Opinion? Just wrote this in one big rush and I'm trying to determine whether it evokes what I want or if it's just a lot of pretty words.
This is for the women's fic I'm working on, set in 1964.
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"No." Relaxing against the padded back of my chair I was able to return his smile. "For one, it's a Friday evening—I never have to tutor on a Friday." Allowed myself to exhale a lovely, slow breath. "And secondly, finals are over at Concord, so I'm at liberty, as they say, until the next semester. So I currently have nothing more pressing on my schedule beyond dinner and browsing bookstore shelves."
"Christmas shopping?"
It took more effort than I might have expected to keep the smile fixed. "Well, perhaps some." Jeannette wasn't much of a reader. Whatever the season brought, in whatever form, it would be a far cry from the endless rounds of parties leading up to the expansive Noche Buena celebrations of my childhood, the centerpiece of which was always the lechóns, their crispy brown skins glistening and fragrant with the garlic, cumin, and imported Spanish olive oil of the mojo, the counters in the kitchen groaning under the weight of the all the gastronomic accoutrements that constituted a proper Cuban Christmas Eve dinner.
Even now, I could still see all the tables, beautifully set in our blue and white-tiled courtyard. Not only was it a large space, more than large enough for the elaborate party my parents threw every year, but it was the loveliest ever. Towering palm trees and multi-hued hibiscus and gardenias and oaks and immaculately manicured hedges surrounding the perimeter and providing a lovely canopy overhead, while the multileveled flower-shaped fountain dominated the center, the happy sound of the gently cascading water almost disappearing beneath the equally happy sounds of conversation and the squeals of the little children as they were entertained in the smaller adjoining courtyard by the hired clowns and magicians. There would crystal chiming and fine silver tinkling against delicate china as breezes tinged with the fresh scent of the sea caressed shoulders and necks left bare because we could, in the deliciously balmy late-December air. No cold, numbing winds or harsh, stinging snow to contend with—not for us.
I still remember those Christmas cards Papi would receive from business acquaintances in the States with their snowy scenes in whites and pale blues and that to me, had always seemed so pallid. So… boring. My numerous cousins would pore over them, exclaiming over their beauty and exoticism, but this fascination for what was termed a "traditional" Christmas had always escaped me. How could Christmas be anything but warmth and color and vibrantly, shockingly alive? Those winter scenes, filled with snow and bare-limbed trees and length shadows—to me, the only thing they had appeared to represent was death. A pretty cover for a world that had to rejuvenate, whereas the paradise where I lived was constantly renewing itself, never allowing itself to fall into such a state.
The ignorance—and arrogance—of youth, I suppose. A dangerous, disheartening combination.
"Well, I won't keep you this time, however, I did want to extend an invitation on my wife's behalf before you left for the evening."
Half-lost in memories of ghosts of Christmases past, it took a moment for Greg Barnes' words to penetrate, another still, for my gaze to focus on and register that the stiff cream colored envelope he held was intended for me.