Readers who enjoy the durable and familiar form of the realist novel will appreciate the clean, droll, and unpretentious prose of Saskatchewan writer Harriet Richards. Her first book, The Lavender Child, is written with the carefully measured artistry of Carol Shields. It reads without gushy, overwrought language, and her pages omit ornate, melodramatic metaphor.

The Lavender Child follows the life of the young Protheroe family and the birth of their baby son into a household crammed with noisy kids and mouthy teens. Richards moves away from the commonly chronicled dysfunctional family, drawing a portrait of children immune to first dates, pesky neighbours, and sibling rivalry. The three teenage daughters are straight out of TV’s My So Called Life: they’re slightly precocious, a little too introspective, but real enough to know a pair of “good jeans” when they see them.

The relationship between the parents is threadbare, and is a low-grade filler compared to the interesting characterization of the children. Richards never resolves the couple’s numerous mid-life questions about “what might have been,” and conveniently fills their emotional gaps with the warmth of familial love.

Still, beneath this wholesome, Brady Bunch veneer, there are enough imperfections and shared foibles to make the Protheroe family entirely likable and charming. Unfortunately, these quirky and well-defined characters do not compensate for the meandering storyline. The pace is slow, and by juggling so many characters, Richards doesn’t provide adequate exploration of any one character’s viewpoint.

The Lavender Child is not overly engrossing, but it isn’t disappointing either. There are moments of laughter and illumination, and readers will warm to Richard’s spare writing style. This book is one to pick up on a Saturday afternoon – it’s the literary equivalent of comfort food, or an easy-listening CD, and sometimes that’s just enough.