One town. Two families. A secret that changes everything.

In Bonhomie, Ohio, a stolen moment of passion, sparked in the exuberant aftermath of the Allied victory in Europe, binds Cal Jenkins, a man wounded not in war but by his inability to serve in it, to Margaret Salt, a woman trying to obscure her past. Cal’s wife, Becky, has a spiritual gift: She is a seer who can conjure the dead, helping families connect with those they’ve lost. Margaret’s husband, Felix, is serving on a Navy cargo ship, out of harm’s way—until a telegram suggests that the unthinkable might have happened.

Later, as the country reconstructs in the postwar boom, a secret grows in Bonhomie—but nothing stays buried forever in a small town. Against the backdrop of some of the most transformative decades in modern America, the consequences of that long-ago encounter ripple through the next generation of both families, compelling them to reexamine who they thought they were and what the future might hold.

Sweeping yet intimate, rich with piercing observation and the warmth that comes from profound understanding of the human spirit, Buckeye captures the universal longing for love and for goodness.

This is one of those novels that is tough for me to review. I understand the love that people have had for it, and I liked it well enough, but it also left me wanting a little more. It’s beautifully written and deeply observant, but I struggled to connect with it on the emotional level I wanted. I’ve sat with it for a few days, hoping my thoughts would settle into something clear, but my reaction still sits in that strange middle ground between admiration and distance.

The book spans several decades and follows two families in the small town of Bonhomie, Ohio, whose lives become intertwined after a chance meeting in the aftermath of World War II. Cal Jenkins was born with a birth defect that prevented him from serving in the war which has left him with a sense of shame for not serving. Cal crosses paths with Margaret Salt, a woman desperate to outrun her past on the day it’s announced that the war has ended. That single moment of connection sets off a ripple that stretches through generations. It affects Cal’s wife, Becky, who claims she can communicate with the dead, and Margaret’s husband, Felix, who has been away at sea fighting in the war.

The book unfolds in three parts, each focusing on a certain point in time. The first part sets up the emotional groundwork, and while it’s compelling, after I finished it, I found myself wondering why so many readers were calling this book so extraordinary. The first part is solid, but I didn’t feel particularly close to the characters.

By the second part, things started to click. This section is where Ryan’s storytelling deepens. The scope widens to include the next generation, and suddenly everything feels sharper. Reveals happen and the choices made start to reverberate in unexpected ways. I finally felt that spark of investment I’d been missing earlier. If the whole book had hit the way that middle section did, it would’ve been an easy five stars.

The third part ties everything together well enough, wrapping the story in a way that feels both inevitable and satisfying, but that sense of distance crept back in. I liked how it resolved, but I didn’t feel it the way I wanted to. I think that’s partly because of the narrative style. Dense, third-person literary fiction often keeps me at arm’s length. It’s not a flaw in the writing; it’s more about how I read. When I can’t slip fully into a character’s head, I end up feeling like a bystander to their lives instead of a participant.

That said, there’s a lot to admire here. The author captures the rhythm of small-town life and the slow unraveling of secrets with an almost cinematic patience. The characters feel real even when they’re elusive—like people you might pass every day without ever truly knowing them.

Thematically, the book is rich. It explores guilt, identity, generational consequence, and the tension between wanting to belong and needing to break free. It’s about the ways people carry their secrets and how those secrets shape the next generation, whether they mean to or not. There’s a real tenderness beneath the restraint, and that’s what kept me reading.

So, is it worth picking up? Absolutely. Even if I didn’t fall in love with it, I can see why others have. It’s thoughtful, quietly ambitious, and filled with moments of beauty. But if, like me, you’re someone who prefers stories that pull you in emotionally rather than keep you observing from the sidelines, you might find it a little too distant at times. I’d call it a strong literary novel that rewards patience and reflection more than immediate attachment. I admired it more than I loved it, but that’s still a kind of praise.

Book Club/Book Box: