{"id":7382,"date":"2019-06-05T18:33:00","date_gmt":"2019-06-05T23:33:00","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/faithhopeandfiction.com\/content\/?p=7382"},"modified":"2020-09-04T04:54:55","modified_gmt":"2020-09-04T09:54:55","slug":"bower-garden-shadows_patricia-crisafulli","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/faithhopeandfiction.com\/content\/bower-garden-shadows_patricia-crisafulli\/","title":{"rendered":"Bower Garden Shadows"},"content":{"rendered":"
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\"Bower<\/a><\/p>\n

Patricia Crisafulli<\/h2>\n

Original Online Fiction<\/h4>\n

<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\"Garden<\/div>\n
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In Bower Garden Shadows, Shelby and Brian purchase a nineteenth-century Victorian that includes a shaded garden nook\u2014and an unusual, long forgotten tenant.<\/em><\/div>\n
<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

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F<\/span>amiliarity overwhelmed her like heavy perfume, fogging her senses for a moment. Shelby gulped a breath, and the sensation passed. She blamed fatigue: too many houses in one weekend\u2014nine yesterday and seven more scheduled today. Their condo had sold more quickly than expected, and now they needed to find a place and fast.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

They\u2019d concentrated at first on tidy Cape Cods and small Georgians close to the city but when they seemed too cramped, they expanded to slightly bigger houses in suburbs farther out along the commuter train line. But they\u2019d seen nothing like this old Victorian in the most distant town on their map of tolerable commuting distances. It must have been beautiful in its day: a sharply pitched roof with a filigree inset of gingerbread woodwork at the peak; a wide porch with an overhang supported by fat columns with graceful curves. But the peeling paint and sagging shutters made Shelby wonder how far it was from move-in condition.<\/p>\n

Janet, in her realtor uniform of beige slacks and navy blazer, flipped through a folder of printouts. \u201cFive bedrooms, two baths. Structurally solid but clearly in great need of renovation. Almost didn\u2019t show this to you. But you haven\u2019t seemed that interested in anything\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI liked that ranch with the stone front,\u201d Brian interjected. \u201cYou did too, right Shel?\u201d<\/p>\n

She hadn\u2019t said anything to him about wanting to live in that house. \u201cIt certainly didn\u2019t feel like home.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou can\u2019t expect that, not until we\u2019re there with our stuff. We\u2019re looking for a property that meets our needs.\u201d<\/p>\n

Shelby rolled her eyes at him. \u201cI got that part. But I also know I don\u2019t want to live in a house I hate.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWho said anything about hate?\u201d Brian\u2019s face splotched red, which happened when he was embarrassed or upset.<\/p>\n

The realtor broke in. \u201cThis house was built in 1871, back when this was all farmland. See that house over there?\u201d She pointed to a 1960s Colonial next door. \u201cThat\u2019s where the horse barn stood. But over time, the village grew, and the farms vanished.\u201d<\/p>\n

Shelby tried to picture a cherry red barn, but the image changed like a flip of a page in a photo album to a brown building with black crisscrosses on the doors, like chestnut horse with a dark mane.<\/p>\n

As Brian asked questions about building codes and clear titles, Shelby reached over the picket fence and released the latch. Morning glories<\/em>. The thought popped into her mind when she was halfway to the house, but held no meaning, until she approached the French doors set with narrow windowpanes. With her fingertips, she traced the pattern of twisting vines and trumpet-shaped flowers etched around the glass. How had she known? Had she been here before? Logical, but impossible; she\u2019d never visited this town and had grown up in the next state, four hours away.<\/p>\n

Shelby turned her attention to the lattice at the far end of the porch, which needed paint, like every other part of the exterior. Nothing grew there now and a few of the slats were missing. But for an instant, she could see wisteria leaning against the lattice, dripping clusters of purple blossoms. It was just her imagination, she scolded herself. Of course, an old house like this should have wisteria growing beside the porch, just like ivy on the chimney or tiger lilies sprouting by the foundation.<\/p>\n

\"Bower<\/p>\n

She was glad for the intrusion when Brian grabbed the porch bannister and tugged. It moved under his hands. \u201cThis house isn\u2019t old, it\u2019s ancient,\u201d he complained. \u201cThe electrical probably isn\u2019t even to code.\u201d<\/p>\n

Janet checked the folder again. \u201cYes, upgraded about ten years ago. Plumbing about then, too. The owners had plans to redo the place; then he died, and she couldn\u2019t keep going with the renovations.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWell, at least the toilets flush.\u201d Brian shook his head.<\/p>\n

Shelby spoke up. \u201cI\u2019m very interested in this place.\u201d<\/p>\n

Brian\u2019s mouth gaped. \u201cReally? You have any idea how much it would cost to fix up a place like this?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cProbably a lot, but I have my grandmother\u2019s money.\u201d<\/p>\n

Brian turned away, muttering. \u201cYou just love saying that.\u201d<\/p>\n

Sore point or not, it was true. Without the money her grandmother had left her, they\u2019d be living in that condo for another five years. While she\u2019d never say it, Shelby believed that the money made her choice matter even more than Brian\u2019s.<\/p>\n

\"Original<\/p>\n

The front doors swung open into a dark foyer and a staircase to the right. To the left was a narrow door; opening it, Shelby walked into the dining room with its broad bay window overlooking the side yard. \u201cWe can take off this door. It will bring more light into the hallway.\u201d<\/p>\n

Brian said nothing.<\/p>\n

Another door at the far end of the dining room led to an old-fashioned kitchen with tall cupboards that went right up to the ceiling. A built-in china hutch had morning glories etched on its glass panels. The parlor was a disaster: hideous gold wallpaper with olive green flocking and a stain in the corner that spread like a tie-dye design.<\/p>\n

\u201cI suspect that\u2019s from the flashing around the chimney,\u201d Janet told them. \u201cI\u2019m sure the seller will have that fixed.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat about the wall? Mold, for sure.\u201d Brian picked at the curled edge of a strip of wallpaper, peeling it back an inch. \u201cI\u2019m handy, but this place is beyond me. Seen enough, Shel?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNew paper and paint will help a lot, even I\u2014\u201d Shelby stopped. Overhead, a chair scraped the floor. \u201cDid you hear that?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo, what was it?\u201d Brian made a face. \u201cI\u2019m not dealing with mice in the walls.\u201d<\/p>\n

Shelby retraced her steps back to the foyer and headed upstairs. She looked around for whatever had made that noise, but the rooms were completely empty. Not even hangers in the closet. Maybe she\u2019d heard something outside.<\/p>\n

Four of the bedrooms were small, although the master was a decent size. Two of the smallest rooms should be combined for sure\u2014one day, but not now. The bathrooms were livable, although the bright pink fixtures would have to go.<\/p>\n

Janet\u2019s footsteps sounded up the stairs, then into the master bedroom. \u201cThere\u2019s a lot of value here,\u201d Shelby heard her say to Brian, \u201cand it\u2019s below the top of your price range.\u201d<\/p>\n

Brian wore a neutral expression. \u201cIt\u2019s cheap because everybody knows it\u2019s going to take a fortune to upgrade it. How long has this been on the market, anyway?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cEight months,\u201d Janet answered. \u201cThere was another buyer, who wanted to tear it down. But the seller balked\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThe seller is going to dictate what someone does with this property?\u201d Brian threw his hands up in the air.<\/p>\n

Janet continued, nonplussed. \u201cThe local historical society had asked\u2014nothing legal, mind you, just a request\u2014that the house not be torn down. The house is of historical value. A former congressman lived here.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYeah, a hundred years ago.\u201d Brian reached for Shelby\u2019s hand. She held on limply. \u201cLook, Shel, nobody wants this albatross.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cBut I might. This is the first house I\u2019ve really liked. It\u2019s interesting.\u201d<\/p>\n

When Brian sighed loudly, Shelby knew what it meant. His patience was gone, and resentment was filling the gap.<\/p>\n

\u201cOkay, I get it\u2014this is a cool property, if money weren\u2019t an issue and we could hire contractors to do the whole thing.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s not much of an issue.\u201d Shelby said the words as gently as she could.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s going to take everything your grandmother left you and probably more. Whatever the contractor estimates, we\u2019d have to budget double to cover problems we can\u2019t see now.\u201d<\/p>\n

Shelby strengthened her grip on his hand and tugged at him. \u201cLet\u2019s see the backyard.\u201d<\/p>\n

\"Original<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s huge.<\/em>\u201d<\/p>\n

Shelby smiled at the first positive thing Brian said about the property. The garage had to be fifty feet behind the house. She counted four towering maples and two tall pines in the overgrown backyard. In the far corner of the double lot, a clump of lilacs in full leaf had started to bud.<\/p>\n

Then she noticed it: the garden shed with a Dutch door and tiny paned windows. An image began to form, but Shelby tried to block it\u2014this had to stop! The more she struggled, though, the more clearly she could see a little girl with hair as dark as her own pretending to have a tea party with miniature cups and a doll with a china head.<\/p>\n

Was she having some kind of episode? Shelby rationalized that this house must have triggered some picture stored in her subconscious, maybe even a storybook illustration she\u2019d seen as a child. Behind her reassuring self-talk was the unshakeable conviction that this <\/em>was the house, the one she was meant to live in.<\/p>\n

Shelby looked at Brian, thirty-five years old to her thirty-three, a software engineer, practical and grounded. He\u2019d never understand her connection to the place. \u201cI want to buy this house.\u201d<\/p>\n

Brian\u2019s eyes widened. \u201cShel, this is too much for us.\u201d<\/p>\n

She took a step closer and reached for his hand. \u201cYou and your dad could make a project of it. I can help. We do it one room at a time. Use a contractor for what we can\u2019t do ourselves. Who cares how long it takes?\u201d<\/p>\n

Brian didn\u2019t respond right away. \u201cIt\u2019s like HGTV Fixer Upper.\u201d<\/p>\n

Shelby seized on the comment. \u201cAnd you love <\/em>that show.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYour mother will have a fit.\u201d Brian snorted a short laugh.<\/p>\n

\u201cMy mother will have to get over herself. I\u2019m living here\u2014not her.\u201d<\/p>\n

Brian\u2019s voice finally softened. \u201cIt will eat up all of our time and your money. You\u2019re sure this is what you want?\u201d<\/p>\n

Shelby pressed her head against his chest. \u201cYes, but you need to want it, too.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI got to be honest, it\u2019s not my first choice.\u201d Brian gathered her into a hug. \u201cBut I do understand why you like it. This must have been an incredible house once.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAnd it can be again. With this nice big yard, you could get a dog. Big, friendly mutt from the shelter.\u201d<\/p>\n

Brian tipped his head back and laughed. \u201cSo, you\u2019re bribing me with a dog?\u201d<\/p>\n

Janet appeared behind them, shielding her eyes from the bright sunlight with the folder. \u201cAny decisions?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWe\u2019re interested,\u201d Brian said. \u201cBut we want to see rest of the houses. Just to be sure.\u201d<\/p>\n

\"Original<\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019ve got <\/em>to be kidding.\u201d Helen, Shelby\u2019s mother, made a disgusted face when she got out of the car.<\/p>\n

\u201cHi, Dad.\u201d Shelby greeted her father first. \u201cDrive okay?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cConstruction. Otherwise, would have been here sooner.\u201d Her father, Stan, put his arm around her.<\/p>\n

Shelby led them up the sidewalk and head-on into the inevitable conflict over just how bad the house looked.<\/p>\n

Paint-spattered drop cloths paved the hallway, now a creamy ivory color, the first thing they\u2019d done after closing two weeks ago. Most of their furniture was in storage, but their bed was upstairs, and their clothes hung in the closets.<\/p>\n

The dining room doors were off their hinges, which helped with light and ventilation. The kitchen was under siege. Brian and his father had taken all the doors off the cupboards to paint them. A contractor was coming in a week to replace the countertops and install new appliances.<\/p>\n

Shelby steered her parents out of the kitchen mess and upstairs to the master bedroom where she\u2019d been wielding a long-handled paint roller, getting quite the hang of it. The first two coats were off-white. Then she\u2019d sponge it with creamy yellow for a textured effect. She held up a board where\u2019d she\u2019d been practicing the technique, learned on YouTube.<\/p>\n

\u201cImpressive,\u201d Stan said. He picked up a roll of blue painter\u2019s tape and put it around the windows. Then he made his way back downstairs to where Brian and his father worked.<\/p>\n

Dusting the back and seat of a folding chair with a clean rag, Shelby presented it to her mother. \u201cYou can sit and talk to me.\u201d<\/p>\n

Helen perched on the edge in her trim slacks and a nautical print top, with all the ease of someone enduring an interrogation.<\/p>\n

The rhythmic squeak of the paint roller smoothed over her mother\u2019s cadence of complaints: so much work, not just cosmetic, what was underneath, mold for sure, they didn\u2019t know what they were doing, hire contractors, burn through all that money\u2026<\/p>\n

Nothing her mother said surprised Shelby. Three therapists and a stack of self-help books later, Shelby had come to accept the fact that her mother was an extreme perfectionist. Growing up, she\u2019d come with all A\u2019s on her report card and her mother would wonder if the classes were too easy; she\u2019d get a haircut, and her mother would either say it was too short or else the stylist left it too long. Arguing did no good and neither did accusing her mother of being critical. Eventually, she knew from much experience, her mother would stop the loop of negative comments and go silent. Perhaps, although this was rare, she\u2019d find one nice thing to say.<\/p>\n

Shelby dipped the roller in the paint tray and, as she straightened, felt the brush of fingertips against her cheek. The sensation was so real Shelby turned quickly to see if her mother stood behind her. Helen remained on her folding chair, now silently texting someone. Shelby pressed her palm against her cheek where the feeling of a loving touch remained.<\/p>\n

\"Original<\/p>\n

Early one Saturday morning in June, Shelby and Brian lingered in bed. A kiss ignited their mutual longing, and later as they lay with their arms around each other, Shelby inhaled the sweet breeze from the open window. The house smelled faintly of paint and sawdust, an improvement over mustiness and mice.<\/p>\n

When they finally got up, an hour later than planned, they ignored the ladders in the living room\u2014as they had begun calling the parlor\u2014and the half-stripped wallpaper. It was too nice to work inside.<\/p>\n

As they drove to the nursery with the windows down on Brian\u2019s SUV, Shelby teased that he should trade his faded Cubs cup for a straw hat with a brim. \u201cFarmer Brian.\u201d She reached over and touched his forearm. \u201cYou glad we have the house?\u201d<\/p>\n

He glanced over. \u201cA little late to worry about that.\u201d<\/p>\n

Shelby tried to read into his expression. \u201cI still want to know.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cTo be honest, I\u2019ve had my doubts. But now that the kitchen is done, and the master bedroom looks good\u2014yeah. I\u2019m glad you could see something in the house that I didn\u2019t get at first.\u201d<\/p>\n

So many times, she\u2019d come close to telling him what she really did see and feel in the house, the flickers and sensations that still came to her occasionally, like shadows crossing the room. She was tempted now, but that would take a longer conversation than they had time for. Brian pulled into the gravel driveway of the nursery and took the last parking space.<\/p>\n

Back home again, Brian planted boxwoods along the newly painted picket fence, while Shelby claimed the farthest corner of the backyard where a towering clump of lilac bushes overshadowed what had once been a garden planted under it.<\/p>\n

Brian eyed the heavy trunks of the lilacs. \u201cLet me cut them down.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou just want to use your chainsaw.\u201d Shelby\u2019s comment held the pinprick of truth, but they both laughed. She shooed him away playfully. \u201cThis is my corner. You have the rest of the yard to play in.\u201d<\/p>\n

Having been a competitive swimmer in high school and college, at the pool by five o\u2019clock each morning for eight years, Shelby had a deep well of resolve that couldn\u2019t be depleted by stubborn sumac growing in the core of the lilacs. She worked all weekend, trimming back the lilacs, cutting deadwood, and trying to shape the bushes into civility. Over the next week, even after long days at work, she spent every evening in the Bower Garden, as she called it now: digging up crabgrass, coring out long taproots of giant dandelions, and spading the earth. Then one evening her shovel struck what sounded and felt like a rock. Shelby probed the edges and began to dig. Seeing a smooth, arched shape, she carefully cleared away a hummock of dead grass and three inches of soil and garden matter. Letters softened by age and weather spelled out a name as faint as a whisper: Dorothea, Age 4. The date was 1881.<\/p>\n

The ground came up to meet Shelby, and she sank to her knees to fight off the swoon. Her face felt hot and sweat beaded her forehead. Shelby braced herself against the trunks of the lilacs and called for Brian. When he didn\u2019t answer, she ran for the house.<\/p>\n

\"Original<\/p>\n

\u201cA grave?\u201d<\/p>\n

Shelby winced at her mother\u2019s comment, grateful that she\u2019d told her over the phone instead of having to see the disappointed face that went along with it.<\/p>\n

\u201cAn historic grave\u2014a hundred and thirty-eight years old.\u201d Shelby kept her voice even.<\/p>\n

\u201cWell, it\u2019s a good thing you didn\u2019t dig up those lilacs like Brian wanted. You\u2019d have found a coffin\u2014or worse.\u201d<\/p>\n

Her mother was a history buff, so Shelby had hoped this would spark interest. Instead, she sounded even more disgusted than Brian, who avoided the Bower Garden as if the ground there were toxic.<\/p>\n

Two days later, Shelby took an afternoon off to visit the local historical society, where a volunteer named Belle became quite excited when Shelby showed her a photo of Dorothea\u2019s gravestone.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt was common back then for a family plot to be on the homestead,\u201d Belle explained, \u201cbut no one knew there was one on the Smithley land. John and Genevieve are buried at the town cemetery. Theirs is one of the biggest markers.\u201d<\/p>\n

Scrolling through old newspapers on microfiche, they found death notice easily: Smithley Family Mourns Beloved Dorothea<\/em>. The cause of death was diphtheria, which had claimed several lives in the area.<\/p>\n

The Smithley family was well-documented in other news accounts: John Smithley, a lawyer and gentleman farmer, had served two terms in Congress; Genevieve Rutledge Smithley was the daughter of a local doctor and a member of several ladies\u2019 societies. Given the prominence of the family, Shelby wondered why the house hadn\u2019t been preserved. Belle explained that the Smithley family held it for three generations, but with each transfer, the property fell into greater disrepair.<\/p>\n

\u201cMoney troubles somewhere along the line,\u201d Belle said. \u201cThe last owners bought it from the Smithley family and tried to fix it up, but never got very far. Guess the house was waiting for you.\u201d A smile deepened her wrinkles. \u201cWe\u2019re so glad you\u2019re restoring it, not tearing it down.\u201d<\/p>\n

As they kept looking through the old newspapers, Shelby stopped at a grainy photo taken a year before Dorothea died. The caption read Mrs. John Smithley, but even without the name Shelby instantly recognized the dark hair swept up in a soft updo Gibson Girl-style, the high-necked blouse, and a cameo at her throat. She\u2019d glimpsed this face around the house and once, when she was very tired, saw it over her shoulder as she gazed into a mirror.<\/p>\n

\"Original<\/p>\n

Suddenly Brian turned on Shelby, siding with her parents to see what could be done about the grave. Without telling her, he\u2019d gone to the attorney who\u2019d represented them when they bought the house to see if they could force the seller to pay for the transfer of Dorothea\u2019s remains to the Smithley cemetery plot.<\/p>\n

When Shelby found out, she was incensed. \u201cWhy can\u2019t she just rest in peace!\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cBecause it\u2019s weird and creepy.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cA little girl\u2014not an \u2018it.\u2019 She had a name\u2014has <\/em>a name.\u201d<\/p>\n

Brian accused her of being hysterical, illogical, and then fired the shot she\u2019d always feared. \u201cI don\u2019t know how you talked me into buying this dump.\u201d<\/p>\n

Shelby refused to go to bed that night and stayed awake on the thin cushions of the living room sofa. When Brian came downstairs at three in the morning, she turned her face away from him. The next morning, they were both sullen and exhausted. Brian left for work as usual, but Shelby called her office to say she was working from home. By ten she slammed the laptop shut and headed out to the Bower Garden.<\/p>\n

Compulsion propelled her into action, digging furiously with a shovel and then a trowel. She kept digging holes in the garden, just to the depth that she\u2019d unearthed Dorothea\u2019s gravestone. Near the base of the lilac trunks, a small lacquered box came up with a clump of dirt. The hinges detached and the cover came off before Shelby could lift the lid. Inside, was a length of silk, crusty and stained. At its center, was a cameo\u2014the same one, Shelby knew, that Genevieve wore in the photograph.<\/p>\n

In a flicker, she saw\u2014or thought she did\u2014Dorothea sitting on Genevieve\u2019s lap, touching the cameo at her mother\u2019s throat. She could never imagine herself and her mother in the same pose. Although Shelby knew intellectually that her mother loved her, that affection was always meted out in the smallest doses. But here was evidence of a mother\u2019s love beyond death. Dorothea had loved the cameo so much, Genevieve gave it to her, the way she might have presented it to Dorothea on her wedding day, as a family heirloom passed on unconditionally.<\/p>\n

Shelby sat with her back pressed against the trunk of the lilacs as their heart-shaped leaves fell like teardrops. The sun moved higher in the sky, and she dozed off. Awakening, she saw Brian in front of her.<\/p>\n

\u201cShel, I don\u2019t want us to fight like this.\u201d<\/p>\n

She opened her hand and showed him the cameo. \u201cI found this. It was Genevieve\u2019s.\u201d<\/p>\n

Brian sat on the grass beside her. He waited for her to speak first, and so she told him everything\u2014each sense of knowing and recognition\u2014since they first saw the house.<\/p>\n

When Brian finally did speak, he only asked one question. \u201cWhy do you think you can see them?\u201d<\/p>\n

Shelby didn\u2019t know how he\u2019d take the answer but was through keeping secrets from him. \u201cMost of the time, it\u2019s more feeling than seeing, although I do get images in my mind. I kept thinking it was my imagination. But today, I just had to go out and dig. I had to find something.\u201d<\/p>\n

Brian fingered a mound of upturned dirt. \u201cMaybe Dorothea needed to be found. People forgot she was here, but you found her again.\u201d<\/p>\n

Shelby\u2019s eyes filled, and she rested her head on Brian\u2019s shoulder. A light breezed played with her hair, lifting her bangs from her forehead and fanning her face. \u201cLet her stay, Brian.\u201d<\/p>\n

He gathered Shelby into his arms and held her tight. \u201cIt\u2019s her home. Same as ours.\u201d<\/p>\n

\"Original<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

Read “Hawkweed” by Patricia Crisafulli at Faith Hope & Fiction<\/a><\/div>
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Patricia Crisafulli,<\/strong> M.F.A., is an award-winning writer, published author, and founder of FaithHopeandFiction<\/em>. Tricia received her Master\u2019s in Fine Arts (MFA) from Northwestern University<\/a>, which also honored her with the Distinguished Thesis Award in Creative Writing. She is the recipient of three Write Well Awards for best-of-the-web literary fiction for stories that have appeared on FaithHopeandFiction<\/em>. She is the author of several nonfiction books and a collection of short stories and essays, Inspired Every Day,<\/em> published by Hallmark.<\/p>\n

Image Credit: Tricia.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Patricia Crisafulli Original Online Fiction<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":3,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_exactmetrics_skip_tracking":false,"_exactmetrics_sitenote_active":false,"_exactmetrics_sitenote_note":"","_exactmetrics_sitenote_category":0,"footnotes":""},"categories":[2,18,1],"tags":[100,170,150,25],"class_list":["post-7382","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-original-online-fiction","category-patricia-crisafulli","category-uncategorized","tag-family","tag-fiction","tag-historical","tag-short-story"],"yoast_head":"\nBower Garden Shadows | Faith Hope & Fiction<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"In Bower Garden Shadows, Shelby and Brian purchase a nineteenth-century Victorian that includes a shaded garden nook\u2014and an unusual, long forgotten tenant.\" \/>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/faithhopeandfiction.com\/content\/bower-garden-shadows_patricia-crisafulli\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"Bower Garden Shadows | Faith Hope & Fiction\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"In Bower Garden Shadows, Shelby and Brian purchase a nineteenth-century Victorian that includes a shaded garden nook\u2014and an unusual, long forgotten tenant.\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:url\" content=\"https:\/\/faithhopeandfiction.com\/content\/bower-garden-shadows_patricia-crisafulli\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:site_name\" content=\"Faith Hope & Fiction\" \/>\n<meta property=\"article:publisher\" content=\"https:\/\/www.facebook.com\/FaithHopeAndFiction\" \/>\n<meta property=\"article:published_time\" content=\"2019-06-05T23:33:00+00:00\" \/>\n<meta property=\"article:modified_time\" content=\"2020-09-04T09:54:55+00:00\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:image\" content=\"https:\/\/faithhopeandfiction.com\/content\/wp-content\/uploads\/2019\/06\/bower-garden-shadows_patricia-crisafulli.png\" \/>\n<meta name=\"twitter:card\" content=\"summary\" \/>\n<meta name=\"twitter:creator\" content=\"@TrishCrisafulli\" \/>\n<meta name=\"twitter:site\" content=\"@TrishCrisafulli\" \/>\n<meta name=\"twitter:label1\" content=\"Est. reading time\">\n\t<meta name=\"twitter:data1\" content=\"16 minutes\">\n<script type=\"application\/ld+json\" class=\"yoast-schema-graph\">{\"@context\":\"https:\/\/schema.org\",\"@graph\":[{\"@type\":\"Organization\",\"@id\":\"https:\/\/faithhopeandfiction.com\/content\/#organization\",\"name\":\"Faith Hope & Fiction\",\"url\":\"https:\/\/faithhopeandfiction.com\/content\/\",\"sameAs\":[\"https:\/\/www.facebook.com\/FaithHopeAndFiction\",\"https:\/\/twitter.com\/TrishCrisafulli\"],\"logo\":{\"@type\":\"ImageObject\",\"@id\":\"https:\/\/faithhopeandfiction.com\/content\/#logo\",\"inLanguage\":\"en-US\",\"url\":\"https:\/\/faithhopeandfiction.com\/content\/wp-content\/uploads\/2015\/01\/faith-hope-fiction_logo.png\",\"width\":350,\"height\":350,\"caption\":\"Faith Hope & Fiction\"},\"image\":{\"@id\":\"https:\/\/faithhopeandfiction.com\/content\/#logo\"}},{\"@type\":\"WebSite\",\"@id\":\"https:\/\/faithhopeandfiction.com\/content\/#website\",\"url\":\"https:\/\/faithhopeandfiction.com\/content\/\",\"name\":\"Faith Hope & Fiction\",\"description\":\"Quality Online Fiction, Poetry, and Essays\",\"publisher\":{\"@id\":\"https:\/\/faithhopeandfiction.com\/content\/#organization\"},\"potentialAction\":[{\"@type\":\"SearchAction\",\"target\":\"https:\/\/faithhopeandfiction.com\/content\/?s={search_term_string}\",\"query-input\":\"required name=search_term_string\"}],\"inLanguage\":\"en-US\"},{\"@type\":\"ImageObject\",\"@id\":\"https:\/\/faithhopeandfiction.com\/content\/bower-garden-shadows_patricia-crisafulli\/#primaryimage\",\"inLanguage\":\"en-US\",\"url\":\"https:\/\/faithhopeandfiction.com\/content\/wp-content\/uploads\/2019\/06\/bower-garden-shadows_patricia-crisafulli.png\",\"width\":640,\"height\":480,\"caption\":\"Bower Garden Shadows - 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