Thrillers & Suspense
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The Midcoast: A Novel
"I tore through the saga of the Thatch family in two nights. The Midcoast is a reader's dream-tense, ominous, and deeply wise."-David Benioff, co-creator of Game of Thrones
"In deft, knowing, and crystalline prose, Adam White writes, in essence, the novel about the Maine coast."-Richard Ford • "Readers will be hooked."-Publishers Weekly
ONE OF THE MOST ANTICIPATED BOOKS OF 2022-The Washington Post, The Millions, CrimeReads
It's spring in the tiny town of Damariscotta, a tourist haven on the coast of Maine known for its oysters and antiques. Andrew, a high school English teacher recently returned to the area, has brought his family to Ed and Steph Thatch's sprawling riverside estate to attend a reception for the Amherst women's lacrosse team. Back when they were all teenagers, Andrew never could have predicted that Ed, descended from a long line of lobstermen, or Steph, a decent student until she dropped out to start a family, would ever send a daughter to a place like Amherst. But so the tides have turned, and Andrew's trying hard to admire, more than envy, the view from Ed's rolling backyard meadow.
As Andrew wanders through the Thatches' house, he stumbles upon a file he's not supposed to see: photos of a torched body in a burned-out sedan. And when a line of state police cruisers crashes the Thatches' reception an hour later, Andrew and his neighbors finally begin to see the truth behind Ed and Steph's remarkable rise. Soon the newspapers are running headlines about the Thatches, and Andrew's poring over his memories, trying to piece together the story of a family he thought he knew.
A propulsive drama that cares as deeply about its characters as it does about the crimes they commit, The Midcoast explores the machinations of privilege, the dark recesses of the American dream, and the lies we tell as we try, at all costs, to protect the ones we love.
"In deft, knowing, and crystalline prose, Adam White writes, in essence, the novel about the Maine coast."-Richard Ford • "Readers will be hooked."-Publishers Weekly
ONE OF THE MOST ANTICIPATED BOOKS OF 2022-The Washington Post, The Millions, CrimeReads
It's spring in the tiny town of Damariscotta, a tourist haven on the coast of Maine known for its oysters and antiques. Andrew, a high school English teacher recently returned to the area, has brought his family to Ed and Steph Thatch's sprawling riverside estate to attend a reception for the Amherst women's lacrosse team. Back when they were all teenagers, Andrew never could have predicted that Ed, descended from a long line of lobstermen, or Steph, a decent student until she dropped out to start a family, would ever send a daughter to a place like Amherst. But so the tides have turned, and Andrew's trying hard to admire, more than envy, the view from Ed's rolling backyard meadow.
As Andrew wanders through the Thatches' house, he stumbles upon a file he's not supposed to see: photos of a torched body in a burned-out sedan. And when a line of state police cruisers crashes the Thatches' reception an hour later, Andrew and his neighbors finally begin to see the truth behind Ed and Steph's remarkable rise. Soon the newspapers are running headlines about the Thatches, and Andrew's poring over his memories, trying to piece together the story of a family he thought he knew.
A propulsive drama that cares as deeply about its characters as it does about the crimes they commit, The Midcoast explores the machinations of privilege, the dark recesses of the American dream, and the lies we tell as we try, at all costs, to protect the ones we love.
Editorial Reviews
"The Midcoast is a suspenseful, funny, and chilling uncovering of small-town secrets within a propulsive family drama. . . . A perfect summer read about a perfect vacation haven."-Angie Kim, author of Miracle Creek
"Vividly drawn and movingly told, The Midcoast is a searching, honest, and evocative portrait of human relationships, hometown secrets, and the hidden machinations of privilege. Adam White's debut enthralls, a modern classic from a bold and insightful new voice in fiction."-Alexandra Kleeman, author of Something New Under the Sun
"The Midcoast is a brilliant, ferocious debut novel about ambition, class, and crime in coastal Maine, simultaneously propulsive and nuanced. Adam White brings his powerful gifts to bear on a story that speaks directly to our troubled moment with eloquence and heart. After this, Vacationland will never look the same."-Andrew Martin, author of Early Work
"The Midcoast is an insanely good novel, compulsively readable, with a growing feeling of menace and catastrophe that becomes almost unbearable. Elegantly written, with vivid characters and an intricately realized setting, this is a stunning debut from a writer we will certainly hear from again. I highly recommend this book."-Douglas Preston, #1 bestselling author of The Lost City of the Monkey God
"The Midcoast expertly weaves sharply realized scenes and a profound sense of empathy into a plotline full of tension, resentments, and dangerous secrets. In capturing Maine, Adam White has captured America as a whole, with our complicated mix of class mobility and class constraints. In his talented hands, we understand how virtues like love and loyalty can still lead us to a sea of vices. . . . A wise and powerful debut!"-Stacey Swann, author of Olympus, Texas
"White's first novel is a corker, well plotted and paced and with just the right elements of suspense . . . a fine debut."-Booklist
"Vividly drawn and movingly told, The Midcoast is a searching, honest, and evocative portrait of human relationships, hometown secrets, and the hidden machinations of privilege. Adam White's debut enthralls, a modern classic from a bold and insightful new voice in fiction."-Alexandra Kleeman, author of Something New Under the Sun
"The Midcoast is a brilliant, ferocious debut novel about ambition, class, and crime in coastal Maine, simultaneously propulsive and nuanced. Adam White brings his powerful gifts to bear on a story that speaks directly to our troubled moment with eloquence and heart. After this, Vacationland will never look the same."-Andrew Martin, author of Early Work
"The Midcoast is an insanely good novel, compulsively readable, with a growing feeling of menace and catastrophe that becomes almost unbearable. Elegantly written, with vivid characters and an intricately realized setting, this is a stunning debut from a writer we will certainly hear from again. I highly recommend this book."-Douglas Preston, #1 bestselling author of The Lost City of the Monkey God
"The Midcoast expertly weaves sharply realized scenes and a profound sense of empathy into a plotline full of tension, resentments, and dangerous secrets. In capturing Maine, Adam White has captured America as a whole, with our complicated mix of class mobility and class constraints. In his talented hands, we understand how virtues like love and loyalty can still lead us to a sea of vices. . . . A wise and powerful debut!"-Stacey Swann, author of Olympus, Texas
"White's first novel is a corker, well plotted and paced and with just the right elements of suspense . . . a fine debut."-Booklist
Short Excerpt Teaser
PROLOGUE
Back when I lived out of state, people always used to get excited when they found out where I was from. They didn't meet all that many Mainers-I was like a moose descended from a log cabin, wandering their backyard, eating their shrimp-and wondered if I was from anywhere near the town where they'd gone to summer camp or cruised in their custom sloop. Sometimes I was, sometimes I wasn't, but Maine is a large state with more coastline than California, I liked to point out, plenty of old gray villages like the one I grew up in, plenty of places to get lost or hide, especially when socked in by a heavy fog. Maybe they'd heard of Damariscotta if they'd ever taken a vacation to the Midcoast, but they tended to pronounce the name wrong and then ask what it meant, and I would say either River of Little Fishes in Abenaki or something Scottish, we weren't really sure. If they asked what the town was known for, I would have said brick-making, then ice-shipping, then oysters and this one little gallery that sells lobster buoys painted to look like political figures, but this was all before Maeve and I moved back home and bought our coastal charmer with a view!, a listing so pyritic that its author, our realtor, met us at the door mid-apology and with a referral to a rodent removal service.
Before my return I was still telling that old joke, whenever I needed to explain where I was from, about the local who has to give directions to a visiting urbanite. "You can't get the-yah from he-yah," says the Mainer, which tells you a little about the roads and highways on the Midcoast, a little more about the shotgun wariness that'll greet you on so many overgrown front porches, and a lot about the granite breakwalls between those who've been here for generations and those who've landed more recently, within the past century or two. I am one of these newer arrivals, not a true Mainer-if your parents are from elsewhere, you don't count, even if you moved to town at age three-but at least I'm not a tourist. We all scowl at the tourists. They ascend as one big traffic jam every summer and presume to know the place just because they've rented a cottage with bunk beds and weathered a gentle nor'easter. The other day I saw a couple in matching sunglasses lingering in front of the Sotheby's, gazing at a flyer full of homes, one of which belonged to the Thatches, our town's wealthiest family; when I overheard them indulging in the fantasy of moving here year-round, imagining Maine as the way life should be, I found myself wishing I had some other flyer with pictures of the peeling shack Ed Thatch lived in as a child, or the trailer he and his wife Steph moved into when they were only eighteen (or our own drafty ranch, for that matter), just to show these dreamers what they might find if they ever arrived in the off-season and ventured down the wrong dirt road.
To move on from any of these dirt roads was supposed to be impossible, but then the Thatches did just that, moved from there to here-well past here, actually. Steph loved to remind us of their early days, all the hard work and long hours that had put them on this different track, and it's not that we didn't believe her, just that we'd heard it all before, heard it plenty. But every small town has its own running dramas, its own local celebrities (there's a set of twins that's been calling our high school basketball games since the big playoff run in '89, and there's a mussel farmer who wears a bodybuilding getup in every parade-we think because mussel and muscle are homophones-and he's been doing it since I was in college). So I guess I always assumed I'd return to the Midcoast, if I returned, to find things basically where I'd left them. And most things were. Just not the Thatches. Which was fine. They were off in the distance, nothing to do with us, their rise and fall like a rolling swell tumbling down the coast.
People do move here for the views. Ours is of the salt bay, partially, but also of our neighbor's three-car garage and a pyramid of algae-covered lobster traps. "The real deal" is how our realtor described the neighborhood, meaning that what we'd see through our windows was mostly the slowly revving engine of Mainers going nowhere. Unless there's a fog. Then there's nothing to see, only what everyone else can see, only what's right in front of us.
But it was a sunny day in May the last time I saw Ed, one year ago now, when I, Maeve, Ja...
Back when I lived out of state, people always used to get excited when they found out where I was from. They didn't meet all that many Mainers-I was like a moose descended from a log cabin, wandering their backyard, eating their shrimp-and wondered if I was from anywhere near the town where they'd gone to summer camp or cruised in their custom sloop. Sometimes I was, sometimes I wasn't, but Maine is a large state with more coastline than California, I liked to point out, plenty of old gray villages like the one I grew up in, plenty of places to get lost or hide, especially when socked in by a heavy fog. Maybe they'd heard of Damariscotta if they'd ever taken a vacation to the Midcoast, but they tended to pronounce the name wrong and then ask what it meant, and I would say either River of Little Fishes in Abenaki or something Scottish, we weren't really sure. If they asked what the town was known for, I would have said brick-making, then ice-shipping, then oysters and this one little gallery that sells lobster buoys painted to look like political figures, but this was all before Maeve and I moved back home and bought our coastal charmer with a view!, a listing so pyritic that its author, our realtor, met us at the door mid-apology and with a referral to a rodent removal service.
Before my return I was still telling that old joke, whenever I needed to explain where I was from, about the local who has to give directions to a visiting urbanite. "You can't get the-yah from he-yah," says the Mainer, which tells you a little about the roads and highways on the Midcoast, a little more about the shotgun wariness that'll greet you on so many overgrown front porches, and a lot about the granite breakwalls between those who've been here for generations and those who've landed more recently, within the past century or two. I am one of these newer arrivals, not a true Mainer-if your parents are from elsewhere, you don't count, even if you moved to town at age three-but at least I'm not a tourist. We all scowl at the tourists. They ascend as one big traffic jam every summer and presume to know the place just because they've rented a cottage with bunk beds and weathered a gentle nor'easter. The other day I saw a couple in matching sunglasses lingering in front of the Sotheby's, gazing at a flyer full of homes, one of which belonged to the Thatches, our town's wealthiest family; when I overheard them indulging in the fantasy of moving here year-round, imagining Maine as the way life should be, I found myself wishing I had some other flyer with pictures of the peeling shack Ed Thatch lived in as a child, or the trailer he and his wife Steph moved into when they were only eighteen (or our own drafty ranch, for that matter), just to show these dreamers what they might find if they ever arrived in the off-season and ventured down the wrong dirt road.
To move on from any of these dirt roads was supposed to be impossible, but then the Thatches did just that, moved from there to here-well past here, actually. Steph loved to remind us of their early days, all the hard work and long hours that had put them on this different track, and it's not that we didn't believe her, just that we'd heard it all before, heard it plenty. But every small town has its own running dramas, its own local celebrities (there's a set of twins that's been calling our high school basketball games since the big playoff run in '89, and there's a mussel farmer who wears a bodybuilding getup in every parade-we think because mussel and muscle are homophones-and he's been doing it since I was in college). So I guess I always assumed I'd return to the Midcoast, if I returned, to find things basically where I'd left them. And most things were. Just not the Thatches. Which was fine. They were off in the distance, nothing to do with us, their rise and fall like a rolling swell tumbling down the coast.
People do move here for the views. Ours is of the salt bay, partially, but also of our neighbor's three-car garage and a pyramid of algae-covered lobster traps. "The real deal" is how our realtor described the neighborhood, meaning that what we'd see through our windows was mostly the slowly revving engine of Mainers going nowhere. Unless there's a fog. Then there's nothing to see, only what everyone else can see, only what's right in front of us.
But it was a sunny day in May the last time I saw Ed, one year ago now, when I, Maeve, Ja...
