Just in time for Halloween, a spooky adventure for tweens

Take The Goonies Anniversary Celebration, add a Victorian haunted house and a mysterious skeleton, and you have The Secret Astoria Scavenger Hunt, Book 3 of the Morgan Carey series for tweens!

The new book in the Morgan Carey series

Here's Chapter 1...

The Skeleton in the Floor

The human skeleton dangled from an invisible cord beneath a clear floor panel, light from the nearby fireplace flickering on the top of its skull. Shivering, Morgan tore her eyes from the creepy hole at her feet. “Guys! Come see this!” She stepped around a sign on a metal stand that said, Proud Sponsor of “The Goonies” Anniversary Celebration, and waved at her cousins, sitting at a table at the Smuggler’s Hole Café.

“I’m drawing,” said Sean without looking up.

Ronan slid from his chair, scooting over to join Morgan. “What’s going on?”

“Look at that!”

Ronan peered into the dim pit, covered with a hard plastic square. “You don’t think the skeleton is real, do you?”

“It’s fake, of course.” Morgan tried to sound casual, though her heart beat faster. After that strange Halloween she’d had back in the fifth grade, she knew that even unbelievable things can happen to you—and it can be awfully hard to figure out what’s true and what’s made up. “I mean, what kind of restaurant would have a human skeleton in a hole, except as a joke?”

Ronan stepped onto the plastic panel and jumped on it. “Ronan!” hissed Morgan. Almost ten, Ronan could be a little too mischievous. “You’ll break it! And get us into trouble—”

“No, look, it’s solid,” said Ronan. “Like, double super-glued.” He called to his big brother, “Sean—come over here!”

“Got to finish this first,” Sean said. Morgan hid a smile. Sean, just turned eleven, was the kind of kid who got completely absorbed in whatever he was doing. And when he was really into something, the whole world could blow up and he would hardly notice.

“We watched The Goonies again last night, to get ready for this weekend,” said Ronan. “I guess Sean got all inspired to draw a picture about the movie.”

“I watched it too, before we left home,” Morgan told him. She and her mom were visiting her aunt’s family in the small riverside town of Astoria, Oregon, for The Goonies Anniversary Celebration. “I can’t wait to go to all the events tomorrow! You’re so lucky to live here.”

“You mean ’cause The Goonies was filmed in Astoria?” asked Ronan. “Yeah, it’s pretty cool. Every time Sean and I watch the movie we look for the real places around town.” He eyed the panel like he wanted to stomp on it again.

“Don’t even think about it,” Morgan warned. “The last thing we need is to get grounded, when we’ve got all kinds of Anniversary plans.” Now that she was almost thirteen, starting eighth grade in the fall, naturally her mom was bringing her along to all the parties.

“All right,” said Ronan, pretending to pout.

“My dad teases me and Mom that the movie is just a dorky fantasy, but we think the whole weekend is going to be a blast!” Morgan peeked at the skeleton one last time. It seemed to move a tiny bit, like it was being shaken by an invisible hand. “Uh, Ronan, there’s something…”

He’d already turned toward the table. “Sean!” he called again. “Will you just get over—”

“Never mind.” Morgan shook her head as if to clear it. Seeing this skeleton and knowing she had two whole days in the world of The Goonies had her imagination working overtime. “We’ll get him to look at the hole on our way out.”

They ambled back to the table, the worn floorboards creaking under Morgan’s feet. The Café was located in one of the oldest structures in town, built on a wooden pier that extended directly over the Columbia River. A summer evening breeze drifted through the Café’s open windows, smelling briny and sea-weedy, and Morgan could hear the river lapping against the wood pilings. Her gaze wandered back to the area around the hole. Her aunt said that part was built right over the river. I’ll bet if I went over there and stomped on the plastic, harder than Ronan, the floor would open up and I’d fall right next to that skeleton. She shivered again...

You'll find more about The Secret Astoria Scavenger Hunt and the other Morgan Carey books at www.susancolleenbrowne.com !

A Story of Love, Marriage, and Following Your Dreams

If you're in the mood for a tender love story with a holiday theme, you might enjoy The Hopeful Romantic, Book 3 of the Village of Ballydara series!

Kerry McCormack, a young Dublin wife and mother, dreams of trading her cubicle-bound job for a simpler life. After years of a satisfying marriage, she’s grown apart from her husband Stephen, the strong, silent type whose practical nature masks his longing for a close family.  Unresolved grief is only creating more distance between them…just as a dilemma from Kerry’s past suddenly comes to light.

When Kerry accepts an unexpected invitation from an old friend of Stephen’s—a friend she once fancied— to have an American Thanksgiving weekend in the little village of Ballydara, she’s anticipating an idyllic family holiday with free-spirited Will and his family. Yet the grief shadowing her makes her a little too susceptible to Will’s charm. He’s the catalyst that exposes long-buried secrets between Kerry and Stephen, and the regrets that haunt them both.

As Kerry’s hopes for love and following her dreams are turned upside down, she wonders: will she have the courage for a fresh start?

“The Hopeful Romantic was a pleasure to read for its engaging characters, its authenticity, and its unforgettable moments…a poignant and sometimes humorous, old-fashioned romantic story.”         —Chanticleer Reviews 

Here's brief excerpt:

Every fix I’ve gotten myself into, every eejit thing I’ve ever done, is because of my fatal flaw—I’m a hopeless romantic. And just look where it’s got me.

I gazed at the snowy pasture from the kitchen window, huddled in Stephen’s old work coat, the one item of his I’d taken with me when I’d left Dublin three days ago. Okay, there was the ring too—the new gem-studded wedding band Stephen had surprised me with last month. He’d given it to me over the holiday we’d spent with our friend Will, when everything had changed. Well, more like…imploded. But I couldn’t quite go there. Not today. Not on Christmas Eve.

I rubbed my bare ring finger with my thumb. Why I thought of the ring as Stephen’s…I’d never felt such a flashy piece of jewelry belonged to me, even though he’d had Kerry, Forever, engraved on the inside—such a sentimental gesture for such a prosaic guy. Out of respect, I’d kept wearing the ring, even after he left. But I’d not worn it since arriving here at the farm. I’d put the ring into a saucer next to the kitchen sink and there it had stayed. I would try not to look at it, but invariably, my eyes would be drawn to the flash of sparkle against the countertop. Whether my ring was mocking me or guilt-tripping me, I wasn’t sure.

You may ask, why wear a posh wedding band anyway, after your husband says we need a break? Exactly. But the bigger question was, what had possessed me to come to the farm at all? On the spur of the moment, I’d decided that staying here for a few days would be like a…well, a mini-retreat. On my own, without distractions, I’d find the answers to all my problems. Instead, following this rash, madzer impulse, I’d gotten myself completely stranded. Which is where my fatal flaw comes in…

Available at Amazon, Nook, iBooks and Kobo... You'll find more Irish stories at www.susancolleenbrowne.com!

Rollicking Irish Love Story

Mother Love, the 2nd novel in my Village of Ballydara series, is a love story...and a story about Irish mothers, traditional and not so traditional. In this rollicking tale, meet brash, irreverent Grainne Larkin, a modern Irish heroine juggling family relationships and the man she can’t forget…

Grainne wants three things: her mother's love, a baby, and Rafe Byrne--not necessarily in that order. On Rafe's wedding day, Grainne is keen for a fresh start—why not settle for the nice guy in the wings who’s successful, and mad about her too? Just as Grainne is poised to get her future on track, her family pressures her to leave Dublin for the quaint little village of Ballydara, to help her mother launch a B&B. Given her turbulent relationship with her mam, the last thing Grainne wants to do is live with her.

But when Rafe, her old flame, turns up in Ballydara a free man, Grainne takes a page from her favorite fictional heroine Scarlett O’Hara: she plunges into a no-holds-barred pursuit of the child she wants so badly. But Grainne soon discovers that opening her heart—to Rafe, to the prospect of motherhood, and to her mother—is the biggest risk of all… 

You'll find more about the Village of Ballydara series at www.susancolleenbrowne.com...but in the meantime, here's a sample of Mother Love:

The Gallagher Post

Gai Lannigan’s Blog—Girl Talk

Baby Hunger

Lust for a guy is one thing. But lust for babies is a whole different story. And a lot harder to satisfy. The old cliché about biological clocks is just a polite way to describe waking up one morning, realizing you’ve wasted your youth, and now you can practically feel your eggs shriveling. The viable ones, that is. The duds are probably sashaying merrily round your ovaries, snickering at their rapidly dissolving sisters.

If you’ve baby hunger but no daddy material on the horizon, you’re probably thinking, how can I joke about this? I see your point. Your average baby fanatic is actually a bit of an addict, with a terrible craving for her fix. The trouble is, like other common addictions—say, drink, drugs and gambling—the temptations of babies are everywhere. (Which only increases the baby longing.) Another painful truth is that baby-cravers often gravitate toward careers that provide maximum contact with babies, like pediatricians, or playschool teachers. Unfortunately, jobs like that give baby-lusters minimum contact with what they can’t do without: unattached sperm-providers.

You might be one of the lucky ones, though, with several paternal prospects to choose from. But what if you’re keener on having a baby than having a man? If word gets out, people will think you’re quite heartless, if not altogether mad. Which bothers true baby-lusters not a whit. Your road to motherhood couldn’t be simpler: You pick a fellow you know will drop his drawers for you, no questions asked. Unfortunately, any guy who’ll sleep with you at the snap of your fingers is a guy who’s had it off with every available female who’s crossed his path—not the sort you’d want condom-less.

You could always bide your time and wait for the perfect, baby-making love machine. But who knows how long that could take? So my advice is to go for a nice guy with a presentable gene pool, who won’t make a scene when you cool the relationship. After the deed is done, that is. Trouble is, nice men want to do the decent thing…   

One

“You don’t think Gai really wants a baby, do you?” Justine Egan tapped the screen of her mobile, then drained her pint.

“Don’t tell me you’re reading that blog again.” Crunching a shortbread finger in a dim corner of O’Fagan’s, I stared enviously at Justine’s glass. A pity I’d no head for drink. Today of all days, I’d have liked something to take the edge off. “Aren’t you meant to be checking recipes for birthday cake?”

“Not now.” Justine thrust her phone across the scratched wood table. “Check out today’s Girl Talk.”

“I came to the pub to relax,” I said as she went to the bar for a refill, “not read about angsty girls with too much time on their hands.” But to please Justine, my flatmate and best friend, I scanned her favorite blog, helping myself to a third biscuit. As if a self-induced sugar coma might help me forget why I was mainlining the stuff in the first place.

You know how it is—the day your ex-boyfriend gets married, it’s like a huge insect squished on the windscreen of your life. It’s not like you care or anything, it’s just that the oul‘ bugger is blocking your vision.

O’Fagan’s wasn’t the best place to clear your head either, with strings of Guinness flags hanging listlessly from the ceiling and ancient, smoke-stained paneled walls. And today, the place felt more claustrophobic than usual—a far cry from the flower-bedecked, sun-drenched nuptials I could see in my mind’s eye half a world away. Not that I wanted to be shackled to some guy for life, but there’s something about people you know tying the knot that gets you pondering your own future. Even if it’s a wedding you’d no interest in attending, if they prostrated themselves at your feet and begged you...

An Irish Romantic Comedy... a tender story of love, forgiveness and second Chances

Village of Ballydara, Book 1

It Only Takes Once, Book 1 of the Village of Ballydara series, is  a romantic comedy set in Dublin and the Irish countryside! It's the story of a young single mom following the mad impulse to find the perfect father figure for her son—and what she discovers about love and forgiveness along the way… 

Twenty-something Aislin (pronounced “Ash-lin”) Moore, suspects that her life is seriously stuck in neutral. All she needs is a man…or to be precise, a father. Not for herself—she’s completely estranged from her scruple-impaired dad, and plans to keep it that way. But her daddy-hungry son Kevin has been without one long enough…and she’s determined to succeed at motherhood, even if the rest of her life is a bit of a disaster. So Aislin follows the mad impulse to track down the perfect father-figure for him: who else but Ben Carpenter, Kevin’s real father.

She’s determined to keep her relationship with Ben platonic, especially after their truly awful breakup seven years ago. But Aislin has a way of mucking up her most inspired schemes. She discovers her chemistry with Ben is stronger than ever…then her father’s unexpected gesture creates a seismic shift in their relationship too. What should she do? Ignore her father, or take a chance on forgiveness? Cool it with Ben, or take a chance on love?

It Only Takes Once

Chapter One

The Sign

 The urge to contact an old boyfriend should be approached with extreme caution, I always say. Even if you’ve excellent reasons, any impulse with such potential for disaster on a grand scale should be either squashed immediately, or given due consideration: i.e., discussed exhaustively with your friends, whom you have bribed with cheap wine and equally cheap Cadbury’s to listen to you, and for your trouble, will give you their expert counsel.

In case the confab with friends regarding the ex sets off an uncharacteristic impulse to take action—Saturday night’s strategy session with Deirdre and Maggie ended with a rash, midnight phone call to America—you’ll want to be on the lookout for signs and portents that you’re on the right track.

I was saying exactly that to Deirdre six days later, in the back room of her mam’s shop, O’Donnell’s Books & Collectibles. “Though I was sure I’d get a sign before now. Especially here.”

After all, you’d think a shop stuffed with fairy-themed merchandise—that’s Irish fairies, mind—in tourist-jammed Temple Bar, smack in the middle of Dublin, Ireland, which is home to spiritual icons galore, would be a magnet for messages from the Other Side, the far corners of the world, or the Infinite.

“Signs,” scoffed Deirdre. As my fellow shop assistant, she could’ve been helping me sort through the tatty leftovers from her mam’s parish jumble sale, but she was busy Web surfing. “Maybe you’re meant to watch for the one saying the call was a waste of time.”

“No way,” I said, though I was starting to wonder. While I hardly expected a metaphysical memo to waft in, such as, Attn.: Aislin Moore, Congrats on the genius phone call, surely a teensy insight into my next move wasn’t too much to ask? I gazed balefully at yet another overflowing box, perched on a high shelf. “One more box to go. And the dustiest of the lot.”

“Sling it ’til Monday,” Deirdre said, clicking madly. “Mammy’ll never know.”

I sneezed. “I’m for that.” I swiped my hands on my jumper, then made the mistake of glancing at the box again. It seemed to droop toward me reproachfully. “Shag it all,” I muttered. On tiptoe, I grabbed one corner of the box and jerked it forward. “As if this crusty junk is worth anyth—” I yelped as something thunked me on the head and fell to the floor.

“What?” said Deirdre, eyes glued to the screen.

Rubbing the sore spot, I knelt to pick up the offending item, and almost fell over. “Oh, my God, this is it! The sign I’ve been waiting for.”

 Deirdre swiveled round. “A book.” She wrinkled her pretty nose. “You can’t wear it or eat it—what’s the use?”

“Don’t you see?” Trembling, I ran my fingers over the title, and lurched to my feet. “My fate is shagging sealed.” Deirdre still looked blank. “It’s a sign! Telling me to ring his mam again.”

“An old book told you that?” Deirdre said, incredulous. “The dust in here has addled your brains.”

“Little Women is not just an ‘old book,’” and I hugged it to my chest, “it’s my favorite book of all time.” I’d read my dog-eared paperback a gazillion times, and watched all the film versions over and over. “So, I’ve got to keep trying to contact…you know. Him.” Spurred into action, I set the book down and pulled my rucksack from under the desk. “It’s the least I can do for—”

“Aislin, like I said Saturday, you are so going to regret this,” Deirdre said darkly.

“Bollocks.” Enjoying the novelty of being decisive, I dug out my mobile. “What’s the harm, to make sure she got my message? Maybe my phone numbers got a bit garbled.”  

Deirdre shook her head, her dark, glossy hair swinging round her shoulders. “So what if you meet up with him again, and he turns out to be a loser…or even a gobshite?”

“He’s not the sort,” I said without thinking.

“Well, people change. But have you considered your worst case scenario?”

“Like what?” Staring at my phone, I could feel my grand resolve weaken. I’d tons of reasons for contacting him—I’d even made a list. What was I waiting for?

“Like…our man could still be carrying the torch,” Deirdre said with a melodramatic air. “And in his undying passion for you, he jumps on the next flight to Dublin.”

“As if.” My stomach tightened at the very thought. “I can guarantee that the last time I saw him, he’d dumped whatever torch he ever had for me.” If he’d had one at all...

You'll find It Only Takes Once on Amazon, or your favorite online retailer. See more Irish stories at www.susancolleenbrowne.com !

Slowing Down...the Irish Way

What’s one easy way to slow down your life?

Two words: BBC Television.

Let me back up. Since moving out to the country, I have embraced the Slow Philosophy. In fact, it’s become a big passion of mine! I used to think I was just quirky, in my wish to detach from media and technology, detox from popular culture and leave the rat race to the rats. Now, I discover that despite all my efforts not to be cool, my Slow way of life is actually "in."

Anyway, “The noise and jangle of American life,” as author Bill Holm so eloquently describes it, is the reason I began writing novels set in Ireland. Naturally, my Irish novels led to my Irish-themed blog. But now, after writing a memoir about slowing down and living your passion(s), I find both my novels and my real life fit perfectly under the Slow lifestyle umbrella.

If you'd like to go for both Irish and Slow, there’s no better way than to watch a kinder, gentler BBC-TV series like “Ballykissangel.” This dramedy, set in rural Ireland, is the perfect antidote to most Americans’ rush-rush way of life. It’s got all the clichés of Irish village life: a priest, a pub, and a bunch eccentric characters—as well as the creative use of sheep. But the stories are full of a unique and gentle wit, that seems to exemplify a sweeter, slower way of life.

There’s a real magic in slowing down. You can find me blogging about backyard farming, simplifying your life, and living the slow life in the country at www.littlefarminthefoothills.blogspot.com!

Irish Goddesses

Celtic spirituality, especially the Irish, is alive and well.

In the U.S., anyway. I knew that February 1st marks the feast day of St. Brigit of Kildare, who, in the pantheon of Irish saints, comes in only second to St. Patrick. But I just learned from my favorite Druid, who lives in Oregon, that the beginning of February is also the time to celebrate the original Brigit—pagan Goddess Brighid. She made a regular holiday out of it—celebrating the Brigit/Brighid Mother energy with milk, eggs, and cheese, and lighting a candle to represent St. Brigit’s perpetual sacred fire. And here I thought the only Irish Goddesses we’d catch in America is when Celtic Woman goes on a Stateside tour!

My Druid gave me a Celtic Woman DVD for my birthday, and around our house, we watch it regularly. Often weekly. Who can resist these buxom Irish beauties, even if they lack the razzle-dazzle, much less the wild costumes, of your typical American pop divas, say, Beyonce or Madonna, or poor Britney, God help us. But I’ll take tradition anytime: when CW sings “Danny Boy,” my Irish grandma’s favorite tune, call me sentimental, but I have to run for a tissue.

And I understand they’ve got a new DVD out…Hint to Husband: it would make a great St. Patrick’s Day gift!

Baking Irish

I’m not exactly an adventuresome cook—I prefer to stick with a few dishes that get repeat requests, rather than tempt the cooking gods by trying out new stuff. But inspired by Morag Prunty’s Irish novel, Recipes for a Perfect Marriage, (see September 13 post), I decided to try something I’d never made before: Irish soda bread.

Problem: however tasty-sounding on the page, Prunty’s recipe lacked a certain precision. (When you’re trying something new, and the recipe calls for “enough buttermilk to make a soft dough,” and bake in a “hot oven,” you know you’re in trouble.) So recently, determined to make the real McCoy, I turned to Darina Allen, famed Irish chef and author of “Ballymaloe Cooking School Cookbook.” For one thing, she uses exact measurements and oven temperatures. For another, she’s definitely a purist, since her bread includes only four ingredients: flour, soda, salt, and buttermilk.

As much as I wanted to make the classic version of Irish soda bread, though, I stared at the recipe, dismayed. Darina’s seemed about as basic as, well, hardtack. (You know, the cracker-like rations sailors ate because they had a shelf life of several years. Without preservatives.) So I summoned up my Inner Creative Cook and threw in a few extra ingredients I’d seen in Prunty’s book: raisins, butter, and a spoon of honey. And getting into the spirit of the thing, I didn’t measure any of them.

In keeping with Darina’s classic, purist vision, I patted the dough into a round. Then wielding the sharpest knife I could find, I carved the traditional cross into the loaf, and slid it into the oven.

The result? A bit funny looking; the moistened raisins had incorporated too much moisture into the dough, creating surface pockmarks. So instead of the smooth round I’d seen at our local bakery around St. Patrick’s Day, my loaf looked like it had a terminal case of bread acne. But happily, my husband was unfazed by its less-than-stellar appearance, and cut into it eagerly. And though he has never passed judgment on my cooking, when I coaxed him for a critique, he ventured that it could be a bit sweeter. “But I can always spread some honey on it,” he added loyally. I was further cheered when he finished off the loaf in a few days (instead of sticking it in the back of the fridge and “pretending” he’d forgotten about it). Apparently, it had tasted better than it looked.

So, like any recipe you’re experimenting with, or heck, trying anything new in your life, my advice is, start with classic, go wild with a few extras, and don’t skimp on the sweetness. And when you’re making Irish soda bread, just before you slide your loaf into the oven, don’t forget Darina’s secret: after you’ve scored a cross in the dough, prick in each corner “to let the fairies out!”