Date Published: 4-21-2026
Publisher: Ground One Press
New York City, 1981. Dianna leaves her small southern town for the bright lights and rich culture of the Big Apple and a prime job at the Met. Sparks fly when she crosses paths with a charming Lebanese diplomat. A shared night of passion launches her into an exciting romance and opens her eyes to a bloody conflict far from home. But as warring factions take hold overseas, she can’t shake the feeling that her new love is hiding dark secrets.
Qasim has never known peace. When he gets the chance to bring his country’s troubles before the United Nations, he abandons his family obligations to heal his war-torn homeland. But his true mission takes a detour when he falls for a beautiful American woman. Against the urging of his closest friend and mentor, he wants to share his heart and hopes with her.
In the face of cultural barriers and mounting war, can Dianna and Qasim find the strength to stand up for their love and a lasting peace?
February 13, 1981, New York City
Dianna scans the bar through strobe-lit smoke. A haze casts a film on the room’s mirrored walls, hung to give the illusion of space.
“Are you sure this is where you want to be tonight?” Sophia waves her elegant hand through the smoke and lights a cigarette. She feels a pang of guilt for dragging Sophia here. Two decades older, Sophia is more fairy godmother than buddy.
“Sorry,” is all Dianna shouts over the din and shrugs. She catches her stomach sticking out ever so slightly in one of the mirrors and takes a deep breath to pull it in.
“Dianna, I’m afraid I can’t stay much longer,” Sophia says.
Doubting she has the courage to stay here alone, Dianna ponders her options. She looks up at the scum-covered ceiling and asks for inner strength. The subway will close soon, and she has no car.
Then she sees him.
He wears a European suit. An expensive watch with a black face and gold hands glints on his right wrist. Not much taller than she, but wiry, he seems at once exotic and familiar: olive skin graces distinct, proportionate features. His dark hair reminds her of her mother’s, and his graceful stance, her father’s. He moves with a purposeful gait, arms relaxed, head tilted slightly to the right. He seems part of a world she has yet to experience.
The man circles her, moving through the crowd, around chatting couples, each time drawing nearer, until he stands before her, touching her forearm. “Have you seen a woman...?” he begins.
Dianna misses the rest of his sentence because of the blaring music, his accent, and the word “woman.” He could be fibbing to make himself appear less threatening. Or maybe he has been stood up. “Look around you,” she says and laughs. “Women everywhere. What did she look like?”
He moves in closer and speaks directly into her ear so she can hear him. Dianna shivers as she catches a whiff of his cologne. Her eyes catch his. With his tailored suit and self-possessed energy, he almost fits right in. Yet his eyes betray him. This man has suffered. She knows all about pretending. She’s hooked.
“She has shoulder-length brown hair,” he says. Then, “Never mind — how could you ever identify her?” He waves his arm upward in dismissal. His eyes shift away.
Sophia taps her shoulder, a silent question. Can she leave? Dianna wants her to stay, to keep her safe, and she almost follows her out the bar door. Her pulse thumps heavy in her neck. Then she gestures Sophia homeward and follows the man to the bar. She came here to meet a man, after all.
“What’s your pleasure?” he asks.
She sighs — she will not have to spend her last few dollars to buy her own drink.
“Hello,” he says, extending a well-groomed hand, as though he wants her to examine it. “My name is Qasim. And you are?” His fingers bear no ring.
“Hello. I’m Dianna. Thank you for the drink.” Her hand lingers in his warm, dry palm for a moment before he lets it drop. Then she makes herself busy stirring the swizzle stick in her gin and tonic, squeezing the lime in.
“That’s a beautiful ring,” he says. “Your school ring?”
Dianna gazes at the green stone with a pang of pride. She doubts this man wants to hear much about her college days or the job that put her through school. “Yes,” she replies.
“You work around here?” He takes a sip of his Scotch and looks around the bar, as if he might not get an answer.
She crosses her legs and steadies herself with her heel on the rung of the bar stool, and then she replies, “Yes, at the Metropolitan. And you?”
“The UN”
She raises her brows. “Ah, what do you do?”
He squirms on his seat before answering, and his eyes shift to the floor, then up at her face. “Oh, merely the regular diplomatic paper pushing. Have you been working at the Met long?”
His gaze makes her measure her words. “No, I moved here a year ago. She stops, not wanting to reveal more of herself to a stranger.
He seems to read her thoughts. “I am from Lebanon. When I was growing up, I too, wanted to live in New York someday. I always had a fascination with the Statue of Liberty. An American soldier once gave me a tiny replica.” He smiles, and she feels its real warmth.
Having firsthand experience in the places she writes about, Kathryn brings a unique authenticity to her stories, blending rich cultural details with the universal themes of love, redemption, and peace. She studied creative writing at Hollins University, and publications management at George Washington University. She currently lives in Maryland with her husband. They have two adult children, off to their own world adventures, but still parent a feisty feline. Next on their bucket list: Croatia, Portugal, or Tanzania!
https://mybook.to/TheShoresofOurSouls
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