It may be a sign of the times that many stories about marriage unfold on a stage of high emotional drama, where the sparks stop flying and start sparring, for better or worse. There may be catharsis in those kinds of stories, but there’s often little joy, which is what makes this quiet and tender debut so disarmingly good. Stiltsville is a story of a marriage that begins with serendipity–that holiest of relationship grails–one warm summer day in Miami. It’s 1969 when girl (Frances, the novel’s clear-eyed, guileless narrator) meets boy (Dennis, who in Frances’s estimation is “careless but lucky”) at one of a copse of houses built on stilts in Miami’s Biscayne Bay. That such a place existed is incredible now, and in the scenes that reconstruct its peculiar beauty, Susanna Daniel ushers you into an exotic and unpredictable corner of the country. It’s a perfect place to fall in love, and Frances and Dennis do, without fanfare or pretense. Theirs is a love that almost instantly becomes constant and real, full of simple happiness that makes it possible to weather the storms that come.
