Mary Westmacott is the name Agatha Christie used when writing romances, but this book is definitely not a romance by modern standards. The main character, Joan, is not meant to be loved by the reader. Pitied perhaps, but not loved. She is so naive to the way she hurts people that she mistakes their criticism of her as either impertinence or compliments. Assuming she is well-loved and more importantly, loving, she finds herself stranded in the desert with nothing but her own thoughts as companions.
Pieces of memories start coming to her mind that make her begin doubting whether she really is loved or if people are happier without her. During one of these memories, I particularly love an exchange between her husband and her oldest daughter. Rupert (the husband) weaves a logical, indisputable argument as to why Averil (the daughter) should not run off with a married man, 20 years her senior. So calm and firm in the face of a panicky situation.
I won't spoil the ending, but I am FRUSTRATED!! Since no one was murdered, I supposed Christie had to make up for it by leaving off a happy ending. *sigh* I'm glad I read it, but it's not exactly one you can read twice...at least not soon.
I give it a good, solid 3.
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