In Part Three of THE MUSLIM ROMANCE TRILOGY, while the Middle East catches fire, there are neither chase scenes nor special effects and no one gives birth, gets married, or wins an Oscar. However, there is political exile, rain, drought, and shameful antics for you to shake your judgmental fist at. Reeling from the loss of a sexually charged unrequited love, at sixty-two years Julie begins her search for the perfect foot to fit her throbbing glass slipper. In her thwarted attempts to replace the Islamic wannabe terrorist Ali, she takes on an Israeli roofing contractor, an Armenian carwash czar, a Persian Jew real estate entrepreneur, an Hispanic house painter, an alcoholic surf bum, a bad kisser with scoliosis, a handsome jet pilot with an aversion to any and all lip-to-lip contact, and her dream date version of Superman. The average age of her conquests a nice and tidy forty years. Her espionage career brought to a halt; the drinking, the smoking, the destructive self-indulgences, and the sexual misadventures do not stop until the very last chapter. You'll scream at her, but you'll want to be her for at least one miserable day, until the longest love letter ever written comes to its final end. Julie experienced the misery of Islamic love and lived to write about it, so you wouldn't have to.