Two love stories

Wait—don’t hit the delete button!

These are not what you might think from the title. No mo ros, no heaving bosoms and intense, brooding heroes.

Rather, these are love stories that seem vibrant and real.

The first is The Wind Is Not a River by Brian Payton. It’s the kind of novel that stirred tension: I wanted to read it fast, compulsively, because it was so gripping—and I wanted to slow down to savor the language and to delay reaching the end.

The basic story revolves around the determined efforts of a journalist to learn more about World War II activity on the Aleutian Islands. Military efforts to black out any news of the conflict between Americans and Japanese on American soil—perceived as the possible first step in an invasion of the United States—stymie but do not deter John Easley. Taking on the identity of a Canadian airman, he hops a USAF reconnaissance flight to learn more about action in the Aleutians.

The plane crashes, he parachutes to safety on the beach—although safety is only an illusion. Japanese soldiers are camped nearby, but the greater danger is starvation, bitter cold, and mind-alerting isolation.

Determination also describes John’s wife, Helen, who sloughs off her passive mode waiting for John to return. Despite having no background in song and dance, she manages to join a USO group heading to Alaska to entertain American troops. Her real intention is to find her husband, who is missing and may be a prisoner of war or dead.

The ways in which these two people fight their own battles, physical and emotional, testify to their impressive strength of character and devotion to each other. It’s hard not to root for these two decent people to overcome obstacles and reunite.

The second book is Still Life with Crumbs, Anna Quindlen’s latest novel. She gives us a heroine who is too rarely depicted in fiction: a late middle-aged, long-divorced woman, strong and creative, yet dogged by worries of plummeting income and, even more worrisome, possibly disappearing artistic skills.

There’s an unlikely love interest, a man who draws Rebecca Winter into a welcome friendship after she moves to a small town to reduce her living costs. She begins as an outsider, isolating herself by choice and circumstance, but she discovers, over time, that the bonds of community enrich rather than constrain her life. And although the slow-evolving romance is central to this story, the more gripping tale is Rebecca’s rediscovery of her well of creativity.

The novel’s tone is wry and honest—no treacly feel-good stuff here. Instead, Still Life depicts an honest, winning portrayal of a woman plagued with money worries and self-doubt, full of flaws. As readers, we worry about her and cheer her success in love and art.