A Christmas wedding, how romantic. Or so I thought at eighteen. You know the trite literary hook, “Little did she know…”
And so it happened that for many decades Christmas deep-sixed our wedding anniversary. Oh, the holiday ceremony proved as romantic as the idea did upon conception. Holly spread scarlet glory along the reception table and red roses brightened the bridal bouquet. All else was white as the snow that drifted down in early afternoon––enough snow to lend a fairytale atmosphere, not enough to keep away the guests who forfeited part of their family get-together to wish us well. Everything went perfectly. My new mother-in-law sent us off for our wedding night in the big city with turkey sandwiches and pumpkin pie for a midnight snack. She guessed rightly that we’d both have worked up an appetite by then.
What bride wouldn’t dream of a happy-ever-after, ushered in with such a perfect beginning?
What bride with an ounce of brains would not realize that she’d not only stolen time from the mother and great aunt who sewed her satin gown in the midst of making holiday cheer for their families, but burgled herself of wedding anniversary celebrations for years to come?
What wife, mother, or grandmother who celebrates Christmas abandons her duties with the turkey and pumpkin pie for a romantic dinner with her man? Will there be extra money for roses, champagne much less a room at the Inn?
Nothing changed until we began to share our adult children with in-laws, freeing some Christmas Days after early family celebrations in our household. The holiday wasn’t through with us, however. Our anniversary trips found us in strange eateries for Christmas Dinner. Truck stops are famous for offering hearty foods on road trips, but neither the atmosphere nor the recipes are the least bit romantic.
One year’s anniversary dinner of waffles at a counter put us among a number of characters who would be great in a novel. None appear in Two Hearts in Time, my new release from the Wild rose Press, but experiences of all kinds crop up in my writing. A week among Yucatán’s Maya pyramids led to my heroine’s career and the incident that tossed her through a time portal into the arms of a 19th century tomb looter. Not a fortuitous match for romance in an archaeologist’s eyes, but one with infinite possibilities for adventure, action, and yes, sexual tension.