IT ONLY TAKES ONCE

By

Susan Colleen Browne

"The Confab"

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 1) squashed immediately, or 2) 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-boyfriend proves inconclusive (results of the weekend's strategy session with Deirdre and Maggie: one "No" vote, one "Yes," and one that didn't count), or more likely, you're stricken with terminal indecision, you'll want to be on the lookout for signs and portents to point you in the right direction.

This breakthrough came to me one gloomy Monday, as I stood behind the counter at O'Donnell's Books & Collectibles. I figured within hours, I'd be sent either 1) a firm go-ahead, or 2) an emphatic, Are you bloody mad?

By Thursday, however, no signs had appeared. Not in O'Donnell's, anyway. And you'd think a shop (stuffed with fairy-themed merchandise-and that's Irish fairies, mind), in Temple Bar (jammed with tourists), smack in the middle of Dublin, Ireland (also home to spiritual icons galore), would attract some sort of message from the Other Side, the far corners of the world, or the Infinite. Sort of like a metaphysical memo wafting in with my name on it. As in, Attn.: Aislin Moore.

But nothing.

So much for my sign theory. As the afternoon wore on (an unusually slow day sales-wise, which added to the strain), I began losing hope: would I ever make a decision? To counteract my inertia, I slipped into the back room to tackle the day's deliveries-an activity with all the upside of getting your own post, without the downside of receiving personal bills marked with an ominous "Overdue."

"Need any help, Ash?" Deirdre O'Donnell, the other shop assistant and my best friend, strolled in. Happily, Deirdre-who fluctuated between scarily efficient and a total slacker-was in the latter mode. "Mammy's happily chatting up two ancient ladies from Clare."

"Keep me company, will you?" Noticing a smallish parcel with my name on it (no, I mean, the package really was addressed to me), I gleefully seized it. The postmark held the ever-promising lure of the exotic: Atlanta, Georgia, U.S.A. "I've something from Mother."

"A new handbag?" Deirdre wondered. Her handbag collection was immense-though most of the bags were too tiny to hold more than a lipstick-which made me suspect our boss slipped her daughter a few extra euro in her pay packet.

"Chocolates," I guessed, tearing at the tape. "Last time she sent Godivas, and I thought I'd died and gone to heaven. And with my, em…current budget," (code for "empty bank account"), "Mother's little surprises always put me in great…" and I got the box open, "…form." I stared down at my gift.

"A book," said Deirdre. "You can't wear it or eat it-what's the use?"

And you work in a bookshop? Ready to laugh, I read the brief message on the enclosed linen sheet. My smile faded. "Oh, no."

"What?"

"My fate is shagging sealed."

"Aislin, what are you talking about?"

"It's a sign-so I've no choice but to contact you-know-who." I waved the gift at her.
"Because of an old book?" Deirdre said, incredulous.

"Not that a mint condition of Little Women is just an 'old book,'" and I checked the title page, "especially an original 1913 edition, mind, but because of the note. See?"

Deirdre scanned the paper. "So, your mam's postponing her visit to Ireland. What's the big deal?"

"With my mother's latest excuse to stay out of the picture," I said, trying to sound like I didn't care, "I've really no other family to count on, except for my granny Moore."

"Lucky for you, your granny's a treat," Deirdre observed. "I wish mine were as hip-but what about your sister?"

"'Emotionally unavailable,' I think they call it," I said. "Along with every other kind of unavailable." When Deirdre opened her mouth, I added, "Trust me."

"But there's your dad-"

"No," I said. Not in this lifetime. "So, I've got to try to talk to…you know. Him." Spurred into action, I grabbed the note back, slipped in front of the shop's computer and dialed up the browser. "It's the least I can do for-"

"Ash, you are so going to regret this," Deirdre predicted darkly.

"Bollocks-didn't Maggie think it was a grand idea? Inspired, really."

"That's because my sister thinks she's the reincarnation of… what's the name of that cliché Mammy on American telly, from way back? Married to the fellow who's so patient and understanding you're thinking he's no relation to reality?"

"I'm trying to concentrate here…" I Googled "White Pages" and made my selection.

"You know," Deirdre persisted, "They have that annoying little boy…Beavis something?"

"Oh, right-June Cleaver. From 'Leave it to Beaver.'"

"That's it." Deirdre snorted. "Maggie's always on about things working out as long as you think positive."

In my opinion, Maggie's horny streak sort of canceled the June Cleaver comparison, but I was too relieved at finally making a decision to argue. "Well, a good attitude can't hurt, can it? And what's the harm of getting his e-mail address? I can chat him up online a bit, you know, for old times' sake, then throw out a few feelers. Remember, when we went to your mam to break the tie, she agreed I should go for it."

"Mammy's a hopeless romantic," Deirdre pointed out. "And did you forget? We disqualified her vote. Since we didn't name names."

"Actually, we did-sort of," I contradicted her. "We gave her the distinct impression we were talking about poor Nan, down the road." Nan with the parade of "boyfriends" and three mix-and-don't-match kids.

"I still don't get it," Deirdre said. "Why now, after all this time?"
"You saw my list of reasons-"

"But have you considered your worst case scenario?"

"Like what?" I selected "Search" to obtain the USA phone listings, feeling my stomach tighten.

"Like he…he 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," I retorted. "I can guarantee that the last time I saw him, he'd dumped whatever fleeting torch he had for me-if he even had one. Bet you anything he still lives in the Minnesota sticks, and sells computers at…at Wal-Mart."

"Has he a wife and kids, do you think?" Deirdre asked.

I tightened my grip on the mouse. "I'd be surprised if he didn't." But I couldn't let a family deter me. To strengthen my resolve, I re-read my mother's note.

Sorry, darling. Can't make it to Dublin to help you out for your holiday after all-Derek's taking me for a cruise. Maybe another time? Enjoy the book! Love, M.

"Meanwhile," I said crossly, and clicked on "residential," "with my mother off in a tropical paradise with her lovely new husband, I can curl up with her gift in the comfort of my own flat. And alone of course, due to the cancelled holiday."

"Maybe you should mull over your mam not coming, get over your disappointment first, before you ring-"

"I've reached my tipping point," I said, rather enjoying the novelty of being decisive. "And you know how much this holiday meant to me."

"So you and Mr. Romantic can give it one more go with a wild getaway?"

"A few days in Kerry, on our own, is hardly wild," I said with dignity. "It was my only chance for Sam and me to-"

"Have one for the road?" Deirdre giggled.

"You've a dirty mind," I chided. I'd never been big on having one, much less for the road. "I was trying to say, hash out our relationship issues."

"What's to hash? If you ask me, he thinks he's too good for-"

"I didn't," I interrupted. "Anyway, my mother not coming… it's a sign."

"If you say so," Deirdre said, then looked on as I typed.

Last Name: Carpenter
First Name: Anne
City: Eagle Prairie
State: MN

I aimed the screen arrow at "Search for listing" squeezed my eyes shut, and clicked.

"You're mad," said Deirdre, as I turned Mother's note over to the blank side. I reached for a pen, and with a shaking hand, scribbled down the number. "But if you're so dead keen on doing this," she advised, "you might as well ring the woman at breakfast, before she's left for the day."

Luckily, Deirdre had an amazing facility for time zone calculation. But no head for accounts. Go figure.

I peeked into the front of the shop to see Polly's avid expression-meaning, a sale was imminent. "Your Mam won't mind if I put in a very quick call to the States?" I asked Deirdre. After all, you'd have little to say to a woman you haven't seen for years.

"Mammy knows you're good for the charges," Deirdre answered. So, ignoring that sinking feeling, rather like a large stone sitting right behind your navel, I picked up the phone…

Copyright © 2007 Susan Colleen Browne. All rights reserved. This excerpt, or parts thereof, may not be used in any form without the expressed written consent of the author.