she is an ITW Thriller Awards nominee, a three-time RITA finalist, an overall Daphne du Maurier Award winner, Arthur Ellis finalist, and winner of multiple other industry awards.
A recovering journalist who has worked in both South Africa and Canada, she now calls Canada home. She resides in the Pacific Northwest, dividing time between Vancouver Island, a ski resort in the Coast Mountains, and a rustic lakeside cabin in the Cariboo.
When she’s not writing or dreaming up plots, you will find her on the lakes, in the ocean, or on the trails with her dog where she tries—unsuccessfully—to avoid bears.
White applied the Page 69 Test to her new novel, The Swimmer, and reported the following:
While it might not give the reader a full idea of the whole book, the Page 69 Test does apply to a key story arc in The Swimmer–it burrows toward the psychological heart of my quirky main character, bartender Chloe Cooper. However, my cue to the reader would be: Beware, because nothing—not even the main character—is quite what first meets the eye in a twisty psychological suspense, is it?Visit Loreth Anne White's website.
We hit page 69 after Chloe has had a highly traumatic and triggering 9-1-1 ambulance trip to the hospital with her mother (who is in palliative care and lives with Chloe in her tiny apartment along with her old dog, Brodie). But now Chloe is back at work and she’s discovered that the painting she gifted her boss for his birthday (her hobby is painting, and she’s done a night scene of the exterior of the restaurant in which she works) has been hung in the lobby where everyone can see it, and this rather mortifies her. Below is the text from that section of The Swimmer:“Why did Bill do that?” Chloe demands.Chloe’s interaction with her co-worker Stavros Vasilou on page 69 underscores Chloe’s oddness. She has a slightly offbeat way of talking—a mix of British properness blended with a North American accent and delivered (at times) with a self-righteous, preachy condescension, yet with an air of vulnerability. We begin to get a sense here that Chloe is perhaps a little ‘different’. And these are all things that will begin to make sense later in the story as we figure out whether Chloe is a villain or a victim, or some shade of grey in between.
“Do what?”
“Hang it up there.” She points. “Where everyone can see it?”
“Well, he wants everyone to see it. That’s the—ah—idea.”
“There’s no reason to mount it right above the hostess’s head.”
Stavros angles his own head and gives Chloe a hint of a smile, which draws her attention to that provocative sprout of hair beneath his lower lip.
“Do you find this amusing, Stavros?”
“Bill loves the painting, Chloe. That’s why he hung it there. He actually canvassed some of the staff, asking us where we thought it would look good. We all reckoned this was the best spot.” He tilts his chin toward her rendition of the Beach House at night, windows aglow with yellow, people sitting at tables inside.
“By committee?” Chloe is horrified.
“Honestly, Chloe, it’s brilliant. One of the customers who came in yesterday said it reminded him of a famous painting by Edward Hopper called Nighthawks.”
She stares
at him. She doesn’t know about Edward Hopper, and she’s not about to admit it. She’ll google Hopper later.
“Seriously, where di
d you think Bill would hang it when you gave it to him?” Stavros asks.
“I don’t know. At home, maybe. Or throw it away. I had to give him something for his birthday.” Chloe likes Bill. She’s indebted to him for giving her a start in the bar business. But before Stavros can answer, she makes a beeline for the bar, where she knows she will be safe behind the counter. In her domain. Her castle. With her arsenal of bottles and mixers and herbs and spices at her fingertips. Ingredients with which she can produce any variation of elixirs and potions to appease her patrons.
I know what you all like. I know exactly how much each of you drinks. All of you who live in this elitist little neighborhood enclave. I know your weaknesses. I see your lies. You’re not as special as you all think you are.
Stavros, annoyingly, follows her. She keeps her face averted as she tucks her purse under the counter, shrugs out of her puffy jacket, and takes her black apron with its name tag off a hook. She loops the apron over her head and secures the ties behind her back.
“You should be proud of your work, Chlo. You have talent. Everyone says so.”
“Don’t call me Chlo, Stavros. My proper name is Chloe. And I don’t see why people should talk about me behind my back. I know they do, but—” A weird emotion attacks out of nowhere, and her voice cracks. Tears threaten to come to her eyes. She doesn’t know why she’s suddenly reacting this way. It’s as though seeing her painting up there has ripped away the protective veil of numbness she’s been hiding under this past week, since the hospital episode.
You attracted attention. I told you—you would live to rue the day.
“Why are you so scared of the truth?” Stavros asks. “You’re talented, Chloe. The photos of some of your other pieces that you showed me are stunning. And that painting you gave my uncle—”
“I am not scared, Stavros. What makes you think I’m scared? And for heaven’s sake, just—just leave it alone, okay?” She turns her back on him and starts polishing glasses.
“Say, talking of birthday gifts, isn’t yours coming up soon, too?”
“No.”
“I’m sure you mentioned the other day that—”
“I didn’t. You’re wrong.” She refuses to face him. She starts checking her invento on earth is she telling him she already turned forty in a beige hospital chair.
He’s silent for a while. She wishes he would leav your mom, Chlo? Is she doing okay? How is she?”
“She’s perfectly fine. Same as usual. The care worker will call if there’s another emergency at home.”
“And Brodie?”
“Brodie’s fine.”
“Okay, well, cool.” He removes his own black apron. “Your shift. Bar’s all yours.”
He heads toward the kitchen with his peculiar bouncing lope, balling his apron up in his overly large hands as he goes. Her gaze follows him for a moment. Part of her wants to reach out, pull him back, say sorry, tell him she doesn’t know what’s overcome her.
Another part is relieved he’s gone.
--Marshal Zeringue
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