Town & Country

by Brian Schaefer

Genres: Literary Fiction; Small Town & Rural; LGBT Gay

Synopsis

A “big-hearted and true” (Andrew Sean Greer, Pulitzer Prize winner) debut novel set in a small rural town amid a congressional race when life-changing secrets are unearthed by the candidates, their families, and a clique of gay second homeowners.

The trendy rural town of Griffin has become a popular destination for weekenders and the city’s second homeowners but now a congressional race in this swing district is highlighting tensions between life-long residents and new arrivals. The campaign pits local pub owner and town supervisor Chip Riley against the wealthy young carpetbagger Paul Banks, challenging the social and political loyalties of their families and friends with lasting repercussions.

Diane Riley, Chip’s wife, is a religiously devout real estate agent who feels conflicted about selling second homes—including to Paul and his much older husband, Stan. The Riley’s eldest son Joe is grieving the recent overdose death of his best friend and spiraling into drugs himself, while their youngest son, Will, is a newly out college student seduced by the decadent lifestyle and sexual openness of Paul’s clique but burdened by his sense of obligation to his father.

Meanwhile, Stan Banks uses the race to give purpose to the pain of losing his brother to AIDS, even as he begins to doubt Paul’s readiness for office. And within their growing circle of city transplants, Eric Larimer finds unexpected connection with a local farmer that opens his eyes to the region’s complexity as Leon Rogers, still reeling from a divorce, becomes increasingly desperate to infiltrate the Banks’s exclusive crew.

Spanning six months from Memorial Day to Election Day, Town & Country paints a kaleidoscopic portrait of a community in flux. For readers of Fredrick Backman and Jen Beagin, this “powerful and extremely well-written book” (Colum McCann, National Book Award winner) asks the essential and timeless questions: What makes a home, and what do we owe our neighbors?

Release date: November 4, 2025

Publisher: Atria Books

Print pages: 304

Sample

Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

ON A SUNNY SUNDAY morning after the parade, Diane Riley’s heels sink into damp grass. Why does she insist on wearing such shoes, given the requirements of her job to traverse lawns, meadows, and fields? Because, she answers herself with proud impatience, the kinds of houses she now sells require her to project refinement. Her city clients—like these two eager men following her across the front yard of a splendid eighteenth-century farmhouse—expect polish. Her former attire of sneakers, boots, and fleece zip-ups just won’t do. It’s also why she had purchased this silk blouse, on clearance at All4Less but never mind, and splurged on the blond streaks that brighten her short tawny hair. (For local clients, the fleece and boots return. Can’t appear too fussy.)

It’s all projection, she knows. No one has ever commented on, or even seemed to register, her appearance. But it’s about how she presents herself, about embodying confidence and believing her locally grown tastes are credible to this burgeoning category of clientele who seek not to swap their urban life but to supplement it.

The Duffels, they’re called by her friends and neighbors, by cashiers and mechanics, by her chatty hairdresser and the cheerful but caustic women at the DMV. She can’t recall when or where she first heard the term. Perhaps whispered at church, or dismissively dropped in a social media post, or angrily slung about in the comments section of The Griffin Gazette articles about rising rental costs and another new microbrewery. In any case, about five years ago, the phrase seemed to surface in half her conversations. After some confusion, she learned that the nicknamesake referred to the small satchels carried by weekenders as they disembark from trains and cars, the only bag necessary since, whether they’re antiquing or apple picking, staying at a hotel or in a second home, attending outdoor performances or extravagant rustic nuptials, they won’t be sticking around past Monday.

When their numbers began to swell, many locals spoke of the Duffels with both mild irritation and grave concern, unsure whether these stylish aliens had landed with benign or malicious intent. Diane, who considered herself a staunch champion of her hometown, initially shared in the collective disdain and was among the more vocal of the Duffels’ early detractors.

But by this point she was also selling homes. And quite unexpectedly, Duffels began calling with interest in her most expensive listings, regularly paying over asking, offering cash. Diane started to wonder what good it did to resist their arrival. If they were coming anyway, why not benefit from welcoming them?

Her evolution on the matter, illustrated by new ads placed in identifiably Duffel territory on Granger Street, earned her a few awkward encounters at church and a slew of nasty remarks online. Her entrepreneurial pivot was ungenerously interpreted, even by close friends, as crass capitalizing on Griffin’s newfound popularity. But they misunderstood her. She is still a staunch champion of Griffin, just now as its promoter rather than its guard. Perhaps she is ambitious, yes. But she is ambitious on behalf of her town, wanting for it the same prosperity she wants for her family.

Her ambition—like Griffin’s, like most ambition—was born from desperation and a feeling of being undervalued. When the Rileys were struggling, her return to work kept them afloat. She worked so Will could go to college, she worked to keep Joe stable, she worked so Chip could serve this community as essentially a glorified volunteer. She works with the Duffels to prove that success can be homegrown in Griffin—and because if she doesn’t, enterprising Duffels will cater to their own.

So now, out of a genuine if convenient shift in perspective, she has come to consider the Duffels largely harmless, like the field mice, wolf spiders, milk snakes, and brown marmorated stink bugs that infest the area. More annoyance than danger; a self-isolating species. And, as evidenced by these two eager men behind her, a lucrative wellspring of prospective buyers.

She rushes up the front steps to the wraparound porch and turns to them, smiling. Even if they don’t notice her aesthetic efforts, she notices theirs: the same contrived version of “rural” she has come to expect. The tall, skinny one with the mustache wears pastel plaid. The short, stocky one with the neat beard also wears plaid, but in a more vivid palette. Each shirt is tucked into complementary-colored shorts that land well above the knee, all carrying the sheen of affluence. It’s as if they’re testing a country wardrobe, or its elevated approximation, to match their imagined country house. Diane finds this pastoral cosplay endearing, if a tad ridiculous.

She pauses before opening the front door, building anticipation. She warns them that this house has stayed in one family for over half a century, spanning three generations, which makes it special but a tad shabby, in need of sophisticated stewards.

“This home has been loved deeply,” she tells them. “But it could use some attention and a bold vision. I think you’ll know exactly what to do with it.”

She ushers them inside the small foyer, covered in fading floral wallpaper. She lets them take in the space, adjust to its pearly light, turn a slow circle to orient themselves to the snug living room, the dining room with a pendant chandelier over fresh-cut flowers, a glimpse of the charmingly retro kitchen. She watches their eyes scan dark wood floors, colorful rugs, antique fixtures, and furniture scuffed by the affection of family. She sees a dozen such homes each month, but she knows the effect of these scenes on those more accustomed to cold metal finishes and frosty marble. She senses that they’re smitten, that this might be just what they’ve been looking for.

She waits a moment, then breaks the spell, proposing renovation projects small and large, firing up their imagination, flattering their style. She knows a great contractor, not to jump the gun. As their minds swirl with plans to host dinner parties and family holidays, she nudges them upstairs, first to the smaller bedrooms and finally to the largest, which features two walls of windows overlooking a petit pond and undulating hills in the distance.

Pastel plaid draws breath and places a hand on the back of vivid plaid, who reciprocates.

Diane notices the matching rings, but she didn’t need confirmation. Of course they’re married, because God has a sly sense of humor and a knack for imaginative punishment. These men have been sent to her, she is sure, in response to her self-serving embrace of the Duffels, her struggle with her son, and as payback for her efforts eight years ago when she co-chaired a church group fighting a same-sex-marriage bill.

Back then she filled her home with strategy sessions, letter-writing campaigns, and the buttery smell of fresh-baked oatmeal raisin cookies she served to her fellow devotees and to her sons. In the end, of course, marriage rights were granted. Her campaign was a political failure and, she would learn abruptly a few years later, a familial one as well. She hadn’t once considered that the issue she so passionately opposed would one day be so personally relevant. Ironically, though, her defeat has turned out to be an unexpected professional blessing. For the sake of her clients, she has arrived at a stiff forbearance on the matter, accepting God’s test with tempered grace and a three-quarter smile.

She still can’t believe there are so many of them—husbands, impossibly plural—and that somehow they have all found their way to her. Well, it’s not a mystery. It’s called referrals, it’s how her business works, and it’s why business has never been better: because the types of homes these husbands seek (sizable, secluded, possessing some elusive quality they call “character”) are several tiers above the homes she sells to locals (unassuming, practical, proximate to schools and neighbors), and because these husbands and their fellow Duffels have little sense of the rural market, little appetite to learn, and come with an urgency that translates into quick deals. In any event, she shoulders her fate and the accompanying discomfort. She has become adept at performing acceptance.

Discomfort, however, makes her gossipy, and just as she’s about to share some dishy intel about the affair and impending divorce that has forced the sale of this property, she catches herself. Instead she asks, “Did you see the latest issue of National Holiday?”

Of course they have, they are its target subscribers. That glossy travel and lifestyle magazine’s recent cover story on Griffin—“The Best Big Small Town in America”—and its so-called renaissance is responsible for the tidal wave of real estate inquiries this summer. But it’s worth reminding her clients that they’re investing in a verified hot spot. She quotes the article’s breathless descriptions of restaurants, popular outdoor excursions, and the cultural abundance of the broader Munsee River Region, with its robust schedule of summer festivals currently under way. The men smile at each other, reassured of their discernment.

Diane hates promoting such slobbering profiles, but she knows that she, too, is selling a story, one that promises a bucolic, ostensibly simpler life with all the same perks and comforts as the city. Serene, but with a side of creative energy, and matcha. Which isn’t to say the article is a fabrication. It’s just curated, as it’s allowed to be. And she can’t deny her surprise, even a spark of pride, at seeing her hometown suddenly deemed so desirable.

But it’s not the Griffin she knows. Not the modest, middling Griffin of her childhood nor the Griffin she inhabits, which extends well beyond the tiny, shiny stretch of Granger Street so lavishly depicted in National Holiday’s pages. Her Griffin comprises the big box stores on Kinghill Road, the industrial mile where she bought this blouse; the modest church where she began this day in worship; the linoleum-floored supermarket where she’ll shop later for frozen dinners, with coupons; the hardware store where her elder son works—a godsend that she prays will help him through these dark days. And, of course, there are Nana’s Diner and the Lucky Buck.

The latter two are also on Granger but were excluded from the article. An old-time eatery and a local dive don’t fit National Holiday’s revival narrative. Nor, she imagines, would such establishments appeal to these plaid partners, who look at her with an expression she knows well: They have fallen in love with this house. As usual, the realization delivers a sweet dose of relief and accomplishment, as well as the familiar tart aftertaste of making a deal with the Duffels. She used to call that flavor remorse, when she was more self-conscious and defensive about participating in Griffin’s burgeoning second-home market. But that’s too burdensome a term to apply to a job she loves. Now she calls it defiance.

A FEW MILES away, Stan Banks weaves through the rows of folding tables at the Griffin farmers market, a seasonal weekly bazaar in the shell of an old barn at a small municipal park. The space features vendors displaying their glistening early-summer produce—asparagus, beets, rhubarb, squash—as well as those hawking baked goods, jarred sauces and jams, lotions and potions made of floral oils, and a variety of homemade crafts from pottery to jewelry to little knit hats with animal ears intended for some unfortunate child. And one table peddles a politician, his husband.

Stan watches as Paul attempts to hand a flyer to a short, plump woman with long gray hair carrying a basket of curly lettuces. Paul smiles widely but succeeds only in scaring her off. Stan looks at his watch. It is eleven. He hasn’t been here long and won’t stay much longer. He appreciates local food as much as anyone, but he’s wearing leather loafers and prefers not to shop on dirt. Besides, the morning has been largely uneventful. Only four people have paused at Paul’s table in the past hour, and two were surprised to learn there is a congressional race this fall. As someone who follows off-year elections the way others closely follow off-season sports, Stan finds it confounding that most of his fellow Americans are largely ignorant of, and indifferent to, the political cycle. Sometimes he envies their unawareness.

However, one person at the market saw Paul at the Memorial Day parade and has signed up for a phone-banking shift on Tuesday, an exercise in proactive political engagement that intrigues Stan because his own involvement, while substantial, is far more detached. He’ll host events for those in his various influential circles and write big, meaningful checks. But those are easy, impersonal acts compared to cold-calling strangers to vouch for another stranger. Stan finds such courage impressive, if a bit suspect in its blind trust.

In the absence of politically curious shoppers, Paul chats with the vendor to his left, a dairy producer surrounded by ice-packed coolers of raw milk, butter, and cheese. Paul will probably end up buying some of each—as well as meat from the meat woman and eggs from the egg guy—just to ingratiate himself, most of which will go to waste because Stan and Paul don’t cook. Neither of them has the passion nor the patience. In the city, they only ever ate out or ordered in, and they’ve imported that habit with them to Griffin. In the year they’ve lived here, they’ve become regulars at the town’s good restaurants and fans of the prepared foods at Poppy’s Pantry, Griffin’s upscale grocery store. These days Paul sometimes eats on the road as he crosses the district, subjecting himself to breaded chicken strips, all manner of chowders, and all-day omelets for the sake of connecting with “regular folks.” Stan never joins him. There are limits to his spousal support.

Has it really been just over a year since they embarked on this improbable odyssey? To Stan, it feels like a lifetime. But it was indeed only last spring when Stan’s old friend Serge mentioned that his congresswoman was not seeking reelection. Serge and his husband, Luke, had bought a house in Griffin a few years ago, when Serge became the director of a prestigious theater festival nearby. Though they kept an apartment in the city, they changed their voter registration to the sprawling farmland of the Twenty-sixth District because, they boasted, “our vote actually matters there.” Upon further examination, Stan agreed that the region’s ideological range, its commonplace economic issues, and its nationwide obscurity meant it could be precisely the kind of low-profile springboard he sought to launch Paul’s legislative career. And after a few terms representing the Twenty-sixth, steadily building national name recognition, who knows where Paul could go from here? Stan accepts that this may make them look like political opportunists, but isn’t everyone? It doesn’t mean Paul will be any less committed to his constituents.

The decision to move to Griffin and enter this race was also one of impatience. Stan has long been looking for the opportunity to make this strategic move. Decades ago, at a personal crossroads, he could have committed to advocacy, dedicated himself to nonprofits, taken a vow of activism. But he was worn out, empty from fighting, and afraid that he would spend his life professionally angry. So he chose a path that has granted him the means to replace emotional dedication with financial and thus political clout. His ongoing doubt about this tradeoff ensures that he always gives generously, and Paul is now part of that project, a beneficiary of Stan’s deep pockets and deeper guilt. If Paul succeeds—if this young gay man enters Congress—Stan can imagine no greater fulfillment of his promise to his community, nor a more emphatic justification of his bargain with himself.

So with that unspoken understanding, they made a soggy visit to Griffin last spring, then a Rothko-esque landscape of blurred browns and grays that did not persuade them of the area’s homesteading appeal. But a flurry of research by a pair of pricey consultants (Stan’s first big check) confirmed the district’s political viability, and soon the Bankses were visiting regularly, imitating residents while based out of Serge and Luke’s guest room, attending county barbecues, and meeting small business owners across the district while introducing themselves as philanthropic investors. Stan had an idea to launch the Griffin Investment Group (his second, bigger check) to disperse loans with attractive rates as a way to build quick, fruitful relationships in the community. Among the beneficiaries: a craft brewing company, a husband-and-wife florist shop, and a gluten-free bakery, all of which are represented here today at the farmers market.

That expensive initiative was well received. Celia Rhodes, the bespectacled junior reporter for The Griffin Gazette, even wrote a small, friendly profile on the group last fall, which gave the operation—and the Bankses, by extension—a nice gloss of legitimacy. This spring, when she informed them that she’d be covering the congressional campaign for the paper, Stan was pleased. He assumed a young Black woman would be politically predisposed to Paul’s platform, and while naturally he expected complete objectivity and dispassion from her, he hoped Celia might prove to be a tad more amenable to Paul’s campaign than to Chip’s. But that illusion burst after she reported the embarrassing fact that Paul had filed to run in the Twenty-sixth District before escrow on their new home had closed, before he’d even registered to vote here. An unfortunate oversight and one that Stan felt really didn’t need to be broadcast to the entire town. He’d argued this to her, but Celia had published anyway.

The Bankses ultimately found their home through the same real estate agent who had helped Serge and Luke find their lovely nineteenth-century Colonial. She was amusingly gaudy—clothes too serious, highlights too blond, jewelry too big—but shrewd and straightforward and delightfully gossipy. Stan enjoyed her sharp, chatty company and imagined that when he and Paul were settled, they would invite her and her husband out for dinner. After they closed on their house—an angular structure perched on a hill, invisible to the road—they sent her a gift basket with a note: “Thank you, Diane. We’re glad to be your neighbors.”

Well, now neighbors and adversaries. Not long afterward, they learned that her husband, Chip, had entered the congressional primaries of the opposing party, and just a few weeks ago, voters decided that Chip would be Paul’s opponent in the general. Last Monday, Stan laughed out loud when he spied Chip and Diane preparing to walk in the Memorial Day Parade. At first because of the unlikelihood, then because it struck him as a perfect small-town coincidence.

Now he sweeps his gaze across the market, looking for Chip’s campaign table, wondering if Diane might be here as well. It would be fantastically awkward to see her. What could they possibly say to each other?

But he finds no other political pop-up, just bakers and butchers, competing brands of local honey, and the Griffin Distillery. If Paul does come home with bags of useless provisions, perhaps Carly the caterer can make use of them at the fundraiser they’re hosting next weekend at their home. Locally sourced hors d’oeuvres sounds appropriate, and local bourbon would complement it well. Stan stops by the distillery’s table on his way out to purchase a bottle. The Bankses may have little use for perishables, but a liter of liquor always comes in handy.

LATER THAT MORNING at Delphi’s Hardware on Kinghill Road, Joe Riley catalogs inventory, unboxes merchandise, restocks shelves, and welcomes customers with a vacant upward nod. Contractors chatter for a bit then grab the items they need for the day’s work while casual shoppers slowly collect ingredients for a DIY home-improvement project. The regulars, many of whom have known Joe since he was a kid, greet him with a brusque slap to the shoulder, ask about his parents, and share some small, celebratory or sad news about their own lives.

These easy, intimate interactions can make Delphi’s feel less like a business to Joe and more like a kind of social hub. There’s even a domestic feel to the vast square space, enhanced by the sections of the store that mimic a house—the model kitchens and stretches of patio decking, the patch of plastic green turf with a carefully angled chaise longue next to a grill, the span of picket fence, and the Design Center, with its crown molding and faux fireplace, where advisers will help you imagine a better version of home, or second home, tailored to your budget, big or small. When Joe completes his morning checklist before opening, he likes to lie on the chaise and imagine a domestic space of his own, one that’s clean and uncluttered. In other words, the physical manifestation of the inverse of his mind. These quiet minutes of visualization used to be a highlight of his day, when his days had highlights.

Still, he’d rather be on this stamp of artificial yard than on the real grass behind his own house, under the scrutiny of his mom, the indifference of his dad, the judgment of his brother. Unlike everywhere else, at Delphi’s he’s useful.

Shortly after noon, a Duffel wanders in and looks around as if unsure of the meaning of this place. His ginger beard is trimmed, his slacks snug, his polo pink, his face flummoxed. Joe can identify the Duffels by the fit of their clothes, the style of their hair, the way their brows lift in angst. They’re easy to make fun of, which his coworkers do, which he’s not above, because the Duffels can be entitled. And rude and dismissive and patronizing. But Joe learned from his father to take people at face value and so has formed his opinion of the Duffels based on the evidence of his interactions. For the most part, he finds them innocuous, polite, and grateful, if generally clueless.

“Can I help you?” he says to the pink polo.

The man blinks behind rectangular tortoiseshell frames and describes a faucet he’s seeking. Joe guides him to a wall where dozens of ball, disc, cartridge, and compression faucets are on display. He gives a brief overview of their differences and hands the man a pair—one brass with a flamingo-like neck, the other brushed nickel with winged handles like a duck in flight. The man weighs them in his hands as if their heaviness will determine his choice, and asks, “Is this a thing where you can get away with going, um, less expensive?”

The question surprises Joe, especially from a Duffel, but he appreciates it. Most Duffels reach for the priciest item as if that compensates for their lack of knowledge, while most locals grab the cheapest object and announce, “It’s all markup.” A customer who asks is a conscientious customer and one who respects Joe’s expertise.

Joe pulls a third faucet from the shelf, a single-handled, low-arc spout in polished chrome. “Best bet is something in this range,” he says, then remembers to add, “Whether that meets your aesthetic needs, sir, is up to you.”

He learned to include this last bit after an unpleasant encounter with a Duffel last summer. An impatient woman with a streak of gray in her short black bangs had stomped around with fabric swatches in the paint section. After he’d shown her numerous samples, she’d scoffed, “Are you serious? They’re all so ugly.” Joe hadn’t known what to do or say. He became suddenly self-conscious about his taste, or lack thereof, which hadn’t been a requirement for employment, nor a skill he’d ever considered acquiring, even if he had any idea how to acquire it.

His boss, Amir, laughed when Joe shared this. “You’re not a goddamn interior designer, Joey,” Amir said. “God knows there’s plenty of those hucksters up here nowadays. Not our job to give customers everything they want, just help ’em find what they need. If we don’t have it, oh well! The Duffel designers can order it custom.”

Pink polo quietly examines the chrome faucet while glancing at the more expensive nickel, like it’s taunting him. Ultimately he chooses the nickel. “To be safe,” he says, almost to himself.

At the counter, Joe rings up the item. “Got an account with us?”

“I don’t know, actually. We’ve gotten a few things from here recently, so perhaps?”

“Name?”

“My name?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Eric Larimer.”

“Don’t see Larimer here. Another name, maybe?”

The possibility seems to make the man nervous. His gaze slides away before rebounding with resolve. “Well, my husband might have opened an account,” he says loudly, like a challenge, like he’s daring Joe to look uncomfortable or disapproving.

Joe stifles a smile. He’s used to the preemptive defensiveness of those who assume that the kid at the local hardware store would have a problem with that. When he first began interacting with clearly gay customers, it’s true, Joe didn’t know what to make of them or how to handle the overtly flirty ones. His face may have betrayed his bafflement. But then he largely forgot to distinguish them from all the other needy Duffels. Now he just tries to understand how his younger brother fits in with them, but doing so only renders Will even blurrier.

“What’s your husband’s name?” Joe asks.

The repetition of that word puts Eric at ease. “Liu. Alex Liu.”

Joe knows who he’s referring to, because Alex Liu had worn a tight striped T-shirt, shorts that barely bothered to cover his crotch, and sunglasses that he flipped to his head as he inspected bathroom tiles. And because he was probably the only Asian person Joe has seen in the store in the past month. And because he was the flirty kind, winking at Joe when he created his account, asking for a “new neighbor” discount.

“Got it,” Joe says. “I’ll add your name.”

Eric’s expression relaxes as he gathers his faucet. He departs with an appreciative smile, and Joe experiences the glimmer of contentment that comes with helping a customer.

For a moment, he can see the possibility of a manageable summer ahead, here among the widgets and tools and in the company of Callie, whose presence has made him lightheaded ever since she arrived at Griffin High sophomore year, instantly improving his attendance record with the promise of her daily presence. She’s back from college on break, back at the ice cream parlor where she’s worked the past two summers. Last Friday after her shift, she delivered a half-full, half-melted pint that Joe ate on the spot, allowing his old goofiness to reemerge just long enough for the ice cream to dribble down his chin, eliciting her deliciously deep laugh, which sent pleasant shivers through his stomach and pacified him like a painkiller.

After he finished the pint, she suggested they join their old crew for sunset at Rainbow Rock. At first the invitation galvanized him with the suggestion that the past whisper of romance between them still lingered. But then his mind clouded and his chest clenched as he thought of that outlook on Griffin’s highest hill. During high school and in the years since, gatherings there defined summers, along with flailing backflips off the Swintons’ rickety dock, late-night fries at Nana’s Diner, and heady hours at the Lab. All fueled by Matt Swinton. But Matt won’t be at Rainbow Rock, or anywhere, and Joe doesn’t know how to do all this without him.

Callie understood when he went silent at her suggestion. “Maybe in a few weeks?” she said, and put a hand on his arm. Her touch made him feel that in a few weeks, maybe he could.

Now a farmer asks Joe for steel siding to repair a barn. Another anxious Duffel inquires after Delphi’s millwork specialists, assesses Joe’s chin-length hair, and asks for referrals. A contractor places a big order for stone and tells Joe, at great l