Here's a contemporary romance thriller or thrilling romance for those who have a penchant for thrillers and romance. Both play a significant role.
Glancing at the cover, I assumed that the novel was primarily romance, and put it on the back burner--to read as soon as I'd read these others. Romance fascinates me but usually as part of a mix, so the title and some of the subtle imagery should have suggested the strong impact of the thriller genre.
In the novel, Jannah has a reason to become an activist. Effron and she make mistakes and hide secrets that get them in trouble. But even in a desert, they will bloom.
The strength of the writing took me by surprise. Anderson takes on a bestselling style, as expected for the genres she's mining, but puts effort into making her scenes vivid, more than most bestselling writers do.
Let's prove this by opening the book at random and picking a passage that illustrates this:
"When Shaphier came into view, Jannah’s heart quickened. She cranked the window down and leaned her head out to feel the stiff breeze on her face. Though home to 23,000, to an outsider, it appeared a backward town with unpleasant residents. She admitted it was a broken-down community. The power cables sagged between pine-log poles and gusting wind cartwheeled plastic grocery bags across the fields of gray stubble—after being a prisoner, it was a sight to be cherished."
What a keen eye for choosing the right word to carve out an image.
This is no easy love story. Setting it in one of the most controversial regions on the planet would probably not occur to most. But that challenge becomes a draw.
Does it accurately portray the conflict in the Middle East? That I cannot address. It feels like she has made a valiant effort to portray the conflict with difficult and admirable nuance, but those closer to the issue might have another perspective.
The opening sample might suggest whether you'd be interested:
Chapter 1
Wrongly Accused
For too many days, Jannah al-Jorbouni lay on a frayed and smelly mattress in her dim jail cell in Lachish Detention Center. The corridor light cast a yellow glow on a colony of ants climbing through the concrete cracks. Their black oval bodies darted into the bedding, food, and clothing.
Jannah clutched a handful of knotted sheets as the pain in her stomach spiked. A bizarre fever had raged through her body all night.
Like ice crystals on a frosty windowpane, she was freezing cold one moment, clutching the thin blanket under her chin, then suddenly, burned hot, her bedding drenched in sweat. The noxious odors of sweaty bodies and sewage further sickened her, and she felt like a caged animal.
She licked her cracked lips, which did little to moisten them, and stared at the two swallows of water left in the cup she held.
She leaned up, took a sip, swished it around to let the liquid bathe her tongue, then held it in her cheeks before swallowing.
As the gray days passed behind bars, each day drearier than the one before, a kind of hopelessness gripped her. She struggled against despair more than she did against the pain in her abdomen and ran her hand over the tally marks scratched into the wall near her bunk. Six months in this hellhole. How much longer can I hold out? she wondered.
The first few months at Lachish, she’d believed she could handle anything, but her Christian spirit had been drained. Too much wrath and retaliation had left her soul riddled with holes. The only evidence that she had not been entirely broken was when she left the boiled egg yolk or crust of bread on the dinner tray for Besan, who was more sister than cousin.
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