THE ELEGANCE FULLER MUSTERS IN SUCH DELIBERATE LANGUAGE IS A FEAT

without the kind of haphazard sensory hangover you might expect from their author’s fast-and-loose form.

Swimming Lessons opens with a start, delivering its core mystery in three lines flat: Ingrid, Gil’s maybedead-but-at-least-missing wife, turns up quietly around the corner from the bookstore her author-husband occupies in their small seaside English town. Or he thinks so, at least, and if that initial spectral sighting speaks to some mental weariness on Gil’s part, it’ll take rank with a few others as the couple’s relationship is revealed in retrospect over the book’s course, Gil’s health declining alongside. A twist on tandem narration, Swimming Lessons is told two ways: in real-time, 12 years after Ingrid’s disappearance, when Gil’s daughters Flora and Nanette come home to care for their father; and via Ingrid’s long-ago letters to her flighty husband, tucked in the pages of his books 12 years before she goes missing, each similarly interspersed into the running narration of present-day.

Gil is every bit the eccentric author, packing a Fitzgeraldian fondness for women and liquor, prone to monologue on the literary condition. Ingrid – first his student, then lover, then the oopsie-daisy mother of his child – has enough rosecoloured romance in her to bide Gil’s charming quirks at first, but happy women don’t tend to up and ostensibly leave their families one afternoon, do they?

The mystery Fuller sets sounds misleadingly straightforward: where’d mom go and maybe do you think dad might be losing it? But in this award-winning author’s hands, and told deftly through a small and wellformed cast, the plot finds depth in its examination of marriage, happiness, and what each means with or without the other. Following an author-within-a-storywithin-a-letter, Swimming Lessons is a book begging for the kind of grating pseudoliterary pretension that’d risk tossing it to cliché. But Fuller’s restraint swells over her sentences and into the story, never wading too deep into a writer’s romantic notions of pretty books, published easily, written under heavy influence of some trademark cocktail their author can’t put down.

Ingrid’s letters are tucked into Gil’s books, printed in full text and captioned with their respective title, author and literal literary location. Three letters in I got a little nervous. Five or so, I began to sweat. Only one of these titles was familiar to me – a guilt-ridden writer lacking formal education in English lit – but when I Googled I found that Fuller wasn’t playing to that crowd anyway: the books Ingrid chooses are practical shoutouts to the letters they’re crammed with. Cheese is cheese and money is money, mostly; her letters on each are largely housed topically, Dewey-style. Or, now at risk of having publicly missed the point entirely, I really hope so.

The elegance Fuller musters in such deliberate language is a feat. But the story itself is pretty genius all on its own: family saga set in a reality-ridden but fictitious world, the characters within carrying enough frightening commentary on life and love to lend the thing some heft, and an understated mystery managed at stable clip throughout. Spots of wayward verbosity stand out only because they’re few, Fuller masterfully accessing every bit of this book to deliver its plot. Objects aren’t quite personified, but even motionless they bear meaning – a pile of papers tumbles in time with Flora’s latest thought, cartwheeling her into Ingrid’s past then to the floor with a flutter – one moment told in ten words maximized by Fuller’s clever writing.

Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe Claire Fuller is a whole lot like the rest of us, gabbing willfully and without worry for pause or precision, having an adjectival field day, straining screen-sore eyes to tell what’s en, what’s em, what’s hyphen and why it matters. Maybe Siri hates her, too. But if Claire Fuller is indeed like the lot of us, wind-bagged humanity hasn’t kept her from crafting a novel that stands out in its pool: Fuller’s Swimming Lessons, it turns out, are themselves a master-class in writing.