Ann Patchett’s new novel, Whistler, tells the story of the reunion between Daphne, the narrator, and her stepfather, Eddie Triplett, 44 years after they had last met. They run into each other, by sheer accident, at the Metropolitan Museum of Modern Art in New York one afternoon, where Daphne is with her husband Jonathan, a retired hospital administrator. The 76-year-old Eddie is unrecognizable to her, though he manages to identify the glimmer of the 9-year-old girl he had dearly loved in the woman of 53 standing in front of him.

Slowly, a deep-rooted mutual affection is revived within Eddie and Daphne, who introduces him to the extended family—her sister Leda and her husband Steve and their children and, of course, Abigail, Eddie’s estranged wife, mother to Daphne and Leda, now married to the wealthy Lucas. Patchett, who grew up with three fathers herself (her mother married twice after divorcing her biological father), is in familiar territory here, as are her readers, who have encountered such unorthodox family dynamics in her earlier novels. While she never underplays the pain of losing and gaining families, Patchett doesn’t burden it with rancour and resentment either.

On the contrary, her characters are remarkably civil and well-adjusted, in spite of the ups and downs they have gone through. Leda, a psychotherapist, uses her professional training as a moral compass. Daphne, who teaches English at a girl’s school, draws her sustenance from novels and poetry. Although she does not have children of her own, she is a mentor to young girls, some of whom are dealing with parental upheavals of their own. It’s as though she is paying forward the kindness that Eddie had brought into her life when she was a child, even though their parting was abrupt and traumatic.

Despite the consequences of their poor decision making, the adults in Whistler try to give the children a decent chance at life. It may appear that Patchett’s characters are a bit too amicable in their reckoning with the past. They tend to forgive and forget each other a little too easily, without dwelling much on the scars. They are loath to make a scene and may even seem saintly in their devotion and duty to one another. Yet, if you read between the lines, you will notice the darkening clouds under the sunny facade of the present. Patchett does not belabour those darknesses, but Daphne gives us enough clues to work with.

Critics have gone so far as to call Whistler a “saccharine” novel. It is, indeed, a story that leaves you with a lump in your throat, but not because life turns out picture perfect in the end. Rather, in spite of the subtle barbs and edges, the novel conveys a robust sense of equanimity. It shows that it is possible to accept the past—with all its troubles and betrayals—and act like grown-ups, rather than allowing what has already happened to poison and destroy the promise of the present. That’s the best kind of moral you can take away from any story.

Ann Patchett’s new novel, Whistler, tells the story of the reunion between Daphne, the narrator, and her stepfather, Eddie Triplett, 44 years after they had last met. They run into each other, by sheer accident, at the Metropolitan Museum of Modern Art in New York one afternoon, where Daphne is with her husband Jonathan, a retired hospital administrator. The 76-year-old Eddie is unrecognizable to her, though he manages to identify the glimmer of the 9-year-old girl he had dearly loved in the woman of 53 standing in front of him.

Slowly, a deep-rooted mutual affection is revived within Eddie and Daphne, who introduces him to the extended family—her sister Leda and her husband Steve and their children and, of course, Abigail, Eddie’s estranged wife, mother to Daphne and Leda, now married to the wealthy Lucas. Patchett, who grew up with three fathers herself (her mother married twice after divorcing her biological father), is in familiar territory here, as are her readers, who have encountered such unorthodox family dynamics in her earlier novels. While she never underplays the pain of losing and gaining families, Patchett doesn’t burden it with rancour and resentment either.

On the contrary, her characters are remarkably civil and well-adjusted, in spite of the ups and downs they have gone through. Leda, a psychotherapist, uses her professional training as a moral compass. Daphne, who teaches English at a girl’s school, draws her sustenance from novels and poetry. Although she does not have children of her own, she is a mentor to young girls, some of whom are dealing with parental upheavals of their own. It’s as though she is paying forward the kindness that Eddie had brought into her life when she was a child, even though their parting was abrupt and traumatic.

Despite the consequences of their poor decision making, the adults in Whistler try to give the children a decent chance at life. It may appear that Patchett’s characters are a bit too amicable in their reckoning with the past. They tend to forgive and forget each other a little too easily, without dwelling much on the scars. They are loath to make a scene and may even seem saintly in their devotion and duty to one another. Yet, if you read between the lines, you will notice the darkening clouds under the sunny facade of the present. Patchett does not belabour those darknesses, but Daphne gives us enough clues to work with.

Critics have gone so far as to call Whistler a “saccharine” novel. It is, indeed, a story that leaves you with a lump in your throat, but not because life turns out picture perfect in the end. Rather, in spite of the subtle barbs and edges, the novel conveys a robust sense of equanimity. It shows that it is possible to accept the past—with all its troubles and betrayals—and act like grown-ups, rather than allowing what has already happened to poison and destroy the promise of the present. That’s the best kind of moral you can take away from any story.