The internet helped me locate the very first genre romance I ever read as an adolescent, a book that made such a strong impression on me, I still can't use the word “chiffon” in a crossword puzzle without thinking of it. (You never forget your first heroine's dress with usefully inconvenient tiny buttons down the back...)
The book was The Romantic Spirit by Glenna Finley, a prolific author in the '70s and '80s who is now pretty obscure. I've never seen a mention of her in the last eight years or so I've hung out in online Romancelandia; her GoodReads ratings are high, yet there are only two short reviews. Rereading this book now, it doesn't seem surprising that her books haven't lasted: it is very much a product of its time, yet in a way that already seemed dated to me when I first read it, around a year after it was published. With its superficial descriptions of the counter-culture, coupled with the heroine's extreme prudishness about sex, it reads like the last gasp of a fading world; the main character is a wide-eyed tourist, not just in California, but in society at large:
Maggie shook her head wonderingly as they passed a teen-aged twosome where the coloring of the girl's tie-dyed jeans resembled the many-shaded bleach job in her hair. Her escort had his shoulder-length hair pulled back in a ponytail as he strode along in a garment that looked like a Moroccan caftan except for the Wild West fringe on the bottom.
'If I didn't know better, I'd swear this was a “Come as you are” party,' Maggie murmured to John.