Review: "Evensong," Stewart O'Nan

Set in a lovingly described Pittsburgh, Evensong quietly follows the lives of four friends: Emily, her sister-in-law Arlene, and Kitzi are all in their late eighties; Suzie, the youngest at sixty-three, is newly divorced. Together they belong to the “Humpty-Dumpty Club”—older people watching out for one another, patching up life’s woes as best they can.

When Joan, the indomitable and unofficial leader of the group, falls down the stairs and breaks both a leg and an arm, the balance shifts. Almost by default, Kitzi becomes the point person. From there the novel unfolds in short, episodic chapters told from alternating viewpoints, almost like linked short stories.

Each woman carries her own burdens. Emily struggles with a complicated family history, particularly her relationship with her daughter Margaret, a recovering alcoholic. Kitzi is caring for her husband Martin, whose heart problems loom ominously, even as she becomes entangled in helping Jean and Gene, retired music professors living in a hoarding situation—complete with dozens of cats. Arlene’s memory is slipping in unsettling ways. Suzie, dealing with chronic back pain, leans a little too heavily on painkillers while experimenting with online dating.

Pittsburgh itself feels like a fully realized character, as does Calvary Episcopal Church. The women are deeply involved in the life of the parish, especially its rich ecclesiastical music tradition. Suzie is the only one still performing, but the shared rituals of worship and music give the novel its title and its emotional architecture. Evensong becomes both a time of day and a metaphor for this late chapter of life—a moment of gathering, reflection, and grace.

O’Nan is particularly strong with everyday realism and telling detail. There are laugh-out-loud moments that feel absolutely earned, like Suzie caring for Joan’s aloof cat, Oscar, who initially runs off but later accepts friendship. Then Oscar gets sick from the seaweed treats in a Trader Joe’s Advent calendar for cats that Suzie has purchased for him. Arlene’s uneasy experience dog-sitting Emily’s puppy, Angus, rings true. Kitzi, preparing lunch for Martin, surveys his turkey bacon, soy mayo, and keto bread sandwich with quiet chagrin. It’s all “fake” food. These small observations resonate with the reader.

One especially memorable chapter shows all the characters reacting, from their different vantage points, to a blimp flying overhead to promote a Steelers game—a lovely demonstration of how shared experience can crack beautifully, like a kaleidoscope, into individual meaning.

The novel spans fall through the holidays, and the preparations, minor triumphs, and inevitable disappointments of that season are handled with warmth and restraint. I enjoyed spending time with these characters and found their situations deeply recognizable.

My one hesitation is age. In my experience, many of these challenges—serious physical decline, caregiving strain, cognitive slippage—often begin earlier, in the early eighties. At eighty-eight, should these characters still be driving? O’Nan seems quietly aware of this question; Suzie frequently offers rides, perhaps a subtle acknowledgment of the issue.

Still, Evensong succeeds because it neither sentimentalizes nor dramatizes aging. And it ends beautifully, with a sense of communal endurance rather than tidy resolution.

This is a thoughtful, humane novel—one that made me laugh, nod in recognition, and linger on its final, resonant chord.

Review: "The Favorites," Layne Fargo

Just in time for the 2026 Winter Olympics—it’s that amazing ice dancing team, Shaw and Rocha!

When Katarina Shaw, as a young girl, watches Sheila Lin win an Olympic gold medal for ice dancing, she knows she wants that life. She also wants Heath Rocha by her side.

Yes—Kat and Heath. Surely Emily Brontë would have something to say about such a pairing.

Layne Fargo’s story unfolds not on the wild Yorkshire moors but in a nondescript Chicago suburb, a utilitarian Illinois skating rink—and then Los Angeles, Russia, Paris, and anywhere skaters skate and Olympics are held. That’s Kat and Heath’s journey.

Did the quiet, handsome foster child—eventually taken in by Kat’s father—truly want to be part of an elite ice-dancing couple? It’s hard to say. He loves Kat and wants to be part of her world, and Kat is a force to be reckoned with.

The Favorites is long on drama and shorter on characterization, yet it’s populated by intriguing people. Kat is tempestuous, to say the least. Her feistiness gets her noticed by the great Sheila Lin, now a coach and the mother of skating twins Garrett and Isabella. Sheila is a cool, controlled “ice queen.” Garrett is a mensch, while Bella is sharper-edged—competitive and occasionally scheming. Still, Bella and Kat become friends. Kat always has her eye on the next rung of the ladder; Bella espouses a philosophy of keeping one’s enemies close.

Chapters told from Kat’s point of view alternate with commentary from an “unauthorized documentary” about Shaw and Rocha. These voices include an uptight skating judge, a flamboyant former skater turned blogger, Sheila herself, and Lin’s former partner and chief rival, the Russian Veronika Volkova. Volkova now coaches her niece, ensuring that tensions ripple into the next generation.

The documentary segments add a smirky, knowing layer to the narrative and neatly foreshadow events—of which there are many. The plot’s ups and downs are as dizzying as the twizzles (intricate twirls) the ice dancers perform at the height of their programs. Shaw and Rocha are together. Then they’re not. Then they are again. There’s deception. There’s blood. There are passionate kisses on the ice.

Whoa, baby.

This book is a lot of fun. I did occasionally find myself thinking, What is driving Kat? Why is Heath so passive? But then I’d turn the page. Suddenly it seemed more important to see whether love could survive, friendships could be mended, characters could come out of the closet—and, yes, whether medals could be won.

Review: "Venetian Vespers," John Banville

Set at the close of the 19th century, Venetian Vespers drops us into a wintry Venice seen through the jaundiced eyes of its narrator, English writer Evelyn Dolman. He arrives with his wife Laura—an American heiress, recently disinherited after a mysterious rupture with her father—to inhabit a cavernous palazzo on the Grand Canal, a wedding gift that now feels less like a blessing than a trap.

From the outset, Dolman loathes Venice: the cold, the smell, the sense of rot beneath the beauty. He cynically describes the city’s decaying foundations as “the soiled and drenched hems of the petticoats of a succession of dropsical old ladies.” To him, Venice is not a postcard. It’s sinister; the city seems to smirk at him.  The supporting cast deepens the unease: the coarse and unsettling Count Barbarigo, their landlord; the ambiguous maid Rosaria (servant? relative? accomplice? If so, to what?). Meanwhile, Dolman’s suspects that he may have been a consolation prize after Laura’s father blocked an unsuitable match.

Dolman quickly encounters Freddie FitzHerbert, a boarding-school acquaintance Dolman does not remember and immediately distrusts, and Freddie’s sister Francesca, whose allure proves far more destabilizing. When Laura vanishes and the FitzHerberts insinuate themselves into the palazzo, Dolman’s tenuous grasp on reality begins to fray. He knows he’s being sucked into a bizarre rabbit hole—and yet he doesn’t really try to save himself.

The story is dark and claustrophobic, with more than a trace of Poe in its atmosphere and moral ambiguity. Dolman is very much an anti-hero: vain, unreliable, passive, and complicit in his own undoing. And yet he is compelling precisely because of these flaws.

John Banville is a masterful writer, and his exquisite precision and sensuality are on full display here. Grim, yes—but deliciously so. I devoured it.

Review: "The Marigold Cottages Murder Collective," Jo Nichols

This is a fun, highly readable mystery set in a Santa Barbara bungalow court—and honestly, that alone had me hooked. Craftsman bungalows in a scenic city by the sea is appealing enough. But the city is also associated with Ross Macdonald’s Lew Archer investigations and Sue Grafton’s fictional city of Santa Teresa. They are two of my favorite mystery authors, so I know Santa Barbara is a perfect setting for intrigue.

The Marigold Cottages are owned by Mrs. B. (Golda Barkofsky, 82), a sharp-eyed fairy godmother who charges tenants what she believes they can afford and discreetly (mostly) watches over them. Though the residents live largely separate lives, everything changes when a dead body is discovered on the premises. Reluctantly, the tenants band together to solve the mystery.

Mrs. B. is a wonderful anchor for the story, surrounded by a delightfully motley crew. Ocean, a gay artist, grew up in the court and has returned to raise her two children there. Lily-Ann, a plus-size-model-worthy heiress, lives with OCD. Sophie, a struggling playwright wrestling with her own demons, chronicles the meetings of the newly formed “collective.” Nicholas is an enigma, Hamilton rarely leaves his house, and then there’s Anthony—fresh out of jail—who naturally becomes the prime suspect when murder strikes.

The novel is fun and funny, but it also has real heart. The characters are likable, though quirky and sometimes mildly annoying—which, in this case, makes them feel refreshingly real. The sense of community is warm and believable, and the mystery itself is well constructed. Best of all, there’s a genuinely fantastic twist at the end that rewards the reader’s investment.

A thoroughly enjoyable mystery with charm, wit, and substance—highly recommended.