision that was still mostly dirt and vacant lots—hopefully, there wouldn’t be any serious maintenance needed for a while.
But what if the person who owned the other side was a nut job, an utter slob, or even just a totally nice person but one whose lifestyle didn’t jibe with his? Oh, well . . . He’d just have to wait and see and hope for the best. He’d considered renting, but rent in Greenridge was astronomical—and the vacancy rate was near zero. Besides, with all the recent changes in the kids’ lives, the sooner he could give them a sense of stability again, the better. Detached dwellings’ prices were also through the roof here. Buying the duplex was the only thing that had made financial sense, especially with his other expenses. And if his neighbor was a nightmare? Well, it wasn’t like he hadn’t lived with a nightmare before. At least this time, there’d be soundproof walls and exterior doors with locks separating them.
The bitter, inner joking brought him no pleasure. All it did was slam Erin to the front of his thoughts. The truth was that he’d loved the life they’d built together and thought she had, too. The only people more stunned and heartbroken by her double life and seemingly over-night decision to up and leave once it all came to light were Ben and Ashlee. Once his initial shock had worn off, that was what had bothered him most—and that was still what bothered him most.
Daniel could understand his wife falling out of love with him. He could even understand the lure of a new romance—okay, he couldn’t, not personally. But he intellectually comprehended that adultery was statistically responsible for twenty to forty percent of divorces in North America. Erin hated when he referred to statistics—so doing so now, even just in his own head, gave him a grim sort of satisfaction. What he couldn’t wrap his mind around—and never would—was how Erin hadn’t just left him. She’d abandoned Ben and Ashlee. For some creep on the Internet—after she was found guilty of embezzling almost a hundred thousand dollars from the non-profit she worked for. It didn’t matter how many times Daniel thought about it, it was always . . . a shock.
So yes, he mourned their old life together even as he fought to come to terms with the fact that it had never really existed the way he thought it had. Fourteen years together—twelve legally married—and he’d never truly known her. She was a completely different person from who he’d thought she was.
Daniel reached into the van’s back bench; it was empty. He went around the back of the vehicle again. Not a box to be found. He’d cleared the whole van already. Sadness and disappointment were good for something, at least. He got chores done like a workhorse these days.
Fighting to clear his head so that he’d be able to maintain an outward front of calm optimism for his kids, he paused on the front stoop before entering the house and studied his adjoined neighbor’s front entrance and yard.
Deep breath in. He’d heard Ashlee casually refer to him as “Sad Dad”the other day, like it was his actual name, and he wanted to nip that in the bud.
Deep breath out. Whoever lived next door had already made some small personal changes. Unlike the plain gray exterior door on his own unit, the neighbor’s was a vibrant turquoise. He didn’t hate it.
Deep breath in. Also, where his front yard was a small dingy rectangle of winter-dead grass, next door’s was vigorously raked and already looking green.
Breath out. Most surprising of all—and despite the fact that winter was barely past and there was every chance they could still face another snowfall before it was truly gone—tiny shoots of brilliant celadon green showed in patches in a carefully turned flower bed and around the base of a currently leafless, dormant tree. Daniel wasn’t much of a gardener himself, but his mom, dad, sister, and brother—so his entire family—were obsessed, and he couldn’t help picking up a few things. This house was barely a season old, yet the neighbor had already established crocus and narcissi. Bizarrely—and maybe a little pathetically—it made him feel a small burst of affinity for the unknown someone living next door. Was it too much to ask that in this one little thing, he’d be right? That his neighbor wouldn’t be terrible?
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
I hope you enjoyed this sneak preview of Something New and if you haven’t already pre-ordered yourself this fall reading treat, I hope you will! I really think you’ll love Gwen and Daniel’s story. 🥰
Claim your copy now and have it waiting for you with your morning coffee or tea on October 12th!
Hello and happy June, fellow readers and book lovers! I’m shocked to say that my little normally-shady-and-cool (aka COLD) corner of the world has a heat wave warning. Will wonders never cease?! Anyway, I decided that our long, lovely summer reading days (daze!) call for something special – and here it is: The Cabin’s first Summer Reading Challenge extraordinaire.
If you haven’t joined me at The Cabin yet, you’ll want to! (Or you’ll want to if you want a chance to enter to win prizes, that is. You could also print off the challenge and just do it for fun and personal bragging rights! (If you do the latter, drop me a line in comments to let me know you’re doing it. I hope you have a blast!)
Summer Reading Challenge starts June 21 and ends September 3, 2021.
Any format of book (eBook, paper, audio), including ARCs are fine, but all books for this Summer Challenge must be read between June 21 (our start day) and September 3. (So books read before June 21 don’t count.)
Complete one or all – in any order you want! 📚💕📚
1. A book with the ocean or a beach on its cover
2. A book with a mostly blue cover
3. Something Old by Ev Bishop (If you’ve already read it, say so for one entry!)
4. River’s Sigh B & B novels (One entry per book. If you’ve already read all eight – woohoo! Enter them all separately in the thread for one entry per book!)
5. A book recommended by a friend
6. A book with a one word title
7. A non-fiction book
8. At least three poems by Mary Oliver
9. A thriller or suspense
10. A mystery
11. A romance
12. Read outside (anywhere – your deck, the lake, a chair by your door! – for at least 30 minutes).
13. Celebrate Christmas in July! Read a Christmas romance in . . . you got it. July!
14. A book with a title that starts with the first letter of your name
15. A book that takes place in a different country than where you live
16. A book you already own (in any format) but haven’t read yet
17. A book set in the summer
18. A novel about friends
19. A book featuring a mother and daughter(s)
20. A book with pets in it
THE PRIZES!!!!
The biggest reward is a summer full of reading fun, of course! 😀📚💕📚 That said, I have some other goodies in store that might make your little bookish hearts sing!
Every Friday in July and August, there will be a random draw for a $5.00 gift card (for Amazon or Barnes and Noble – winner’s choice). Anybody who has entered the challenge by the draw dates so far will be automatically entered for a chance to win. Their name will stay in for the subsequent draws.
At the end of the challenge (midnight PST September 3), you will be entered in the main draws as many times as you’ve completed a category.
For example, if Anna Reads completed three categories of the challenge, her name would be entered three times. If Paige Turner completed six categories, her name would be entered six times.
Maximum entries per person: 27 (because there are 20 categories, but #4 has eight possible entries)
Grand prizes:
5 lucky winners will receive a signed Ev Bishop paperback of their choice, a book lover’s key chain, and other fun book swag.
1 lucky winner will receive the FULL River’s Sigh B & B series (all eight books!) in paperback and signed, a book lover’s key chain, and other fun book swag.
**Grand prize winners will be announced on or before Sept. 10, 2021.
***To qualify for prizes, you must join The Cabin and enter each category you complete in the Summer Reading Challenge thread. You can also read all the official (and very easy!) rules there.
Wishing you a wonderful summer and super happy (challenging, LOL) reading!
I wanted to begin this post with “Hello, happy late May – late May?! Where does time go?” but seeing as I start out almost every greeting that way, LOL, we’ll just agree that time disappears and be done with it.
For me, this month’s time-stealing activities all center around two things: garden/yard work (yay!) and the first deadline for Something New, Book 2 in my new series, The Second Chance Shop (also yay!) 😊
If you’ve been busy outdoors too, you might relate to my sore butt and stiff body. Readjusting to long physical days after sedentary winter always takes me a bit . . . but the upside is that when evening comes, I’ve really earned my book and glass (or two!) of wine. On that note, I thought I’d share a bit of exciting news – and a lead to new well-earned reads for you.
Something Old was selected as a recommended read by Books2Read in their “New Beginnings” promotion, where each included book involves a fresh start or new beginning of some kind. You’ll find Something Old in the Independent Women category (which suits it – and me – to a T! 😁). I’m beyond honored by the amazing lineup of books and authors I’m rubbing shoulders with!
Have fun checking out the various categories here and treating yourself to new books, whether you’ve “earned” them or not, LOL.
Hoping you and yours are well, and wishing you a wonderful spring and very happy reading!
Author Ev Bishop: page-turning stories about family, friends, and finding your true home. 