I think that perhaps I enjoy contemporary romantic Women’s Fiction more than I like Contemporary Romance. Women’s Fiction allows for a bit more realism. The characters don’t have to be perfect: they are allowed real dysfunctions and they can have bad hair days or even no hair at all. The emotions seem more real in women’s fiction, and the prose is often better composed and sometimes even borders on the lyrical. All my favorite romantically-themed contemporaries last year – No Place Like Home, Step-Ball-Change, The Second Coming of Lucy Hatch, and Prospect Street – weren’t romances at all. They were Women’s Fiction. The Monk Downstairs fits well into that group of romantic stories that aren’t quite romances, although since written by a man, it can’t be considered Women’s Fiction.

Rebecca Martin is a single mother with a harried lifestyle. She’s trying to juggle a high-stress job as a graphic artist without much help from her ex. He can’t be bothered to do much more for their six-year-old daughter than refraining from smoking dope in front of her. To help make ends meet, Rebecca’s fixed up her mother-in-law’s apartment and plans on renting to a quiet senior citizen or another other financially responsible type when Michael Christopher shows up on her doorstep.

Michael has nothing. He’s spent the last twenty years in a monastery and has literally nothing – except a very heavy crisis of faith – to show for it. He has no employment history, no belongings, and very little sense of self. His first foray into adult employment is a grill job at McDonalds. Michael and Rebecca meet on her back doorstep in the evenings for cigarette breaks, which on some days comprises the sum total of the day’s enjoyment for them. They are unalike. Michael’s life is almost incomprehensible to Rebecca, who misspent her youth toking up on beaches, painting tourist art, and following her husband’s surfing “career.” But Michael is good with her mother and her daughter and, ultimately, good for her. He has a generosity of spirit that belies his bleak outlook on life and God. He’s restful to be with. And though they both have considerable baggage, it seems the tiniest bit possible that what they feel for each other is actually right.

The real joy of this book is the language. Farrington has a lovely prose style filled with interesting metaphors, wry, subtle humor, and references to Christian faith. Between chapters there are letters from Michael to Brother James, one of his fellow monks. Brother James has made Michael his project and has determined to bring about the restoration of his faith. Michael’s attempts to discourage him are funny and filled with insight and philosophy, and at the same time they show the process of his personal growth and his relationship with Rebecca.

Rebecca is a familiar character, the harried single mother, but she is nicely drawn with little, realistic touches. Michael is a wonderful example of the beta guy. Their romance is leisurely and gentle, the slow uncertain dance of two disillusioned people who are becoming re-illusioned in stages. The secondary characters aren’t explored in great depth, though Rebecca’s mother is quite amusing at times. Farrington does manage to convey character without excess description, so no false notes are rung, but the focus of the story is on Rebecca and Michael.

The Monk Downstairs is a quiet book, a subtle romance. There are no explosions or car chases or villains in this completely character-driven book I like this type of story; it keeps the focus on the characters’ internal conflicts and conveys the complexity of life in lovely prose and well-drawn moments. If this is the type of story you like too, be sure and pick it up. I don’t think you’ll be disappointed.

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