The Dancer and the Swan follows Pauline Swanson, a 53-year-old woman navigating grief, memory, faith, and forgiveness after the loss of her father. Volunteering with hospice to find purpose, Pauline meets Ms. Deborah Deneaux, a former marketing executive who was also an exotic dancer in her younger days. Through their interactions, a deeply human story unfolds, one filled with aching memories, social history, and the slow, jagged process of healing. The novel moves between present moments and deeply personal flashbacks that reveal the raw wounds and surviving hope inside both women.

What struck me immediately was the brutal honesty of the narrator’s voice. Pauline isn’t polished or heroic, she’s messy, grieving, sarcastic, and too real to ignore. Her dry wit had me grinning at odd moments, especially when she says, “My brain…holds fast to its mental age of thirty. Meanwhile, my parched and brittle soul often feels a thousand years old.” That’s not just good writing; that’s painfully funny truth. The early chapters, especially Pauline’s first visit with Ms. Deneaux, had a rhythm to them, like jazz. You feel out of step at first, and then suddenly you’re right in sync.

Deborah Deneaux, the “Dancer” of the title, is unforgettable. Her story, growing up Creole in New Orleans, dancing on segregated TV, losing her brother to Vietnam, is so layered and rich, it honestly could have been its own book. I was haunted by the line, “DeeDee was finally following in Ruby’s steps and realizing how little it felt heroic and how much it just felt humiliating.” That hit hard. It’s a gut punch, wrapped in grace and rhythm. And Peters doesn’t shy away from America’s ugly history he folds it gently but firmly into Deborah’s story, never preachy, always powerful.

This book doesn’t flinch from pain, real, personal, intimate pain. Pauline’s recounting of her sexual abuse by a priest was heartbreaking and handled with careful, earned weight. And yet, somehow, the story doesn’t drown in that sorrow. It balances on the thin line between despair and redemption. When Pauline says, “The chip doesn’t belong to me. My faith, my God, gave me the strength I lacked,” I teared up. That’s the quiet kind of strength this book celebrates, not the loud, cinematic kind, but the sort you build slowly in AA meetings, church pews, and awkward conversations over pralines.

In the end, this book left me full, like a long talk with a friend who doesn’t sugarcoat anything but loves you anyway. The prose has the rhythm of lived experience. Sometimes it meanders, sometimes it cuts sharp. It’s not perfect, and it shouldn’t be.

I’d recommend The Dancer and the Swan to anyone who’s lost someone, been broken by something, or is just trying to make sense of the mess of being alive. It’s for readers who want stories that dig deep and don’t let go. If you’ve ever sat in the dark with a stranger and somehow felt seen, this one’s for you.

Pages: 491 | ISBN 979-8-9985884-0-2