Who is Molly?

Five years ago a muse nibbled on my brain and created a neat nest for herself. She built herself a comfy homestead. No matter how many times I advised her to move along, she blatantly refused and entrenched herself deeper. Molly is her name. She is my alter ego who encourages me to do better, learn more, and leave my hermit writing cave to buy groceries. She could very possibly be the warden at the station of the obsessive-compulsive disorder of my writer self.

Molly is self-employed, an entrepreneur so to speak. Her business includes the tasks already mentioned in addition to suggesting better vocabulary, plots, characters, She often reminds me to be careful with character motivation and hooks. She will encourage me to rewrite narrative as dialogue and remembers to advise me to create a balance between description and conversations. She insists on character and plot arcs, on black moments, on the heroine’s journey. She likes strong women with self-determined lives. She leans towards love stories during or in the aftermath of war.

Imagine brain synapses as bridges and highways and Molly proposes stopping along the way to think deeper by asking What if…? While I develop my work in progress, she races around my synapses causing major traffic disruptions and delays halting the traffic of plotting to force me to think,, think, think deeper and deeper one level at a time.

I have to say Molly’s adrenaline is high with imagination and low on physical activity in the real world. She often proposes in the middle of the night that we go to yoga class or the beach the instead of writing. In the morning she forgets about yoga or the beach and leads me directly to the keyboard with the cola in hand. Right, a cola. I’m not a coffee drinker but need the caffeine and cola does quiet well so I can keep up with Molly.

I love Molly, but I have to say her sense of time is off. She has none. No sense of balance between the fantasy world of writing and the reality of my physical world. No sense of day and night. Minutes and hours are all the same to her. Never mention a calendar to her. She has never heard of one. She is a muse for independent authors. The word deadline means nothing to Molly. She will interrupt a line of thinking for a work in progress to put forward another plot or character. She will have two works in progress at a time.  There are times I want to slow her down, but no, I really wouldn’t do that. After all, she is a muse, my muse and I couldn’t live being an author without her no matter what my opinion thinks of her faults.

The Relentless Brit Review


Bored with your usual reading choices. Need something new..

The Relentless Brit is for you.

“Sarina Rose had woven a beautiful tale of self-sacrifice and triumph with a focus on the unspoken portion of World War II that helped the Allies win. Espionage made the difference in many instances between life and death…. Images of stoic, brave individuals come to mind when you think of the young men and women who dedicated so much to this war….Maire collapsing on several occasions took away from her strength and bravery….
That being said, this was a great read with an air of respect and pride for all that served.” –
Amy Willis, InD’tal Magazine

A special thank to Amy Willis for this review and to Selppubbookcovers.com.

The Relentless Brit book cover won second place in InD’tale RONE  book cover contest.

A special thank to Amy Willis for this review and to Selppubbookcovers.com.

http://amzn.to/2qG59D9 Available to buy with this click as ebook, print, or audio.

Please leave an  honest review at Amazon and Goodreads after reading my favorite

book The Relentess Brit.

Sarina Rose

website: http://www.sarinaroseauthor.com

Sign up for my  newsletter list complete the form below. Thank you.





The Girl in the Park

The Girl in the Park is purely fiction written for your enjoyment. At the end is a form to fill out with a comment if you like. Leave your email for a free newsletter updates, an opportunity to join her review team, and a free ebook. Thank you mucho,

The Girl in the Park

Detective Kate Spenser reached for her cell on her nightstand. By the ringtone, she knew it was her Captain calling with an assignment.

“Female found in Greenview Park, east of the circle. Park Police on the scene now.”

“On my way, sir.” Why today? Why first thing Sunday morning?

Kate hit the speed dial for Ben Goldstein, her partner. “Morning Ben. East of Greenview Park circle.”

Kate slipped out from under Alex’s legs, and meandered to the coffee maker, pushed the button, and watched the brown liquid fill her cup. She twisted her wet long copper hair with a white scrungie and dressed in work clothes: black pants, white blouse, black jacket, black socks, and black  shoes. A homicide detective’s uniform was a simple suit respectful of the dead.

The morning was grey and damp. Mist hung still over the Greenview  River when she arrived at the crime scene. A chill worked its way through her jacket as it always did when she first arrived on the scene. She surveyed the area before she approached the body. Four officers interviewed bystanders and collected evidence.

An old man off to the side talked to one of the officers. He pointed with his cane to the victim covered by a tarp, then, to the steps leading to Boulevard East. Kate passed them when the man pointed to the red high-heeled woman’s shoe on the slope of boulders a few feet from the victim.

“Geraldine Armstrong, according to the work ID from Frazer and Company, a New York City law firm. No driver’s license. No home address.”

“Thanks, Ben. Don’t forget to pick-up that shoe.”

Kate was a veteran cop, but she wrenched whenever she met her victim for the first time. She lifted the tarp covering the victim’s face and said a prayer. Geraldine Armstrong’s hair was bleached blonde. She wore a grey wool suit with a sky blue blouse. She had applied her make-up with a heavy hand. She was beautiful except for the blood running from her temple down her face to her neck where it flared out on her throat.

Doc Williams, the coroner, was with the body. His sandy hair was short and spiked out from his head like a brush. “Time of death around 7 AM this morning. See, blood’s beginning to congeal on her hair. She fell and hit her head, but that didn’t kill her. A dull blade cut her carotid. Maybe a small knife or razor. She bled out.”

“Thanks doc.” Kate approached the bystanders. “A man walked past her down the steps to the bus stop before she fell,” said a young fellow dressed in running clothes.

“I saw her put her hand on her collar,” said a girl in jeans and jacket with a cheerleader’s emblem.

“She tumbled down a few steps. I saw the old man over there bend down to help her,” said the cheerleader’s companion.

“Okay, give your names and addresses to the officers. I may have more questions for you, but you can go for now.”

Kate walked over to Ben and the old man.

“Did you know Geraldine, Mr. er…?” Kate asked.

“Acevedo, Orlando Acevedo.” He was obviously upset. Sweating and wiping his eyes with a big white handkerchief. “She lives in my apartment building. Can I go home now? I don’t feel so good.”

“Do you see her often?”

“Sure. I see her here, almost every day. But not last week. Last week. I didn’t see. Maybe she goes vacation. She walks down the steps for the bus and falls. That’s all I know,  just like I said. Can I go now? I feel sick. All that blood, all over her hair. Oh, My God, and her jacket. All the blood makes me sick to my stomach. You know, I wanted to climb down there to help her, but these crooked legs hurt too much. Maybe I’d fall too and have blood in my hair.”

“One more question. Someone said a man past her. Did you see him? Did you know him?” Ben asked taking out his notepad.

“No, no. Too far away. Bad legs. Bad eyes. He just walked past her fast like. He didn’t look back or anything. He probably not even know she falls. The bus already there, and he hurry down to it. She was quiet, didn’t cry out or anything, you know. Must have been a point on some rock or other.”

“Thank you, Mr. Acevedo. Nothing more for now.” Kate gave him her business card. His hand was shaking, and he dropped the card on the damp pavement. “Oh, just a minute, please. How do you know the victim?”

“Like I say. She live in my apartment building on County Line Avenue, 2309 County Line. On the first floor, in the back., Number five. I live number 305. Upstairs.”

Kate bent down to pick up her card. The grey morning had changed into a sunny one, and she saw something glitter on the steps.

“Alone?” Ben continued with Mr. Acevedo. Kate gave Ben a nod, she went to pick up the knife, and back to Acevedo.

“Yes, I live alone.”

“What about Geraldine?

“I don’t know. I hear many people. I see many people. I look out my window. I sit outside. I know she have a little dog. One night I saw a man take the dog outside. Must have been her brother or cousin or something.” Acevedo took a moment. “Maybe it was her. Maybe not. She maybe looked like a man in jeans and sweatshirt,” Acevedo paused and wiped his face again. “Not like a twin or anything like that, but still look like her face.”

“Ben, will you give Mr. Acevedo a ride home? While you’re there consider everyone a suspect. Find out what you can about Armstrong from other residents.”

Mr. Acevedo left leaning on Ben’s arm and his cane as they walked to the car. The old guy was pretty shaken up for someone who didn’t know the victim well. Was he the old man checking the victim the bystander saw? Did Acevedo lie? Was there another witness? Was another old man the killer?

Kate’s cell rang, and she turned away.  It was the best possible ring.

“Hello, Alex.”

“Kate? Where are you? Sorry I missed breakfast.”

“Oh, good morning to you too. Breakfast? What’s that? Meet you for lunch in a half hour. I’m almost done here.”

“Sure. Greenview?”


Kate was at the diner before Alex and took a booth in the back corner. It had a 180-degree view. The torn pleather seat poked the back of her leg. Damn! She sat at an angle where she has a view across the street to the park and south to the apartment building. Ben had parked his car at the curb and he was talking to a group of senior citizens sitting outside on weathered green benches.

Kate looked up as Mildred; the waitress, placed a glass of ice water on the paper placemat. She said, “Tough morning?”

“I hate meeting the dead. It does something to my sense of immortality. Know what I mean?”

“No. Too highbrow for me. Try not thinking so much. You’ll feel better. Will it be the early lunch special: Grilled Cheese and Cream of Tomato soup?”

“Sounds good.”

“What’s happening in the Park?”

“Homicide.” Kate pulled out the victim’s work ID and showed Mildred. “Do you recognize this woman?”

“Could be… Maybe it’s um… er.  No, Not sure. Hmm, Could be Gerry Armstrong.  Gerry Armstrong sort of. Sorry, not much help, am I?”

“Isn’t Gerry Armstrong a man? My victim’s a woman. Thanks, anyway.”

Alex pulled into the rear parking lot of the diner, and walked around to the front door. He wore a tan suit, lighter shirt, solid brown tie, and loafers. His straight dark hair set off his light brown eyes just right. Just right for Kate, anyway. Alex sat next to her and pecked her cheek with his lips before he brought the menu up in front of their faces. He whispered, “I’ve been assigned to your case.”

“Really? What does drug enforcement have to do with this?”

“The coroner called us. Our victim was high before he bled out. He was dying anyway.”

“You mean she, don’t you? She overdosed. We are talking about the same victim, aren’t we? The one in the Park on the rocks next to the steps?”

“Here’s the thing,” Alex continued as if he didn’t understand me. “He had smoked oxycontin. An empty prescription bottle filled by a pharmacy in Denver was in his pocket with a baggie of twenty more. Doc says he had surgery two weeks ago and ended up with bad pelvic infection causing a lot of pain.”

“Wait a minute. Why would she go to Denver? We have good hospitals here.”

“Let me finish. This morning about six o’clock Armstrong not only smoked but ingested a good dose of the oxy. Anyway, when Armstrong approached the steps this morning in the park, it was barely daylight. He must have become disoriented and fell, cracking his head.”

“What about the knife wound? Doc said that was the cause of death. Oh, my God. Alex. The cause of death was not the fall or the blade. Do you think it was suicide and why do you keep saying he?

Kate’s cell rang. Alex stood. He’s leaving already?

“Gotta go,” he said pecking her on the cheek again.

She scowled at him. Pecking was nice, but she adored more body heat.

“I promise. We’ll go out for dinner tonight. Romeros? Wear something hot.”

Kate’s cell rang again. “Hey, Ben.” Kate  listened as she nodded and blew Alex a kiss. She glanced towards the apartment building. Ben was not outside, but his car was still there.

“I’m with Acevedo.”

“Yes, stay put. I’m coming. His story doesn’t add up.”

“You’re telling me? Right now he’s looking for his penknife.”

Kate left the diner after finishing her soup and sandwich and walked to Armstrong’s apartment house. She took her cell and hit his speed dial to find precisely where Ben was. As it turned out, she needn’t have bothered. The after lunch old-timers crowd taking up the benches on either side of the walkway informed her Ben was on the third floor. Friends inside the building kept the outside group up to date.

“He’s on the third floor, next to the elevator.”

“Is something wrong?” asked a woman with red blotches covering her swollen legs.

“Must be something bad,” moaned a man connected to a portable oxygen tank.

“Somebody must have died,” whimpered another lady.

“He cried when he came back from his morning walk with that young fellow. I never saw Orlando cry and I’m his brother. I should know.”

“Once, last year when his wife died, he cried when they closed the coffin,” lamented the lady with the snug fleece cap cuddling her head down to her ears.

“What would make him cry today? Kate asked.

“Maybe the guy who brings the oxy hurt him,” sniffed the lady with the bottle bottom eyeglasses.

Kate stopped short, “What did you say?”

“About the oxy guy?”

“Yes, You know oxy’s a controlled substance, right? You could die using too much. If you don’t die, you might end up in jail.”

“Yeah, well, that’s the thing. We are all about to go anyway. Jail cell or wooden box. What’s the difference?”

“You know, I may have to arrest you,” Kate sputtered in disbelief. “Don’t anybody go anywhere?” She laughed to herself because this crowd couldn’t get to the end of the walkway without help.

“Go ahead. Do your job and take care of Orlando. We’ll wait here.”

The door to the Acevedo’s apartment was open. He sat on the sofa with his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. He was hyperventilating. Ben was applying a wet cloth to Acevedo’s neck. Kate nodded to Ben and spoke to Mr. Acevedo.

“Hey, what’s going on Mr. Acevedo? Are you still feeling sick?”

Kate knelt in front of him and tilted his chin upwards. Tears streamed from his rheumy eyes.

“I called for an ambulance,” Ben said as he lifted the cloth.

Kate picked up the bottle of Tequila. Did you drink with Gerry Armstrong last night?”

“Sure. We drink every night. Is that what killed him, bad Tequila or was it the pills?”

“Wait a minute. You mean it killed her, don’t you?”

“I knew he was sick. I wanted to help him feel like his old self.”

“Pills? What kind of pills did you give to Gerry?”

“The ones left from my shoulder surgery. I wanted to talk him into forgetting about more  operations. He wouldn’t listen. He said October would be the last.”

Mr. Acevedo remained quiet. Kate allowed him to take his time. Then he said, “Gerry suffered a lot.  Pain across his stomach and between his legs since the last operation. He told me the pain was unbearable. Even with the pain, he had to work. No more sick days. I gave him my bottle of oxycontin and came up to bed.”

“Then what?”

“In the morning, I woke him like I always do to make sure he was on time for work. I took care of him. I made him eat before he left. He swallowed a couple of pills. He dressed in the ladies’ suit I bought him last at Klein’s on the Square…no Macy’s. Yes, it was Macy’s Misses department. Size 12.”

Kate patted Mr. Acevedo’s hand, and he said, “Imagine going to Macy’s to buy ladies’ clothes for your boy. Macy’s Missies department for your boy? Mierda. (Shit).

He reached for the Tequila, but Kate  took it away from him and turned his hand over to get a better look. “You did this morning, didn’t you?”


“How did it happen?”

“I sliced it with my penknife when Gerry lost his balance on the step. It was my chance. I didn’t want my boy to live like a girl. I nipped his neck to scare him. I went too deep. My Gerald would go to heaven. I sliced my thumb and rubbed my blood on his neck. Gerald, my only son. Since he was a little boy, he wants to be a girl.” Acevedo put his head down and wept. “I shouldn’t have cut her. I should have loved him more. I should have loved Geraldine, too. I don’t understand. I struggle with this word trans.




Loving Nick

sarinarostek-72dpi-1500x2000(11)Hi you,
Wishing you the happiest summer ever and a chance to preorder my newest book at a reduced cost.
Loving Nick will be released in late September, 2018. It will automatically go to your Kindle at the very minute it goes live on Amazon. You’re going to love this story about a second chance for a disabled veteran.

Nicolo Vitale’s wedding to Karen Dombrowski quickly turns into divorce when he deploys to Vietnam, and she travels around Europe on business and has a one night fling with a Scotsman. She flees the marriage like a sinner out of church when she realizes she is pregnant and never tells either man about the child. Fearful, ashamed, guilty, embarrassed and invincible, she makes a life for the child and herself with the help of her parents away from both men for five years until she, by chance, meets Nick again. Will overcoming the past be enough to bring these two back together?


Will you be so kind as to share this post? Thank you.

Sal’s Home

A short story for you. Sal was a real person, but I never met him. The house described is where I lived. My sister and I were scared to go to the cellar, but we did and we never saw Sal there.

Sal’s Home

The last thing Grace Farrentino and I expected was to meet with a ghost. As it turned out, that is exactly what we did. There remains the question whether Grace chose the ghost or the ghost chose her.

I met Grace in 1947 in kindergarten at Number 3 public school on Cliff St in a little town near the Hudson River. Grace lived around the corner. We would meet at the red fire hydrant and walk together to school. The school was not very far away, maybe only fifty yards, but for little girls it was far enough to warrant company. We played together and share secrets in the moldy depths of the cellars of our multifamily apartment houses where we lived.

On the last day of school before the long hot summer New Jersey summer arrived, we combed the cellar of my grandfather’s house. The air down there smelled of old cooking and wet stone walls. The main area of the cellar was a kitchen. A big round wooden table opposite the furnace, stove was cover with red and white print oil cloth. The white parceling sink and icebox occupied the wall with the high window to the airshaft. One coal bin occupied the wall that faced the street. Another bin occupied the adjacent wall. Part of that bin was for coal. The rest stored my father’s fishing gear… muddy-green bib waders, thin poles, and light reels for the fresh water Ramapo River. Thicker polls and heavier reels were for the ocean.

“Look here.” I opened the doors of the dilapidated cupboard. These were my grandparents things, but they were dead and wouldn’t mind.

“Oh, wow, red carnival glass and rusty flatware. Exciting.” Grace said sourly. She picked up a green pitcher and the bottom fell out onto the wood plank floor.


“No.” We swept up the broken glass.

Beyond the kitchen leading towards the back of the house and the yard were more bins. One held wine barrels. Later my parents stored Christmas decorations there and my father hid his tip money in one of the empty barrels. Another bin held jars of crushed tomatoes my grandparents had bottled. Grace and I counted ninety-seven jars. My father used the last bin as a dark room for developing film. He and his nephew would work together developing family photos.

Grace reached for the slide lock on the dark room door. Our basement dog, Whitie, who was tied by a thick rope to a pipe, opened a sleepy eye, sat on his hind legs at attention, and barked.

I put my hand on top of Grace’s.

Don’t!” I said. My eyes widened. Grace’s lit with fire. I imagined what might be behind the door, or even who might be behind the door. My father had warned me never to open that door.

“He might be there.”

“I should be so lucky,” Grace quibbled with a sly smile and dancing eyes.

“My father gave strict orders,” I added hoping to assert his authority. I could feel my heart pounding from my temples to my toes. “You don’t want to see him. He doesn’t look so good.

“But he IS friendly. The other day you said in class that he IS friendly.” She challenged me to stop her as she slid the lock to the right and released the door a crack. The sound of metal on metal and the mishung wood door scraping along the concrete floor was enough to wake the dead and it did.

A horse thick voice said, “Girls? What are you doing here? Uncle Lee told you to stay away, didn’t he?”

“Grace wanted to meet you,” I boldly offered the reason we were intruding.

“Well, now that you’re here, come in, but don’t touch anything. The developing chemicals are dangerous and will burn your skin,” Sal said and coughed out a thin brown fog.

The light in the room was red. His skin was purple. One eye was just a black hole. His left sleeve was tucked into his belt. The dim light did not hide that his arm was missing altogether.

“Andrea, please close the door,” he quietly asked me.

I touched Grace’s bare arm to pull her out the door. She was cold as a block of ice in the old wooden icebox. She did not move towards me, but she did move that is until she glided further into the darkroom like she was on ice skates.

“Sit down, back there.” He nodded towards the overstuffed down sofa in the back of the room ten feet behind his work station and next to a book cased harboringonly two dusty albums.

Sal continued lifting photos from their baths and hanging them with clothespins on a line above his head. “You can look through those albums.”

Grace and I each hefted an album and sat with them on our laps. The light in the room changed. The air became misty like the air at the ocean. The light darkened and my eyes lids grew heavy. I head someone say, “Go ahead, close your eyes.” A blue mist filled the room as I fell asleep like Dorothy and her friends in the poppy field.

I stirred to the sound of the hourly bells from Holy Family Church. They rang six o’clock and I futtered my eyes open. The blue mist had been replaced by the yellow light from the single bulb above the work station. I was alone in the darkroom. Where was Grace? I looked at my Mickey Mouse watch and held it to my ear. It was still ticking , but Mickey’s hands were set at 4:05. The time we entered the dark room.

New photographs were drying over the work station where Sal had been working. I took a closer look. I saw Sal looking healthy and strong in his dress uniform kneeling in the first row of a group of soldiers in front of Lorraine Cemetery in St. Avold. Grace sat on his knee. I bolted out the door, up the cellar steps, around the corner. I found Grace sitting on her front steps reading a book. She didn’t say anything, just gave me a sly smile letting  me know I shouldn’t ask.

“You know,” I ventured to speak, “Sal is dead and buried. Killed April 24, 1945.”

“I know.”


Well now. What do you think of this story? Please feel free to  use the contact  form here to tell me your thoughts on this story? For example: Would you like to read more about these characters? Did you like or not like them? Is the story confusing? Is the story fun?

Copyright ©2018 Sarina Rose

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without permission of the publisher, Rostek Publishing at sarinarose2010@outlook.com



















gfwc melbourneTonight I would like to say something about what I am doing tomorrow. I suppose you are thinking that I am probably going to another writers’ conference. But no. Tomorrow is a day away from writing my new book. Tomorrow, I will be atending the GFWC State convention/Conference in Orlando, Fl.

GFWC is the Greater Federation of Women’s Clubs. It is a national organization of women’s clubs whose mission is to raise money for local charities.  Each club, and there are many, raise money by gift wrapping  during the Holiday season, or organizing hugh Bunco Parties, or Fashion Shows etc, etc, etc. Each club sponsors special events to raise cash to give away. To whom you may ask. GFWC donates funds to  Hacienda Ranch for Girls , (a safe place for girls who cannot live at home for one reason or another), Canine Companions (a group that trains and provides companion dogs to the disabled),  Veterans on the Water (a recreational group for veterans), and scholarsrship money to local high school students among other worthy causes.

GFWC  members also donate time to clean up trash along local streets, sew blankets for hospitalized children, little dresses for Africa and Hearts out to Haiti, Smile Bags and heart pillows for patients after surgery.

I am proud to say that I am a member of GFWC in Melbourne, Fl and encourage you to become a member and/or support your local club with donations or time.Thank you.

The Relentless Brit – Review


Good Sunday morning. Looking for a good romance of spies, espionage, and romance?

The Relentless Brit is for you.

“Sarina Rose had woven a beautiful tale of self-sacrifice and triumph with a focus on the unspoken portion of World War II that helped the Allies win. Espionage made the difference in many instances between life and death…. Images of stoic, brave individuals come to mind when you think of the young men and women who dedicated so much to this war….Maire collapsing on several occasions took away from her strength and bravery….
That being said, this was a great read with an air of respect and pride for all that served.” –
Amy Willis, InD’tal Magazine

A special thank to Amy Willis for this review and to Selppubbookcovers.com.

The Relentless Brit book cover won second place in InD’tale RONE  book cover contest.

A special thank to Amy Willis for this review and to Selppubbookcovers.com.

http://amzn.to/2qG59D9 Available to buy with this click as ebook, print, or audio.

Please leave an  honest review at Amazon and Goodreads after reading my favorite

book The Relentess Brit.

Sarina Rose

website: http://www.sarinaroseauthor.com

Sign up for my  newsletter list complete the form below. Thank you.

Romance & More

Loving Nick is a story of second chance love during the Vietnam War. Nick falls in love with Karen at first sight at college. She is different from the women he usually dates. She wears business suits, just a hint of make-up, and doesn’t smoke. Karen loved Nick’s raw edges and his wild spirit. They become partners in a secret messenger operation delivering information about the war to other government operatives. They married right after graduation against her parents’ wishes. She was eager to marry him, but on their honeymoon, she had second thoughts. She wondered aloud if they had made a mistake being so young. Nick is confident they had not. She secured employment with a magazine to begin a career. Nick volunteered for Vietnam without discussing it with Karen. Hurt feelings and difficult times follow.

Loving Nick will be available this coming summer. Does this cover and paragraph entice you? I would love to hear from you. Send me a comment.

Best Wishes from me to you!

Sarina Rose



My books on Amazon: http://amzn.to/2qG59D9





Chic Lit Cafe Review

The Relentless American by Sarina Rose

Alt="The Relentless American"The Relentless American by Sarina Rose


The Relentless American is the story of Hannah, Daniel, and Sal. In some way or another, all three are victims of the Vietnam War. Will the wounds they suffer hinder a chance for Romance?

Chick Lit Cafe’s Review:

Insightful, Meaningful & Intriguing!

Love during the time of war.
The Vietnam age is creatively brought to life in this wonderful story written by Sarina Rose. With that era being full of anxiety, fear, wrongdoing and disaster, our author captures the essence of the life experience for many during that time.

The main character Hannah O’Brian, is a zealous anti-war advocate and protester. After college, she receives a marriage proposal from her friend Daniel MacIntyre, who is in the military reserve forces. When Hannah declines Daniel’s proposal, he walks away and enlists to serve in the army in a hospital in Japan. But instead, he finds himself in Vietnam amongst the heavy fire.

The main plot surrounds around the life of Hannah and the love that she has for the two men in her life, Daniel and Sal. As their lives become entwined, due to the war, readers will be turning the pages quickly and hungrily, seeking to find out what will happen next.
Hannah does have a slight air of entitlement and she is a bit spoiled. She can be somewhat unkind. But as she grows and matures, she becomes a well-loved character in the story. Readers will enjoy seeing her as she grows more mature and understanding. I loved the way Sarina Rose developed the character Hannah. She is a very realistic character. The reader will enjoy her, and the changes she goes through along the way, as the story progresses.

All of the main characters are very attractive and appealing in their personalities and actions.
Together, and individually, they each must face difficulties and make choices that are extremely hard to decide upon. The emotions in this novel run extremely high as we follow along with the lives of the characters and the sensational plot. Readers will find themselves experiencing, perhaps the familiar, feelings of loss, desire, love and hope.

Set in the early 70’s, during the Vietnam War, older readers will be moved by this story as they recall the events and memories of that time. For younger readers, not only will they get a very interesting history lesson, but they will be thrilled by the storyline and the satisfying ending.

This the first book that I have read by Sarina Rose, and it won’t be the last.
I found her writing to be very insightful and delightful. She has a unique experienced way of pulling the plot together and weaving the characters within.

Chick Lit Cafe highly recommends this wonderful period piece of realistic and outstanding fiction.

Purchase The Relentless American

Connect with Sarina Rose
The  Relentless Brit
The Relentless Italian
Sarina’s Website
Sarina’s Blog

The Relentless American Giveaway + Excerpt

See this #AmazonGiveaway for a chance to win: The Relentless American (The Relentless Series Book 3) (Kindle Edition).

https://giveaway.amazon.com/p/1216a9dd16580515 NO PURCHASE NECESSARY.

Ends the earlier of Aug 18, 2018 11:59 PM PDT, or when all prizes are claimed. See Official Rules http://amzn.to/GArules. >


“No more blood!” the crowd chanted. It was June 1970. The television news cameras focused on unnamed faces. I held my peace sign poster high as I led a long line of war protestors east on New York City’s Central Park South. I glanced at the New York City Police Department keeping the peace, keeping us away from the two senators about to arrive for dinner at the landmark Plaza Hotel. We were sure their agenda focused on Vietnam, and we wanted to influence them to stop the bombings. We wanted them to influence Congress, the president, and Henry Kissinger who was at the peace talks in Paris.

“Will we make a difference today?” I asked my friend, Daniel MacIntyre, who had appeared at my side, but I was looking at Officer Sal Mendoza. He caught my eye.      He was one good-looking cop.

“Do you know Officer Mendoza?” I asked Daniel.

“I spoke to him at the last protest. Be careful with your attention, Hannah. He’s married.”

“Right. Thanks for the heads-up.”

Vietnam’s civil war had splintered the United States. The war divided families, friends, and classmates on its own tiny peninsula in Southeast Asia as well as in North America. It affected the military men and women as well as their civilian families. It took a heavy toll. The Vietnam War was a mammoth, frightening ogre who roared and raged over the United States. It had engaged most Americans, be they in favor or opposed. The ogre didn’t threaten the U.S. mainland or any of its territories, while it continued to endanger U.S. lives.The president continued to send troops to battle the communists.

Things were going smoothly at the protest until someone bumped me and I fell to my knees. I looked up. Officer Mendoza glanced at me. When Daniel reached down to help me, a woman tripped over him and smashed a bottle of thick red liquid on the pavement. She shouted, “No more U.S. blood!” Other voices joined hers. Soon, the chant reverberated throughout the circular drive in front of The Plaza. “No more blood! No more blood!”

A scuffle broke out as the police arrested the woman. One man tried to pull her away from an officer. Another officer grabbed the man’s arm, and both slipped on the slimy pavement. I tried to help, but someone stopped me. I turned and looked into the black opal eyes of Officer Mendoza. He marched me to the police van parked on the other side of the barricade. Another officer brought Daniel.

“They think I planned this, Daniel. Say something,” I called to him.

“You want me to say something? How about you? Go on. Speak up for yourself.”

“You’re the guy who has connections at the precinct.”

“And you’re the girl who wants to be an independent woman.”

“Later,” Mendoza snapped as he looked at me and led me van.

Daniel sat next to me. His knee leaned against mine. His shoulder followed. I knew Daniel. I knew his political and personal views on everything from high school curricula to marriage and raising children.

Sarina Rose
The  Relentless Brit
The Relentless Italian

website: www.sarinaroseauthor.com
Blog: http://www.sarinarose.com

email: sarinarose2010@outlook.com

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