Now more than ever, we seem to be gravitating towards comforting and easily digestible fiction – the equivalent of a security blanket, but for the mind. That we’re all reaching towards old faithfuls, rewatching and re-rewatching our favorite shows, shouldn’t be any real surprise given the tumult of the real world, but every now and then a wholly new series comes along that offers that much-needed boost of serotonin. Virgin River, currently streaming its second season on Netflix and adapted from the long-running romance book series by author Robyn Carr, isn’t necessarily breaking the mold. Where it succeeds, though, is existing within a very specific niche as melodrama and soapy-level storytelling at its finest, but never in a way that boasts too much intensity or grimdark formatting for its audience. In short, it’s perfect pandemic binge-watching material.

[Editor's note: The following contains mild spoilers for Virgin River Seasons 1-2.]

The show chiefly follows the story of Melinda “Mel” Monroe (Alexandra Breckenridge), a nurse practitioner and midwife who uproots her big city existence after the death of her husband and chooses to start over by taking a job in the small, very remote California town of Virgin River. Of course, her arrival isn’t met with widespread enthusiasm; local family physician Vernon “Doc” Mullins (Tim Matheson) hardly welcomes her with open arms, the epitome of the elderly curmudgeon set in his own ways (up to and including his refusal to get with the times on a technological level). Even the cabin she’s been promised by town mayor Hope McCrea (Annette O’Toole) is more of a ramshackle hunting lodge instead of the picturesque living situation that was advertised. Understandably, Mel’s ready to pack it in and leave — and even the handsome Jack Sheridan (Martin Henderson), former U.S. Marine and owner of the town’s local watering hole (simply called “Jack’s Bar”) isn’t necessarily enough of a temptation to stay. But when someone anonymously abandons a newborn baby on Doc’s front porch, Mel finds herself torn between her desire to put Virgin River in her rearview and her duties as a nurse — and slowly but surely, begins to carve out a home for herself in the last place she ever expected.

You might be tempted to draw the obvious comparison to another show about a city doctor who finds herself working at a clinic in the middle of nowhere, one which also starred Tim Matheson as a grumpy country doctor. However, Virgin River not only predates the WB’s Hart of Dixie by a little bit (the first book was written back in 2007), but it also adapts its original source material in a way that feels like a natural extension of the book series’ warm-hug aesthetic.

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Image via Netflix

Based on a surface-level reading alone, there are plots on this show that feel like they should be much more intense from a viewing perspective. In its two seasons to date, Virgin River has boasted multiple love triangles, a character on the run from an abusive relationship, illegal drug smuggling, murder, the aforementioned abandoned baby, and throughlines of grief and PTSD that entwine themselves through the narratives of the two leads. But the show skillfully toes the line of what would be high-stakes, tough-to-absorb drama anywhere else and presents it as the equivalent of a comfort food viewing experience, while somehow making its surprise twists no less satisfying when they inevitably unfold. Even the production values give Virgin River an unexpectedly calming effect. There are no scenes with harsh lighting, no frenetic edits or quick cuts that other series might reach for or rely too heavily on in order to emphasize the intensity of the moment. Instead, we’re treated to gorgeous establishing shots of the Vancouver landscape that serves as the filming location for the series — lush forests, sprawling mountains, and, of course, winding rivers.

A show like this wouldn’t even be remotely sustainable without its actors. Henderson and Breckinridge are great leads to hang this type of series on, not just because of the chemistry they possess when they’re acting opposite each other but also the emotional talent they wield in moments when their characters are dealing with their own obstacles to potential happiness. Understandably, Mel’s fish-out-of-water journey takes up the bulk of her plot in Virgin River’s first season, as does her blossoming romance with Jack, but Breckinridge also has to do the heavy lifting of exploring Mel’s story from before via flashbacks that revolve around her marriage to her late husband Mark (Daniel Gillies) and subsequent struggles with infertility before his unexpected death. Meanwhile, Henderson’s Jack is a quintessential romance hero — the bar owner with flannel sleeves rolled up to bare impressive forearms and all, but also navigating his own internal demons in the form of PTSD from his military service and occasionally falling back on more destructive patterns to cope with his own perceived failings.

The supporting cast is a broad ensemble, but undeniably boasts two powerhouses in Matheson and O’Toole, whose characters are eventually revealed to be married (albeit separated); Hope and Doc’s dynamic bears an uncanny resemblance to the Old Hollywood couples of yore, wherein their bickering crackles just as much as the scenes where they’re actually getting along for once. Beyond that, it’s just plain delightful to see a romance that unfolds between characters of an older generation, something that doesn’t happen nearly enough on screen.

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Image via Netflix

Between the first and second season, the show has clearly kicked things up a notch — not just in the production budget, although some of the names on Season 2’s soundtrack, like Lizzo and Hozier, point to a little extra floated over to music supervision. There’s even more drama in the sheer number of love triangles (three!) and the increase in body count, not to mention late-stage plot twists that are soapy to the extreme (A surprise twin brother! A character gets shot in the finale with their fate left up in the air!). But in spite of the ups and downs on Virgin River and the obvious changes that have been made from the main love story of the first book for the sake of long-term storytelling (like an unexpected pregnancy… with twins), the promise of a happily ever after is all but assured by the source material, whenever the show officially concludes for good. That’s one of the advantages in pulling from romance for adaptation, something Netflix really seems poised to lead the charge with ahead of the release of Bridgerton later this month (also based on the romance novels by author Julia Quinn).

It’s not just romance fans and readers who are hungry to see some of their favorite books successfully brought to screen, though; there really seems to be a demand for happy endings, or at least the assurance of a story that provides a sense of relaxation and escapism. Although Virgin River isn’t a perfect show (the casting could stand to be more inclusive, something that has gradually shifted in the right direction between seasons), its appeal lies in its sincere, non-flippant presentation of small-town living and the sense of community among the people who live there. In an early Season 1 episode, Jack shares with Mel the sentiment that “people have learned to rely on each other more than the outside world,” and it’s one that rings differently now upon watching in a post-COVID landscape. But it also encapsulates what makes this show so reassuring whether you’re a lover of romance or not. A town far removed from worldwide troubles, built on the foundation of decent, kind-hearted locals who mostly just want to look out for each other? Virgin River is a series that practically begs you to slough off your worries and wander off the beaten path for a little while — or, at least, for the span of about 50 minutes.

Virgin River is streaming now on Netflix.