Head in the Clouds - Where do you get your inspiration? ............................ by Delsora Lowe

 Being a writer can be tough sometimes.

Not because of the work that goes into every piece we write, whether it is a short blog, a poem, or an entire novel. But because our imagination NEVER stops.

Too many ideas. Not enough time in the universe to make all those words sing and deliver a message.

Not long ago, I drove by a sign that indicated a consignment shop. I immediately wrote a 5-minute short story in my head, as I drove. I have since drafted out one I will eventually send to Woman’s World, after I edit it a zillion times.

Recently, I visited my son who lives about forty-five minutes away. He lives just outside a small village. I emerged from the car to a greeting from a black cow mooing. Moooo. Moooo.

And then the other cows answered back. Moooo. Next door is a big white barn, and my son’s house is surrounded by farmland. We often see wild turkeys or deer, and once a bear. Another time, while eating dinner, a fox strolled through the back yard, right past the window by the dining room table. Today, as we drove back to his house, a red-tailed hawk flew right over the car. And as I left about ten minutes later, that same (I assume) hawk flew back over my car in the opposite direction.

I know there is a story in there somewhere with all this wildlife­ and domestic animal neighbors, including my grand-dog Yaz who loves to greet his human grammy—even if it is a short piece for my weekly local writers’ group or an idea for a children’s book.

Snuggling in - my disguise - so no one knows I'm sitting on the couch,

As I cruised past the tiny nearby village, there are many rural roads that arrow off the two-lane main road. Some leading to one house and some to a small complex of houses. I love the names of the roads. They always trigger ideas. One is Turkey Trot Lane, and another little lane is named Pumpkin Way. Story ideas immediately swam through the creative side of my brain, as I repeated over and over Turkey Trot Lane and Pumpkin Way on my drive home. I didn’t want to forget any story ideas swimming through my head, since I couldn’t stop and make notes.

For a split second I envisioned a trilogy—each book title and theme based around these two street names, plus other fun names of streets that arrow off along that same stretch of road. My brain didn't have enough bandwidth to memorize more than two street names.

Now I’ve jotted notes and hopped on the computer to record thoughts before they disappear. Conjuring up story ideas that happen around Halloween and Thanksgiving, and even into the month of December.

Will Turkey Trot Lane and Pumpkin Way be locations in one story? Or will each be the title of a stand-alone story? It is hard to say. Until my fingers do the walking across the keyboard, who knows where the musings living in my mind will take me.

But let me remind you that a book I wrote several years ago (The Inn on Gooseneck Lane) and,  published by The Wild Rose Press in 2022, is titled and based around a street sign (Gooseneck Lane.) I passed the tiny lane in the middle of nowhere, while cruising a back road in Vermont.

I played with story ideas in my head for the next few hours, driving back to Maine.

So, who knows what stories the next two street signs will lead to as I write.

The creative murmurings that leave my brain as story ideas, are usually channeled through my fingers. Many times, as I reread what I wrote, I am as surprised at what ends up on the page as a potential reader will be.

So, if you are looking for signs or inspiration, don’t forget those street names that may be inspiration and turn into one more story—whether it is a short story, a novella, a novel, an essay, or a poem.

And if you are in the car and can’t write down your idea, repeat the inspirational phrase (or street sign) over and over until you can pull to the side of the road and write down your idea. Yes, it works!

 

Whether you are a writer or enjoy artistic hobbies, 

where do you get your ideas?

 

Holiday Hitchhiker

Amazon (also in print)

Books2Read

The Inn on Gooseneck Lane

Amazon (also in print)

                    Barnes & Noble (also in print)

                     Apple Books (also in print)

 ~ cottages to cabins ~ keep the home fires burning ~

Delsora Lowe writes small town sweet and spicy romances and contemporary westerns, from the mountains of Colorado to the shores of Maine.

Author of the Starlight Grille series, Serenity Harbor Maine novellas, and the Cowboys of Mineral Springs series, Lowe has also authored short romances for Woman’s World magazine (most recently, an Easter romance in the April 1, 2024 edition.) The Love Left Behind is a Hartford Estates, R.I. wedding novella with Book 2 on the way. A Christmas novel (The Inn at Gooseneck Lane) and novella (Holiday Hitchhiker – the youngest brother of the Mineral Spring’s ranching family) were the most recent releases. Look for book 3 of the cowboy’s series, as well as book 2 of the Hartford Estates series, to be released in 2025.

Photo Attributions:
Imagination: https://clipart-library.com/imagination-cliparts.html
Thinking: thinking face icon yellow PNG file 9687643 PNG
Dog on Couch, Neighborhood, Cows, Road Sign: Photos taken by author

Amazon Author page: https://www.amazon.com/Delsora-Lowe/e/B01M61OM39/ref=ntt_dp_epwbk_0
Books2Read Author page: https://www.books2read.com/ap/8GWm98/Delsora-Lowe
BookBub Author Page: https://www.bookbub.com/authors/delsora-lowe-93c6987f-129d-483d-9f5a-abe603876518
Goodreads Author Page: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/16045986.Delsora_Lowe

Backcountry camping - my happy place

From the time the boys were walking, we've spent part of every summer camping and canoeing, first in a regular campground, what I call 'car camping', and then at remote campsites in the backcountry with everybody and everything loaded into our large canoe. 

When the kids were old enough, and strong enough, we graduated to two canoes for the paddle into the wilderness - one parent and one child in each canoe. And then it was the boring parents in one canoe and the boys in the other, either racing ahead or lagging behind. 

Now that our nest is empty, we're back to one canoe (or two kayaks, but one canoe is a heck of a lot easier to manage on the portages). 

We recently spent a few days in one of my favourite places on earth, Kejimkujik National Park, located in the south-west end of Nova Scotia. 

Here's a map showing the backcountry campsites, some on lakes, some you need to hike to, all very remote. The orange square shows our location for this most recent stay.

And an enlarged view of that area of the map. We parked our car at Eel Weir.

 We walked the O portage and put our canoe in the water at the end of the red line.

Then we paddled to the P portage and site 23, the only campsite on that lake. 

One of the first tasks is making the water safe to drink with a filter and special tablets. This site is one of only a handful with a wooden shelter, very handy should it rain. Though we always have an extra tarp to use as a rain shelter just in case.

A previous camper left this interesting axe behind. My writer brain instantly went in a dark direction.

The next day we paddled further down the river to see the sights ... 

before returning to our campsite for a cosy fire.

Our last day dawned sunny and warm.

We packed up aaalllll our stuff and got on the water for a leisurely paddle back to the portage.

A friendly doe said goodbye.

And then the walk back to the parking lot ...

and the end of another perfect stay in a truly happy place.

Luanna Stewart has been creating adventures for her imaginary friends since childhood. She spends her days writing spicy contemporary romance, romantic suspense, paranormal romance, and historical romance. When not torturing her heroes and heroines, she’s in her kitchen baking something delicious. She lives in Nova Scotia with her patient husband, a spoiled cat, and five hens. 

Website ~ Bookbub ~ Twitter ~ Instagram ~ Facebook ~ Goodreads 

    

Amelia Bennett is getting her life on track and won’t let the mistakes of the past harsh her joy. Most days. While working at the family store by day, and building her graphic design business by night, she dreams of the perfect life in the perfect house – just as soon as she can afford it. A man is Not On The Schedule. Not even the big, strong, gorgeous man with the sweet smile and sexy arms.

Nate Hardwick’s craft brewery needs a boost. New bottle labels might help and, luckily, a graphics designer with perfect ideas and a whole bunch of attitude struts into his life. Pretty soon, they’re hanging out like a couple of buddies, but another buddy isn’t what he needs. Not when she’s everything he wants.

Will Amelia’s … issues crash this chance at love? Nate needs to convince her that he’s strong enough to handle whatever she can throw at him.

Buy now

Montana Seasons

By Courtney Pierce

I love all four seasons for different reasons. Each one holds triggers deep in our DNA that drive our behavior. At the moment of transition, I am compelled to follow earth’s cycle. If I had to pick a favorite, it would be a toss-up between spring and fall. Don’t get me wrong. I truly love the winter. I delight in the variety of animals’ prints circling the property like Morris Code. Deer prints. Fox prints. Racoon prints. Mountain lion prints. From the wide five-toed one, we think we even had a wolverine pay us a deep-freeze visit.

I live in an area of the country that gives me a front row seat at nature’s movie. The environment of Montana allows me to live among the mountains, lakes, and forests. There are more animals than I can count. After two years, I’ve clued into the nature’s rhythm.

Fall is for rituals.

Autumn in Montana ushers in a unique energy, and with it comes a sense of urgency to prep the nest. Golden rays of sun poke through a backdrop of boiling dark clouds. Tamarack needles turn bright yellow and create a brilliant shower at the slightest breeze. Rolling distant thunder urges me to rush into the yard to clean up dead branches, stack the yard furniture, and spade the garden for the last of the potatoes and root vegetables.

Squirrels and chipmunks race across the lawn to check off their tasks of securing their nests. The first flurries of snow can come too soon. We stack cords of wood for the coming winter, releasing a cedar aroma in the air. One of my nest-like tasks includes filling tubs with pinecones for kindling. The wood stove will soon dance with warm flames.

Then comes the ritual of perusing through my recipe books to make hearty soups and stews for the slow cooker. There’s nothing more satisfying than walking through the door to a savory aroma of roasting meat. The hunt is on to fill the freezer with wild elk and venison. My husband and I study maps of where we will stalk the woods. On weekends, we don our camo gear and strap on our rifles. Hunting is not just for food. The whole animal is used: the hide for leather, the bone as fertilizer for the garden, and the fat for preservative oil.

Hunting may make people a bit squeamish, but this is Montana. Most of us prep to be self-sufficient for nature’s winter sequester.

In March, the countdown begins. Spring is a favorite for its renewal and celebration. Life changes with the snow’s retreat, and along with it so does my whole outlook on life.

Spring brings forth a riot of colors: blue crocus, purple iris, red-striped tulips, yellow daffodils. The buds poke through the thawing soil, happy to flex their muscles from a potential freeze.  My husband and I draw out plans for the flower baskets and vegetable garden. Starting the seeds is an indoor activity here in Montana until May. The temp can bounce from below zero to sixty degrees. In preparation for planting, we fill a cold-frame mini greenhouse box filled with peat pots: rosemary, basil, oregano, dill, parsley, thyme, marigolds, peas, beans, beets, kohlrabi, and several varieties of tomatoes. Grow lights hum with their life-giving glow.

In the early morning hours of spring, ethereal sounds emit from the still-frozen lake behind our house. As the ice begins to stress and crack, a deep, harmonic wooo .  . wooo  . . wooo reverberates through the air. It’s like an ancient harmonic call. Personally, I think it’s Mother Nature’s warning for the animals to “stay off the ice.” This amazing phenomenon is one that most people don’t get to experience.

When open water starts to emerge, dozens of ducks and geese arrive for their first open-swim session. Let the mating rituals begin! There’s a reason Stravinsky wrote The Rite of Spring. In the coming month the little ones will hatch, like tiny ping-pong balls with fuzz. They’ll float behind mama in a perfectly straight line as she teaches them to dive. I could watch them pop up for hours.

The garden provides a perfect vantage point to watch the wildlife. Bears emerge from their dens to forage for berries and fresh green shoots. Turtles and bass come up from their hibernation at the bottom of the lake. And with their appearance, the eagles and osprey swoop overhead. Does debut their wobbly fawns, instructing them how to raid our garden. I will usually go outside to give them a half-hearted scold, but they don’t seem to mind me at all.

We shed our heavy layers of clothing to let our skin breathe again. We drink in the spring sun with an appreciation for what life should be. Sometimes stunning sights catch our eye that force us to stop at the side of the road. Like glorious artwork, nearby farms are carpeted with canola blooms. A sea of gold, like infinite bullion presents itself as far as the eye can see.

Soon we’ll strap the canoe on the pick-up and head to mountains. The quiet of the wilderness spawns a calm that keeps our core intact.  All we’ll need is in our backpacks. Oh. . . and our fishing poles, and worms.

But first, we'll take a side trip to Puerto Vallarta for a walk on the beach.

Courtney Pierce is a fiction writer living in Kalispell, Montana with her husband and stepdaughter. She writes for the baby boomer audience. She spent 28 years as an executive in the entertainment industry and used her time in a theater seat to create stories that are filled with heart, humor, and mystery. She studied craft and storytelling at the Attic Institute and has completed the Hawthorne Fellows Program for writing and publishing. Active in the writing community, Courtney is a board member of the Northwest Independent Writers Association and on the Advisory Council of the Independent Publishing Resource Center. She is a member of Willamette Writers, Pacific Northwest Writers Association, and Authors of the Flathead. The Executrix received the Library Journal Self-E recommendation seal.

Print and E-books are available through most major online retailers, including Amazon.com.

Check out all of Courtney's books: 

courtney-pierce.com and windtreepress.com 

New York Times best-selling author Karen Karbo says, "Courtney Pierce spins a madcap tale of family grudges, sisterly love, unexpected romance, mysterious mobsters and dog love. Reading Indigo Lake is like drinking champagne with a chaser of Mountain Dew. Pure Delight."

Coming in 2021!

When Aubrey Cenderon moves to Montana after the death of her father, the peace and quiet of Big Sky Country becomes complicated with a knock on the door from the sheriff. An injured grizzly bear is on the loose and it must be eliminated before it kills again. The sheriff's insistence that she buy a gun for protection will present Aubrey with some serious soul-searching, because the grizzly-on-the-run is hunting her too . . . for a different reason.

The New Normal Isn't So Normal.

By Courtney Pierce

A mere nine months ago our lives held a sense of normalcy. We were full of hope on New Year’s Day, the kick-start for a new decade. After a hearty breakfast, the holiday decorations were carefully packed up and returned to their safe place in the garage. The Christmas music got a final play—always a bit melancholy with Dean Martin and Ottmar Liebert—while the house received a thorough sweep of dried tree needles. 

My retirement account statement had earned a hearty golf clap—a hole in one—so I figured that I had earned the right to put up my feet. My husband watched football while I perused a stack of cookbooks, making good on my commitment to try out new recipes. My stepdaughter sat next to me on the couch and began to compile the packing list for her much-anticipated trip to London over Spring Break. We were getting used to her daily practice of talking with a British accent. As a surprise for her, I’d tucked an ample wad of British currency in my safe. We wanted it to be a trip of a lifetime.  

Little did we know that our idealistic bubble of hope would soon collapse. 

On January 21^st, an unseen invader rolled over the country like a ground swell before an earthquake. The calamity started with confusion, then grew to denial and disbelief. Media-fueled fear soon forced us to lock our doors. Life was severely interrupted when the schools closed their doors, too, by mid-March. My stepdaughter’s hopes were crushed when her London trip was cancelled. A 14-year-old that is cooped up does nothing but sleep and eat. By May, I became convinced that CoVid-19 was so named because of the 19 grumpy pounds she’d gained while sleeping until mid-afternoon. Long distance learning was an outright joke as the teachers had no idea how manage it. 

Yikes! Even on bright sunny days we hunkered down, resentful and uninspired.

To shake off the malaise, we packed up the camping gear. After all, the governor had shut down a leisure industry that ushered in throngs of out-of-state visitors. We'd have the wilderness to ourselves, with no CoVid-19 critters to infect us. Fresh air, fresh fish, and a fresh perspective.

We found the entrances to our beautiful Glacier National Park laced with heavy chains. I thought only God could manage Glacier, but apparently I was wrong. How could a tiny virus eclipse the giant healing power of mountains, meadows and forested trails? Summer had started with everything becoming a downer:

Lockdowns. Closedowns. Stand-downs.

Political showdowns.  Ah hah! That was the culprit.

Something else was going on, and it had nothing to do with a contagion. We were being psychologically beaten down, along with a tear-down of our physical foundations. Control of the masses. What did chopping off Christopher Columbus's head on a statue have to do with eradicating a virus? But our resiliency had been grossly underestimated.  

Little things became rays of hope after I turned off the television and shut down the computer. These measures weren't taken out of ignorance or denial; they were about self-protection from dishonesty. The ubiquitous "they" couldn't strip us of our ability to persevere. I likened our plight to Tolkien's Lord of the Rings: a good-versus-evil story in real time.

No one can take away my right to write. BIG SKY TALK soon blossomed with new chapters that never would've emerged without an engineered sequester. Words had the power to heal, soothe pain, and resurrect my inner superhero. The seasons continued to change. Like clockwork, the sun rose each morning to warm the crisp air. The stars still sprinkled the heavens at night to remind me that our world shone as only a penlight from a different planet.

That's the ticket! I needed a new perspective.

It came on a day toward the end of winter. I paused at the living room window—mesmerized—when I spotted a herd of twelve deer playing on the snow-covered frozen lake behind our house. Their hoof patterns from playful chase reminded me of the circle designs I used to make on my Spirograph as a child. Every week the patterns grew and changed until the ice finally retreated in April. Energized by spring’s last frost, we drew out the plan for the vegetable garden. I could already taste the sweetness of a ripe tomato, hear the snap of a home-grown string bean, and take in the fragrance of freshly picked parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme. Too bad we couldn't grow toilet paper and paper towels.

I dug out my CD of The Best of Simon and Garfunkel for inspiration. Great music for holding crappy feelings at bay. I discovered I loved the songs even more today than when I had first listened to them in the early seventies. Their music held up to the test of time.

And so would I.

By mid-June, the multiplication of wildlife offered me a front row seat to a living documentary of animal parenthood. Most people didn’t get to see fawns wobble unsteadily, sticking close to their mothers for an education about the day's buffet selection. 

Two dozen goslings had also invaded the yard to gobble up the freshly strewn grass seed. From behind the sliding glass door, I monitored the goslings’ transition from downy fuzz to honest-to-goodness feathers. Pride filled my heart at their progress.

The mated pairs of black-and-white Bufflehead ducks were among my favorites. Their sets of six ducklings, like miniature salt and pepper shakers, dutifully glided across the lake in a perfect little line with perfect little postures. My new normal became observing the wildlife before my eyes. They'd always been there, but I hadn't taken the time to truly appreciate their presence.

And then there were the two huge black bears that strolled through the yard, and another one that took a vigorous bath in the lake. Awesome sight. Somehow, all the other animals on the planet were able to dine out, work out, and ramble about. But not us humans. Maybe we should take it as a lesson that no one should ever have the right to deprive us of our freedoms.

The fly-over of young bald eagle, its speckled brown-and-white feathers anew, became a friendly reminder to not take anything for granted.

I look forward to retrieving those holiday decorations from the garage in a couple of months. I want a do-over. Renewed hope awaits with the familiar, the patriotic, and the traditions of our history. No one can ever take that away from us, even if the anarchists chop off the head of a Christopher Columbus statue, spray paint the Lincoln Memorial, or threaten to blow-up Mount Rushmore.

Minor things mean a lot, but I refuse to live in fear. People who are fearful are easier to manipulate with ridiculous demands. But the only control I truly have in all this mess is my ability to vote. And vote I will—in-person, without the threat of fraud or fear of a virus. 

And no one can ever re-write my history.  

Courtney Pierce is a fiction writer living in Kalispell, Montana with her husband, stepdaughter, and their brainiac cat. Courtney writes for the baby boomer audience. She spent 28 years as an executive in the entertainment industry and used her time in a theater seat to create stories that are filled with heart, humor, and mystery. She studied craft and storytelling at the Attic Institute and has completed the Hawthorne Fellows Program for writing and publishing. Active in the writing community, Courtney is a board member of the Northwest Independent Writers Association and on the Advisory Council of the Independent Publishing Resource Center. She is a member of Willamette Writers, Pacific Northwest Writers Association, and Authors of the Flathead. The Executrix received the Library Journal Self-E recommendation seal.

Print and E-books are available through most major online retailers, including Amazon.com.

Check out all of Courtney's books: 

courtney-pierce.com and windtreepress.com 

New York Times best-selling author Karen Karbo says, "Courtney Pierce spins a madcap tale of family grudges, sisterly love, unexpected romance, mysterious mobsters and dog love. Reading Indigo Lake is like drinking champagne with a chaser of Mountain Dew. Pure Delight."

Coming in 2021!

When Aubrey Cenderon moves to Montana after the death of her father, the peace and quiet of Big Sky Country becomes complicated with a knock on the door from the sheriff. An injured grizzly bear is on the loose and it must be eliminated before it kills again. The sheriff's insistence that she buy a gun for protection will present Aubrey with some serious soul-searching, because the grizzly-on-the-run is hunting for her too . . . for a different reason.

Not-so-fancy R&R

by Courtney Pierce

The cell phone sits disconnected from its charger. The television screen is dark. My laptop doesn’t chime with spam. I glance at an empty calendar on the bulletin board in the kitchen, void of obligations. Yeah! No fancy meals on the docket.

We are in our home in Montana, an oasis of forest, lakes, mountains, and wildlife. Glacier National Park is only twenty miles away, and we can’t think of anywhere we’d rather be. Here, life races at a turtle's pace.

My husband stokes the wood stove with tamarack. Beneath its smoky sweetness, the savory aroma of elk stew simmers in the Crock-Pot. By three in the afternoon, dinner is done. I grab a blank notebook and unfold a trail map over the coffee table, I sit on the couch and wait for my soul mate to join me. Outside, the snow is a rush of fat white polka dots, like a scrim to open the show. Right on cue, a herd of deer appear and disappear in their elegant tiptoe past each window, a sight that never ceases to thrill me.

That's my set-up for the perfect vacation.

I like to take vacation time to do research about our next vacation. In our case, that would include hiking, fishing, hunting, and canoeing. The lack of interruption from daily chores, work, and obligations affords me the time to read up on anything and everything, including bears and guns. My next book series will be set in Montana, so I’ve much to experience for my research, which will include local folklore, being hopelessly in love over the age of fifty-five (uh-hem...fifty-nine), and a connection to wildlife through clairvoyance. A fantasy vacation for me is to take the time to read up, strap up, and step out with a backpack. I''ll gather information through capturing the aroma of the forest and climbing through the burn of lazy winter muscles. Then I’ll write about the real with a framework of fiction. Of course, a touch of humor will be in the mix.

There is a sense of peace in this place we call Montana, but it’s deceiving. As Jeff and I study the maps of the Bob Marshall Wilderness, the Swan Mountain Range, and the Mission Mountains for our spring backpacking treks, we must not only plan for adverse weather conditions. Along with the beauty of the landscape, there’s an underlying tension of danger, both at home and on the trail. When living with serious wildlife - far beyond a cat on the lap and dog at our feet - Mother Nature shakes her finger at us humans for our selfish assumptions of superiority. It’s a good thing, too, because those reminders instill a healthy respect for how fast threatening encounters can happen. In our case, we must never let down our guard for a meet-up with grizzly and black bears, mountain lions, and wolves.

Bears hold a top spot for me. A fresh paw print in the snow, the size of a dinner plate, makes my skin prickle. Are we predator or prey? But bears are solitary animals who generally shy away from humans. A gaze of intelligence pleas for us to interpret their every move, posture, and sound as a unique language. Bears lumber along the landscape with grace, seemingly without a care in the world, but they can commence a chase at 35 mph when their space is violated. That’s twice as fast as a human can move.  If there’s a cub or two in the vicinity, then protective aggression is likely. Jeff and I never take to the trail without bear spray and knives, and we always suspend our provisions high in the trees. 

But back to that dream vacation. It is the solace of Montana, the danger and its beauty of habitat, that makes it my go-to destination. The amazing vistas are only augmented by the opportunity of share it with wildlife. This symbiosis with nature reminds me I must remain on my guard to live in such a beautiful place. Mountain life is not for the faint of heart. 

After much practice, I’m a crack shot with a rifle to protect myself. This skill not only earned my husband spousal bragging rights with his work mates, but it also rewards us with sustenance in the freezer. That’s why I take my 6.5 mm Creedmoor rifle with me to take out the trash. That's a lot of fire power for a little Annie Oakley like me, but the biggest difference is that I insist on sporting polished toes.

Courtney Pierce is a fiction writer living in Milwaukie, Oregon, with her husband and stepdaughter. She writes for baby boomers. By day, Courtney is an executive in the entertainment industry and uses her time in a theater seat to create stories that are filled with heart, humor and mystery. She has studied craft and storytelling at the Attic Institute and has completed the Hawthorne Fellows Program for writing and publishing. Active in the writing community, she is a board member of the Northwest Independent Writers Association and on the Advisory Council of the Independent Publishing Resource Center. She is a member of Willamette Writers, Pacific Northwest Writers Association, and She Writes. The Executrix received the Library Journal Self-E recommendation seal. 

Check out all of Courtney's books at:

courtney-pierce.com and windtreepress.com. Both print and E-books are available through most major online retailers, including Amazon.com

The Dushane Sisters Trilogy concludes with Indigo Legacy, due out in summer, 2018. There's love in the air for Olivia and Woody, but will their family intrigue get in the way? Ride along for the wild trip that starts in a New York auction house and peaks in a mansion on Boston's Beacon Hill. The Dushane sisters finally get the answers they've been seeking about their mother.

New York Times best-selling author Karen Karbo says, "Courtney Pierce spins a madcap tale of family grudges, sisterly love, unexpected romance, mysterious mobsters and dog love. Reading Indigo Lake is like drinking champagne with a chaser of Mountain Dew. Pure Delight."