By Drew Hart

Big Swiss is effervescent and funny, even if overcooked to some extent.

Big Swiss by Jen Beagin. Scribner, 333 pp., $27.

Everyone knows that due to the pandemic, a lot of New Yorkers wound up moving to the Hudson Valley — maybe some of Boston’s Arts Fuse readers did too? — but Jen Beagin’s third novel is set slightly before the great Covid relocation. And it seems that things in the area’s sleepy towns and hamlets were already chock-full of eccentrics and scoundrels, if we are to believe her story. (Now that half of Brooklyn seems to be in the neighborhood, it’s a certainty, of course! Rip Van Winkle has nothing on this crowd…)

Alright… while difficult to thumbnail the woolly premise of Big Swiss, let’s give it a go. You have Greta, a sensitive middle-aged introvert, who has moved to Hudson, New York, from California with her older friend Sabine. They’re living in a ramshackle Dutch farmhouse Sabine has bought with the proceeds from her divorce, in the countryside outside of town, next to the fire station. Their heat is furnished by fireplaces and stoves; the windows let snow in; they share the place with a myriad of creatures large and small — a giant hive of honeybees, occasional infestations of maggots and ants, a crazy rooster, some miniature donkeys, and, importantly, Greta’s Jack Russell, Pinon. Sabine makes an income by producing and selling weed edibles; she also likes to pilfer expensive goods from farmer’s markets. And Greta? She has brought a skill with her from out West — she’s a talented transcriptionist, and in Hudson, she puts the ability to work setting down the conversations between a local sex therapist and his clients in writing. (His real name is Bruce, but he calls himself Om, and sometimes uses a clanging gong in his sessions; sometimes he talks about his own neuroses; you get the idea…)

Quirky is the order of the day then! Everyone knows everyone around this place, more like just two degrees of separation, and though Greta never meets Om’s clients personally through work, she winds up recognizing them by the voices she’s heard while transcribing, coming across them in coffee shops and bars, knowing immediately who they are. Then, one voice that has intrigued her in particular, that of a younger woman, comes alive in the flesh when she’s out at the local dog park. This is Flavia, whom Greta has been calling “Big Swiss,” since that’s where she hails from originally. Flavia is a brilliant, beautiful gynecologist, is married, but also is haunted by a physical attack upon her years ago by a man who is being released from prison and, being from these parts, is potentially a threat. As a result, she’s been in sessions with Om, and so Greta knows her story.

Now that’s a problem: because these two become friends, Greta has to conceal the knowledge she has about Flavia, which she was contractually bound to secrecy about. It becomes complicated further, as they continue to meet and discover a deep sexual attraction with each other that culminates in clandestine trysts. Of course, the more involved they become, the harder it is for them to keep their secret in such a small community. Eventually the truth will out, with everyone recognizing what the relationship has become. Flavia’s husband divines it; Sabine as well. And Om figures out that Greta hasn’t kept her pledge to maintain confidentiality. Seems unfair to divulge more?

Here we have a wild mouse of a yarn, veering around, often hilariously. True — the thread gets lost frequently so that there is some chin-scratching; there are wobbly, circuitous detours — some seeming distracting and beside the point. Extended scenes that are flashbacks are overwrought; the book flaps along to an ungainly close, which pretty much peters out. But before that happens, there are a lot of highly amusing episodes, and, it should be noted, a great deal of lively, well-felt and -depicted sex. Big Swiss is effervescent and funny, even if overcooked to some extent. While you don’t always know exactly what the hell is going on, you may find yourself engaged, and probably laughing some, nevertheless.

Drew Hart writes from Santa Barbara, CA.