Why Romance Novels?
The very
first romance novel I ever read was Irish
Thoroughbred by Nora Roberts when I was in junior high. My mother was an
avid reader of romance and handed the book over, likely to get me out of her
hair so she could read her own romance novel, and from that first book, I was
hooked. Never again was there a moment in my life that I didn’t have my nose
buried in a romance novel, usually a Harlequin. Never again did I ever go to
school, on a vacation or even to the doctor’s office without a romance novel,
or several, in hand. As I think about the thousands of novels I’ve likely read
to this point, I realize what an important role they have played in my life.
One of
the best parts of a romance novel is the predictable happily-ever-after ending
that can be counted on when you open page one. I can’t underscore the importance
of this convention of the genre enough. There’s always a sense of emotional
safety when reading one of these novels, which allows you to emotionally invest
in the main characters, know them, love them, relate to them, all the while
knowing that no matter what problems they face, it will turn out all right in
the end. You can leave them behind knowing they’ve been taken care of as you
turn the first page of your next book. Real life has enough drama, angst,
uncertainty and pain, without having to add to it in my choice of literature.
Being able to read a great book that will leave me feeling happy and fulfilled
is simply delightful.
Romance
has always had a healthy medicinal quality. What genre is more soothing after a
rough day at work? What genre is more comforting? Romance is a sure way to help
me let go of stress and reach for peace and contentment. Reading about love,
watching the interactions between a rough and tumble cowboy and a feisty city
girl, or a quirky 19th century heroine trying to tame the wayward
habits of a rogue, gives me a vicarious thrill, a way of becoming part of
another world I’ve always wanted to live in that doesn’t allow me to enter with
the problems of my real world. My mind and body can find a calm place, which is
more healthful all around. I call it reading therapy.
Most
significant in my life, the romance genre has high standards when it comes to
its heroes, their values, and how they’re expected to treat women. This was a
wonderful way for a young girl to gain an education in what to require of a
relationship with a man, and to have it reinforced year after year, book after
book, starting from a crucial age. Respect. Tenderness. Friendship. Passion.
Support. Courtship. Too often in today’s society, women allow themselves to be
treated without care, without gentleness, as though they aren’t the most
special person to their spouse or partner. I’m thankful that I was so
influenced by the novels I’d read because, though it took some time to weed
through the frogs, I was patient and refused to settle for someone who wouldn’t
treat me as we both deserved to be treated. I met my prince, and we’ve been
worshipping each other for fourteen years.
Thanks
for stopping by today. Tell me your thoughts! What does romance mean to you? Do
you remember your first book? Author? I’d love to hear from you.
The Dreamwalkers
Book Three
Danube Adele
Book Description:
Dr. Cecilia—Ceci— Bradford at your service.
I dance, rock climb, and have mastered MMA, because just being a twenty-six-year-old doctor isn’t enough. It doesn’t keep me from remembering the terrifying night my life changed, the night my true love died. I was nearly seventeen.
Life goes on, but the secret I keep is that I still talk to him in my dreams. That was getting me by until Tabron showed up—or, more specifically, until the six-foot-two brute of a Viking whisked me off to another planet because his leader is dying. And the joy didn’t end there. I’m being forced to choose a mate. The Brausa are facing extinction.
Tabron has no need for a mate, himself, and he’s told me as much. Multiple times. What he does have are hands and wicked lips that stir feelings I thought lost forever. Choosing him (just to play along until I can find a way home) seems to irk him and I find this surprisingly fun. But surviving a hidden conspiracy and the dangers of this alien place might be more difficult than I could ever imagine…
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Prologue
There were vicious elbows
being thrown, shoulder slams when the ref wasn’t looking and very questionable
slide tackles that took out several players. Clearly, the other coach had
taught his team to play dirty, but even so, no one could touch number twelve.
The tough-ass,
hardcore soccer player wowing the crowd with trick moves and fierce
determination was this cute little ten-year-old girl wearing a pink hair ribbon
and sparkly pink cleats.
My heart ached a
little as I watched her run. This was the kind of kid we would have had, Carlos
and me. She was kicking butt and making no apologies, taking the hits, hitching
the ball up at just the right moments, jumping over outstretched feet, fighting
past the obstacles and punching through the attacks. This kid had guts and a
will of steel. I would’ve loved to have a little girl just like her.
It was clear
that the coach on the other team was about to have a coronary, his face
tomato-red, his body heaving in start and stop sprints up and down the field
while screaming at his team to Cover
her! Cover her! She’s just a little girl! What’s your problem? You gonna let a
girl beat you? He’d
obviously expected his mostly boy team, with the few girls on the team being
sat on the bench, to have a shutout. Wasn’t happening. The game was tied.
My grin was
mocking. Served him right. Schadenfreude to the max.
My pink-cleated
girl flashed by in a sudden breakaway move that had everyone jumping up from
their chairs.
Her long legs
tore down the field. She dribbled the ball left, then right, juked one player,
then another. She broke through the group of defenders, to the gasping dismay
of parents on the other side of the field, and raced full speed for the goal.
No one could stop her. The group of ten-year-olds desperately chased her down
the field amid the excited shouts of nerve-racked parents.
Oh my God!
How did she do that? My own shout mixed in with everyone else’s
as I clapped and hooted.
Go, Jolene!
Go! Go! Go! her coach shouted. Don’t hesitate! Take it all the
way! Go, go, go! He bounded
after her along the sideline.
Damn it! Get
ready, Colby! She’s coming! Stay on your toes! the opposing coach shouted.
Take the
shot! Take the shot, Jolene! You’ve got this!
The goalie
waited. He was a young, shaggy-haired blond boy with knees bent, legs quivering
as he balanced on the balls of his feet to see which way the wind was going to
blow. Sweating under the hot noon sun in the middle of a November heat wave, he
could only watch as she drew back and blasted the ball. It flew low to the far
corner. He dove for it. His gloved hands reached out to block.
Missed it by a
mile. The net stopped the ball.
Hands cupped to
my mouth, I shouted, Great
job, number twelve! Way to get the job done!
Piercing
whistles, excited shouts, and clapping came from my side of the field while
teammates high-fived the girl. Pink-cheeked and glowing with pride, a satisfied
grin split her cheeks. She accepted back slaps and trotted back to join the
lineup in the middle of the field for the next kick-off. It wasn’t to come. The
ref blew the whistle signaling the end of the game, and the little girl’s team
cheered, excited to have won.
I’d want my
little girl to be just like that. Just like that. The unbidden thought whispered wistfully
across my mind once again, but I shook it away before it could cause any major
damage. I wasn’t going to have kids, so it was pointless to ponder it. With a
flush of self-consciousness, I glanced around, but no one was paying me any
attention. I had to remind myself they couldn’t actually see me.
Hey there,
Tiger.
Ahh. This was
why I was here.
I smiled at my
hated childhood nickname and responded as I was expected to. I spun around,
gave him a good shove. Jerk.
Don’t call me that.
Carlos laughed,
not the least bit rocked by my actions, probably because I hadn’t actually been
trying to hurt him. He was my forever best friend, confidante, first and only
boyfriend, best...everything, and had been since day one. He pulled me in for a
quick squeeze, where I burrowed my face into my favorite spot on his chest,
before he leaned back to look down at me, dark eyes twinkling with mischief.
His black hair had a stubborn lock that liked to droop over his forehead. I
brushed it back for him. He definitely had a Benjamin Bratt thing going on.
He winked at me. The little girl reminds me of you.
Me? I studied the little girl, who was
grouping up with her teammates to do a 2-4-6-8 chant in appreciation of the
other team.
Carlos smiled. You were just like her at that
age. Don’t you remember? Absolutely fearless.
Fearless? I scoffed, but he wasn’t kidding.
Seriously.
Nothing kept you from trying whatever the hell you wanted to. Always confident,
like you knew things were just supposed to work out for you. He paused. They usually did. You were a force
to be reckoned with.
You make me
sound like a superhero.
I’d meant it as
a joke, but he furrowed his dark brows. You
kind of were. You acted like nothing could stop you. It was always balls to the
wall with you. I wanted to be like that. When we were growing up, you would
piss me off and make me proud at the same time with the way you took risks. But
of course, it always worked out and usually in a big way.
I gave him my
smirky eyeroll. I think
you’re exaggerating.
I don’t
think I am. He shook his head for emphasis. You were always ready to not just
win, but kick ass if anything got in your way.
Where was he
going with this? He was being so uncharacteristically insistent. I gave him a
covert, assessing look, like I would a patient who seemed...off. He looked the
same as usual—handsome, friendly, gentle—but still, his attitude took the edge
off the warm memories we were sharing, and I felt my grin sliding as he
continued.
Don’t you
remember? No one could keep up with you. You’d just get this look on your face,
set your chin in a particular direction and anyone who got in your way would be
toast. He pressed in a little, and I almost stepped back.
But this was
Carlos. My Carlos. I shook the strange feeling off and chuckled at his
description of me, trying to just enjoy the feeling of contentedness, warmth
and love that I always felt when he came to my dreams. I cocked my head
coquettishly and smiled. You
managed to keep up with me.
By the skin
of my teeth, and not even half the time. My ego suffered.
But you
handled it.
He took a
moment, studying my face. At the point when it started feeling weird again, his
intense expression relaxed into a smile. The
best I could. He
tweaked a lock of my long, black hair. Calling
you names and pulling your pigtails.
We were on track
again. You’re going way back
in time.
For some reason,
I catch myself remembering lately. Times when we did our homework together.
Times when we went riding our bikes around the neighborhood, scavenging
whatever you were certain we needed for your next project or adventure. I
remember calling you bruja.
My look was
pointed. What about froggie
and...something else. Tom, short for tomboy. I didn’t appreciate that, as I
recall. I nudged his arm.
His laughter was
immediate, filling the cold, sad places inside me with remembered warmth. I
didn’t even mind when he shook his finger at me and announced, You deserved to be called froggie.
I got in trouble because of you over that little episode. You told everyone it
was my idea. My mom wouldn’t let me go out for a week after that stunt, and it
was summer. Do
you remember how much that sucked? You still owe me for that.
I tried to look
outraged, but couldn’t keep from giggling. But
itwas your idea
to make a lily pad garden in the backyard with that blue, plastic kiddy pool.
Yeah, but my
idea was to use make-believe frogs and grass and leaves from the yard. You were
the one who insisted we walk over to Bailey Canyon and find actual lily pads
and frogs.
I was doing
my part to make it authentic.
He raised his
eyebrows. Yeah, well, as I
recall, the look on your mother’s face was one of authentic horror when the
bucket tipped over on her beautiful hardwood floors and frogs were jumping
everywhere.
I snickered. Everyone was suddenly jumping
after the frogs. My mom, your mom, my dad, me, you, the dogs...it was mad,
chaos. Frogs everywhere. Even a few days later, we found frogs behind the
furniture. Unfortunately, they were dead and resisted my valiant efforts to
revive them, though I did, very appropriately, try CPR. I’d forgotten about that.
See? Like I’d proven his point. All of us moving to the
beat of your drum. You were hardcore, this little girl with a larger-than-life
point of view. Keeping up with you was a full-time job. You’re the only girl I
ever let give me a black eye.
I shot him a
snarky look. You didn’t “let”
me do anything. I was tougher than you.
That new,
thoughtful expression, the one I was starting to dislike, reemerged. Was it
something I’d said? He searched my face for a quiet moment, then nodded, like
he’d suddenly realized something.You’ve always been tough. You never
needed...anyone. Not even me. You were sure of yourself. You helped me find
that for myself. I want you to know I appreciate that.
I didn’t need
him? Where was this coming from? It almost sounded like a goodbye. Silly. Where
would he go? I brushed a prickle of fear away and managed a smirk. Good.
No really. I
mean it.
The kids lined
up on the field so they could shake hands with the opposing team.
He held out his
hand. Walk with me?
Always. I clasped his hand and made the promise
with a warm smile. It’s
been too long. I’ve missed you so much. There
was no one in my life who could take his place. Certainly not any of the guys
I’d tried dating. Being on my own, having my medical career and these visits
from Carlos, this was the best I could expect now. You used to come more often, and
we could spend time together. Now you only come every other month or so, if
that, and our time seems so much more limited. You barely give me the news that
someone needs help, and then you’re gone. Why not more often?
He frowned for a
moment, then squeezed my fingers gently. How
are things?
I let it go. It
wasn’t the time to push this. I never knew when he was going to get pulled away
from me. So much has happened
between the times when we meet that I can’t remember where I left off last
time. My family is good. Your family is good.
How are the
wicked seven?
I laughed at his
description of my cousins. We’d all grown up together, more like siblings. We
were all black-haired with the same shade of green eyes, inherited from our
mothers and grandmother. This was where bruja had come from. Witch. When we were
kids, Carlos had insisted that anyone with black hair and green eyes was a
wicked witch, and he’d teased me with that unmercifully for years.
Everyone
seems happy and satisfied within their own predictably dysfunctional world.
Stephanie is close to being married, Cassie is likely on her way to her
deathbed—according to her own self-diagnosis using WebsmartMD—and Amanda’s
finished her credentialing to teach. She’s looking for a job now. Oh! Your
brother went off to complete a sabbatical in some distant corner of the world
where he could study the customs of some obscure native tribes. Not sure of the
details. Your mom told me the last time I saw her, which was last week, I
think, when we ran into each other at the grocery store.
His smile
changed, sort of went heart deep and introspective. He looked down at the
ground as though seeing the image within the square pattern blocks of cement. I’ve seen my brother. He’s happy.
He’s going to be okay.
Leaving the
park, we walked companionably through a suburban neighborhood, the kind you’d
find at the beginning of a Steven Spielberg movie, like E.T. or Poltergeist or something like that. Kids were out
playing in the street, adults gardened in fashionably strange, floppy-looking
hats, and there was a sense of safety and peacefulness. Of course, if this were
a Spielberg movie, in the next scene, the shit would hit the fan.
This was the
nature of our relationship now. I never knew where we would end up when we
dreamed together.
Carlos leaned
into me affectionately with a light shoulder-to-shoulder bump. How’s the doctoring?
I love it.
The energy of the trauma ward is like nothing else. It’s always go, go, go.
Stay on your toes. Be alert. Take charge. Every day is something new. Someone
comes in ready to die, and I can fix them, send them back to their loved ones.
Every day, I can see the difference I make in the world. The feeling is
amazing. Cars drove by, taking carloads of kids
from the soccer field. A few days ago, I actually got to do
a heart massage, which is unheard of in the ER
You had to
pump a guy’s heart?His
squinty-eyed wince said it all. There was a reason not everyone became a trauma
surgeon. Carlos had never liked the sight of blood.
Yes. It was
an amazing moment, having someone’s heart in my hand and pumping it to keep
them alive.The
remembered excitement of that day had my blood surging with renewed adrenaline,
and the story tumbled out. This
guy was brought in, barely breathing, and he goes into arrest on my table. So
I’m going through the checklist wondering what the hell is wrong with him,
right? He looks young and healthy. There was no other sign of major trauma,
abdomen was soft, so I could tell he wasn’t bleeding internally, and because he
was turning blue, it had to be something with respiration.
Remembering gave
me that wired feeling again. Problem-solving at that level of intensity was the
best kind of drug. I figured
it must be some kind of pulmonary embolus, some kind of blockage between heart
and lungs, which was the only thing making sense. We hit a point where even
with heart compressions, we weren’t getting a pulse. By then, I’d called a
cardiologist, and it was do-or-die. We decided we had to crack his chest and
pump his heart manually, which got a pulse going long enough to get him to the
OR, where he had an eight-hour surgery to remove some nasty blockage by his
heart.
When I finished,
Carlos had a funny smile on his face.
What? I asked. Did
I lose you in there?
No, I
managed to follow.
Why the
smile?
You’re
living your dreams. I’m proud of you. You kick ass, Ceci. You always have.
You’re going to be okay.
Okay? I guess I
was, but it seemed weird for him to say it, again like it was some kind of
final proclamation. I could agree for the most part, that I was okay, living
out some amazing career dreams. The silence stretched while I studied the
handsome face I’d memorized long ago. It was a reminder some things were never
going to happen. Not all of
my dreams will be lived.
He shook his
head before I could even finish my sentence. I
wasn’t a dream. I get that now. We were just kids, Ceci. You have to know that.
What was this
about? We had plans, Carlos,
remember?
He shook his
head impatiently. We made
childish plans. What were you, sixteen? Seventeen?
They weren’t
childish to me! I was counting on them. I worked my ass off to finish school
early so we could go to college together. Remember? Get our degrees, get
married... We’d talked about places we were going to visit together,
things we wanted to do in life. Take
time to travel, maybe go to Costa Rica.
His look turned
stubborn. If you want to go
to Costa Rica, you should go.
That was our plan! My irritation was turning to
fear. We were going to be all
bohemian, remember? You and me. Together. Why in the hell would I want to do
that now?
He took a deep
breath, but his eyes never left mine. You
were counting on life happening. So was I. We don’t always get what we want.
I know it.
Every day of my life I know it. I live it! My voice was rising, but I couldn’t help
it. The horror of that day came back—the screams, the terror, the sobbing, the
sound of the ambulance, the helplessness I swore I would never feel again, the
blood so thick and warm, tacky, coating my hands, soaking into my jeans in that
deep, deep red arterial color, the color of a deep bleed. There was nothing I
could do, and all because of a stupid argument... My eyes burned with shame,
but I fought back the moisture. Too hard to think about it.That was the
worst day of my life. I’ll never forget.
You aren’t
the only one that lost on that day. A surge of anger flared in his dark brown
eyes. It faded quickly, but this time I knew I’d seen it.
What? What
was that for?
What? He looked off toward the mountains with a
neutral expression, not making eye contact.
The look on
your face.
What look?
Cut it out.
You know what I’m talking about. Stop playing dumb.For the first time ever, I felt a crack in
the connection I shared with him. There was distance between us, like he was
closed off to me. Like he was pulling away.
He tried giving
me a quick smile, but it wasn’t a real one. I knew what his real smiles looked
like, each kind he gave. This one didn’t touch his eyes at all. He gave my hand
another quick squeeze and let out a sigh. I’m
fine. I don’t know what you’re talking about.
Yeah, you do. I couldn’t help the sullen tone of my
voice. That was a blow-off response if I’d ever heard one.
I’m here for
a reason, remember? I don’t get much time to do what I need to do. I’ve got
something to show you.
I know, I
know. It’s always all business now.
Something was
very wrong. There had never been a time when he hadn’t shared what was on his
mind. It got my back up and the stubborn child inside of me decided to pout. If
he didn’t want to tell me, then I didn’t want to know. He could sit and stew
with it. Jerk. Except who knew when I’d see him again?
Yeah, fine.
Show me. We’d
turned a corner and hit a more rundown neighborhood. The houses had bars on the
windows, grass grew in the cracked sidewalks, and fewer kids were out. A
feeling of oppression seemed to cast a dark shadow over this neighborhood. It
was enough to make me want to back the hell out and find that nice Spielberg
neighborhood again.
Look. He gestured to the house in front of us.
Somehow, it was even worse than the rest on the block. It was a puke green with
falling-down shutters on the front window, a broken screen door that yawned
crookedly, and grass so overgrown someone could hide a body in it. It was on a corner,
slightly separated from the other homes.
Carlos turned
his soulful eyes on me, and I knew it was going to be bad.
Tell me. I braced myself.
She lives
here. Our little soccer player.
Irritation with
Carlos forgotten, I looked back at the house. No way was that little girl on
her way to pizza.
A woman’s scream
split the air. A crash. A man’s voice yelling. Another crash. The sounds of
violence erupted so suddenly my heart jump-started. A child’s cry bled through
the walls punctuated with, No,
no! Leave her alone! Don’t touch my mommy! No!
This was a
nightmare. I looked to Carlos. What
the hell?
There’s
nothing you can do. They can’t see us.
The hell
there isn’t. I sensed the girl’s desperation and felt a
rush of panic. I tried to push through the gate, but I couldn’t grasp it. I had
no substance. A frustrated growl came from my throat. I couldn’t even kick that
damn fence.
Soon. He caught my arm and held my gaze.
Sudden intuition
made me pause. She’ll be coming in?
Yes.
That can
only be bad. There was another sound of crashing, and
then quiet weeping punctuated by low moans. To stand there and hear the
ugliness was painful.
It’ll be
bad, but you’ll take good care of her. The intensity was back on his face. And one day, she’s going to want
to be a doctor just like you.
I accepted that
responsibility with joy in my heart. Part of the girls-kick-ass club. Good.
What was she
going to look like when she came in?
The worry fled
as soon as it arrived. Carlos was fading on me, about to become one with the
ether. He pulled me in for one more tight hug, and the pain of separation hit
me as it always did when the blackness smothered us and pulled us apart.
Traveling back
through the layers of consciousness, I wondered when I would be able to dream
him again. The feel of him faded until I was alone, waking up with the early
morning gray and a sense of loss that was always a part of me.
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About the Author:
Danube Adele wrote her first romance at the age of seven when she penned the story of her dogs falling in love and having puppies. She’s been dreaming up romantic tales ever since. A lifetime resident of southern California, she spends time playing at the beach, camping in Joshua Tree National Park, and hiking Mammoth Mountain.
Always a lover of adventure, she and her husband took their sons on a cross country road trip to Florida and back in an old VW Westfalia, that had no A/C, in the month of July, and still, it continues to be the best trip they ever took.
Extensive travel and trying new things has kept the creative spark alive. Danube lives in Claremont with her biggest fans, her loving husband, amazing and wonderful identical twin sons, and a teddy bear of a Rottweiler.
Her debut novel, Quicksilver Dreams, Book 1 of the Dreamwalker series, was released January 6, 2014, and Dreams of a Dark Summer, Book 2 of the Dreamwalker series, is set for release June 9, 2014. The next book in the Dreamwalker series is set to come out in December, 2014.
1 comment:
I'm not sure my favorite book qualifies as a romance, but I consider it as such. I read Little Women for the first time in 5th grade. I loved that the central character was a strong female. She knew what she wanted in life, and it wasn't the boy/man that her whole family thought she'd end up with. The romance side of the story is very innocent, which was entirely appropriate for a 5th grade girl.
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