"Wobegon Boy" by Garrison Keillor
I'll admit it: I'm happier when Garrison Keillor isn't writing about his very popular Lake Wobegon. (as in "The Book of Guys", with its brilliant Don Giovanni) To be fair, as much of this novel takes place in upstate New York as in Minnesota, and it represents an extension of themes that were just beginning to show in his previous works.

The story is the tale of John Tollefson, a man who is having difficulty finding contentment in his life. He feels as if he is frittering his life away on the fundamentally trivial, that despite his excellent job and wonderful parties and appreciation of the finer bits of life he is missing making his own big picture.

One central element that seems to belong in this picture is Alida, the elusive romantic interest who seems content with the status quo of occasional impassioned visits punctuated by weeks of separation. Here is a quote from the early part of their romance, displaying Keillor's usual grace, humor, and emphasis on the culture of the Midwest: 

I was floating.  I felt great. That's the thing about dishwashing:
when you're done with it, everything that happens afterward is wonderful.  
You come out of the steam and heat of the scullery, and just
the smell of grass and trees is pure pleasure after you've had soap up 
your nose.  We sat on the top step of the chapel, looking across the 
great sward of lawn toward the flickering bonfire, and I took her hand
and leaned against her; laid my head on her shoulder, and thought, 
This is what I wanted, to feel her fingers wrapped in mine and her
breath on my hair as she talked.
	"Until I came across Bolle Balestrand, I never knew how impulsive
Norwegians could be," she said.  "I always-- you know-- thought of 
them as. . . well, sort of settled."
	"As potato heads," I said, "Big blond phlegmatic people. Slow talkers.
Mouth breathers."
	"Sort of," she said, "I mean, very decent people--"
	"But boring."
	"Yes," she said, "Not that there's anything wrong with boring. I
mean, compared to vicious or fraudulent, boring isn't bad."
	If someone suggests you are boring, what do you do?  I drew her
chin toward me and put my lips to hers and gave her a long, searching
kiss and ran my finger along her cheek and jaw and throat and 
shoulder and collarbone.  When our lips parted, she drew a deep
breath and blinked.
	"I see you've kissed women before," she said.
	"I don't recall if I have or not.  I think you may be the first."
	We sat, embracing, listening to the singers around the campfire,
who had moved on to "Over the Rainbow."
	"So where do we go from here?" she said.
	"Come over for dinner," I said, "I'll cook."
	"How do I know you're not the sort of man who likes to tie women
to a bed and drip hot candle wax on them?" she said.
	I said that we Norwegians would never waste candles like that.
	I walked her into the chapel and around the ambulatory behind the 
altar, and kissed her again, and recited, "'Let me not to the marriage
of true minds / Admit impediments,'" learned years ago for Mr.
Tuomey's sophomore English class, right up through "'It is the star
to every wandering bark, / Whose worth's unknown, although his
height be taken.'" And then she kissed me.  She took my head in both
her hands and rubbed her lips along mine and slipped her tongue into
my mouth and touched the front of my trousers.  Lightly.  But it
boomed, it set off depth charges.
	"What can I get you for dinner?" I said.
	"I'd like you," she said, "but I'm leaving for Chicago early tomorrow."
	"My favorite city," I said, "I'll come and show you around."
Over all the book is a good read, but you begin to wish Keillor wasn't so repetitive in excising his own demons, espcially those involving age and confronting the Midwestern element of his work.

You can order and get more reviews of "Wobegon Boy" from Amazon.com though to be brutally honest, it might be worth waiting for the paperback edition.

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