Rachel, the mother of the aging professor Thomas Vanderlinden, shared her life with two men. Both went by the name of Rowland Vanderlinden. The first husband went abroad and never returned. The second, whom Rachel also unquestioningly accepted as her husband, was a mystery.

In an attempt to understand his mother’s adventurous decisions regarding love and marriage, Thomas sets out on a journey to the far reaches of the Pacific to find the first Rowland, and his real father. As the mystery of the two Rowlands unfolds throughout the novel, so too does a fascinating portrait of one woman and the choices she makes. Set before a backdrop of fantastical places, The Dutch Wife is a profound meditation on the nature of love.

Late on a Saturday afternoon in early fall, Rachel Vanderlinden waited for her husband, Rowland, to come home from abroad – he'd been gone from Queensville for more than three months. He'd sent a telegram to say he'd be arriving by train from the East Coast that day. She needed, once and for all, to talk to him.

She was standing at the kitchen window looking across the lawn to the Lake: the waves were still rough with whitecaps from the storm. Last night, even this big stone house had felt as though it might be ripped away. But the wind was moderate now and the window was slightly ajar. Through it, she heard a sad noise and looked skyward: a huge formation of geese was flying overhead, bringing scraps of the north with it. She shivered and went to the stove and poured some more coffee.

She was sitting at the table, leafing through the Gazette, when the doorbell rang: three long, distinct rings. That was always the way Rowland rang, announcing his arrival before letting himself in.

She sat still, breathing evenly, waiting for her husband, the returned traveller, to enter. She needed to be calm.

The bell rang again. Again three long, distinct rings.

Perhaps he'd lost his key, she thought.

She got up and walked slowly out of the kitchen, along the polished wooden hallway to the front door. Passing the full-length wall mirror, she checked herself: a young, brown-haired woman in a green dress, of medium build, with a longish face, the shadows under her eyes well disguised with make-up. She glanced quickly into those familiar green eyes, trying, as always, to catch them by surprise, testing to see if they would ever accidentally betray something about the mystery of herself.

Not today. She looked perfectly calm, as she would need to be.

She went to the door, took a last deep breath, and opened it.

A stranger stood there, a sturdy man in a brown cloth cap, which he took off. He had a bent nose and scarring above the eyebrows. The eyes themselves were a washed-out blue, giving a mildness to what would have been a hard face. He didn't seem sure of himself.

"Yes?" said Rachel Vanderlinden. She thought this stranger might be one of those beggars looking for a meal in return for mowing the lawn.

The man mumbled something she couldn't quite make out – he had an accent of some sort, Scottish perhaps.

"I beg your pardon?" she said.

He shuffled his feet. His black boots were dusty, his brown corduroy suit was worn and tight. He clutched his cap and cleared his throat. This time, when he spoke, she could make out the words "your husband" quite clearly.

Her heart stopped. "My husband?" she said. "What about him?"

The blue eyes now looked directly into hers. "I," he lingered on the word, "am your husband." His smile was partly a frown.

"What?" she said, scrutinizing his face. "What are you talking about?" She was beginning to be afraid.

He ran his fingers through untidy fair hair. He had the hands of a working man. "I'm your husband," he said again. "I'm just back from England." As though reciting words he'd memorized, he said: "I arrived in Halifax last week. I sent a telegram." He waited, then said again: "I'm your husband."

The man stood, awkward, waiting. He seemed to think he'd delivered some message in a code she'd understand and expected a reply.

And in that instant of waiting, she all at once did understand. Her heart beat faster, her mind was in a ferment.

He watched her for a moment, then he said: "This is stupid. I'm sorry to have bothered you." He turned away and started down the pathway to the street.

She was relieved. She wouldn't have to say anything. She would just let him go.

Then, as he was opening the gate, she changed her mind. "Wait a minute," she called.

He stood at the gate and looked back.

She looked at him for a long moment. She had to clear her throat. "Come inside," she said.

"Are you sure?" he said.

She thought for a moment. "Yes," she said.

And he came back up the pathway and into the house.

Q: In your novel there is a marvellous juxtaposition of the exotic and the domestic. Some characters are explorers who are compelled to travel great distances and others live their entire lives in small corners of the world. How do you reconcile these approaches to life?

A: This reminds me of the story about Philip Larkin, the great English poet. Someone who was about to visit China asked him if he'd like to come along, and Larkin said: "Yes, if I can go there and come back home the same day."

What I mean is, I think it's a fairly universal paradox: to want excitement and security at the same time. In academia, you often find people who are very bold and adventurous in an intellectual sense, but quite conservative — even timid — in their own lives. One of the great things about fiction is that you're able, vicariously at least, to reconcile two such contrasting urges.

Q: The love stories in The Dutch Wife are shrouded in mystery and loss. Do you think that we are inherently unknowable to one another? Is an ingredient of mystery vital to love?

A: This is probably a philosophical even more than a psychological matter. Certainly, since it's so hard to know OURSELVES, it's not surprising we have such difficulty truly understanding others. So mystery is, indeed, inevitable. Yet, perhaps there's an intuitive way of "knowing" another person — and that's what's at the basis of genuine love. As the old philosopher said: "I believe it because it's impossible."

Q: The Dutch Wife is full of storytellers. What does storytelling mean to you? How relevant do you think storytelling is in the age of the soundbite?

A: I often think we relish reading or hearing or telling stories (including movies, etc.) because we desperately want some order and meaning in our lives, which otherwise seem quite plotless and chaotic — "one damned thing after another." A soundbite, useful as it may be for many purposes, can't really satisfy that thirst. Some of the characters in The Dutch Wife insist their own lives be good stories, if nothing else.

Q: Near the end of The Dutch Wife the narrator insists on confirming "the facts" of Thomas's story before publishing his book. However, your own books are full of incredible imaginative twists and turns — what meaning do "facts" have for you?

A: The idea of confirming "the facts" was meant, I suppose, to show that the narrator's not just a gullible reporter. He liked Thomas and he trusted him, but he felt much safer when he'd confirmed "the facts" of his story. I must say, I myself prefer fantasy to have some basis in factuality, so that at least it follows the rules of logic and probability. It's always nice to be asked by a reader: "Did that really happen?"

Q: If there were one book you wish you had written, what would it be? Why?

A: There are hundreds! I've been a voracious reader ever since I was a boy growing up in the slums around Glasgow. Books were my great inspiration and escape. But, for the sake of argument, I'll choose one (actually four!), The Alexandria Quartet by Lawrence Durrell. It's a great exotic piece of work, dealing with, among other things, the varieties of love. The style's rather ornate and poetic, so it doesn't suit everyone. But for me it's the perfection of a certain type of fiction — and who wouldn't want to be the creator of something perfect?