Back in Time

Back in Time

Past Life Regression Romance

by

Sherry Boardman

Copyright Sherry Boardman

September 2013

Smashwords Edition

Copyright Sherry Boardman

2013

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This is a work of fiction. Names and characters and locales, other than those specifically researched and listed in the source reference section, either are the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Cover Photo: jeltovski, morgufile.com

Cover Design: Sherry Boardman

Dedication

To Angelia

Who reminded me

all journeys are free to explore

although we may believe them impossible

Chapter One

Catherine stared at the blood dripping from the dagger in her hand tinting the ruffled sunny yellow organza evening dress as it dropped to the elaborate scrolls on the woolen carpet. Raising her head, she grimaced at the body slumped over the massive desk with the older man’s life’s juices oozing onto the papers beneath his head. She willed her trembling legs to move away from the hideous scene, and her back bumped against the floor to ceiling shelves crammed with books written by sages of the past. Her hand reached behind her for support and touched a notched area on the frame. With a whoosh, a section of the shelves opened. Spinning around, she peered into the darkness beyond. Voices in the hall outside the closed door offered no other choice but to enter the black void before her. Once inside, she turned and frantically began feeling the rough casing around the unique door. Her fingers brushed over a latch, and a hysterical giggle almost escaped when she pulled and the slat closed. Inky gloom encircled her small frame. Without thinking, she lifted her other hand to brush away hair that had fallen into her face. The knife. It was still dangling from her fingers. Shuddering, she slung it outward and heard the blade’s clang against the stoned wall.

Perspiration beaded her upper lip as she struggled with the bed coverings to be free of their bond. Finally shoving them all in a lump onto the floor, she sat up, eased her legs over the edge of the mattress and leaned forward on her arms for support. What had all of that been about? Swiping the moisture from her face, she made an effort to rise, but the sudden dizziness caused her to think twice about it at the moment. Her eyes followed the flowered wallpaper pattern up to the ceiling as she summoned details of the dream. Only bits and pieces answered her biding. Grabbing the note pad and pen always on the bedside table, she jotted down the scene as it ran through her mind. Her fingers relaxed while she studied the notes. Not much of anything. Certainly nothing to fill in the blanks occurring before the desk scene. Not even a glimpse of a recognizable face was recalled. However, the sight of the blood dripping on the patterned red, purple and green swirls of the rug was emblazoned in her mind.

Shaking her head at the impossibilities of remembering anything else, she stood and reached over to push the button on the coffee maker. Glancing at the clock, she was relieved to realize she had opened her eyes before the alarm buzzed. That would allow her a few more minutes to be certain she perfectly dressed for the day. The interview scheduled at the textile plant was an important assignment. Long hours had been put in for research and then the perfect drafting of questions to bring forth the right answers for her feature story. The magazine editor had offered little guidance for what he wanted in the end product. Just a couple of columns with a few photo shots of the mill while the workers are engrossed in their craft. It was a dying art. Technology had all but put the genuine craftsman out on the street. Only a few of the original manufacturing companies still existed. The majority of finer products were now imported.

Glancing out the window, flurries of snow swirled through the air. Warm clothing again today, she murmured as she approached the closet door. Her boss had agreed pantsuits were acceptable for this weather. Thumbing through the outfits, the thought of the sunshine hued organza flashed through her mind. Without consciously realizing the reaction, her eyes glanced at the row of neatly hung garments, and she shook her head. No yellow at all. In fact, that color was never considered when shopping.

In less time than normal, she gave a fleeting look back into the small efficiency as she closed the door. Much different than the spacious two bedroom apartment in New York. Shrugging her shoulders, she turned the key in the bolt and tried not to think of what she didn’t have at the moment. The position in Boston was just too perfect to pass when offered. A friend had recommended her to someone in management at Life’s Here! Although she loved New York, her position had grown stagnant. A chance to move upward was nonexistent. When layoffs began, she knew her time was limited in the career she adored. So, once her long-time friend Allison, who had moved to Boston the previous year, called to let her know she would be contacted, the excitement began to mount. Nothing in the Big Apple was really attached to her. The circle of friends was few, and she hardly ever went out to enjoy the much talked about nightlife. What was keeping her there? Out of courtesy, she had phoned her mother to get another’s opinion.

What a great opportunity, her mom had said. There will be so much writing material in that quaint historical city. That is one of the reasons when we moved to Florida we chose St. Augustine. You know what a historical buff your father is.

When the official call came and an appointment confirmed, Catherine began researching to learn more about the ‘quaint’ city. Her enthusiasm grew, as did her confidence that she could handle this new chapter in her life. After all, she had murmured to the monitor, "life is here. Join the race!"

Chapter Two

Approaching the mill’s entrance, she fluffed her hair and smoothed the creases in her pants. Seat belts, her mind screamed. Her attire had been perfect before she slid behind the steering wheel. A young man exiting the building held the door for her. When she stepped inside, the aroma of oil and noise of clacking old wooden looms filled her senses. She had never before been in a textile mill, yet everything seemed so familiar. Research, she thought. She had read a section on the bygone days of the loom. With a nod, she convinced herself it was the extra study. She continued to appreciate the antique decor while waiting for the elevator.

Seth Adams was quite gracious as he introduced himself and offered her a steaming cup of coffee.

The weather calls for it, he said as he saw she was about to wave it off. We could have scheduled for another day.

Shaking her head, she smiled. Once the editor has something on the calendar, it isn’t delayed. We have deadlines, and my little spot is already marked.

Adams leaned back in his chair. How much do you know about the history of the woolen trade?

The blush warmed her face as she took a sip of the hot liquid. Replacing the cup in the saucer, she looked up at him. Not much more than what I have read. Her eyes surveyed the room. However, the environment creates a feeling of olden times.

A ploy, Adams explained. We make a concerted effort to generate that type of atmosphere. The whole process does take one back in time compared to what is done in today’s production efforts. Rising from his desk, he motioned to the door. Shall we begin a short tour?

It took Catherine only a moment to pull her notebook and camera from her satchel. Ready.

It, indeed, was a step centuries back. Women sat at the looms threading the proper color through the lengths of yarn stretched from top to bottom of the frames. Adams offered Catherine a set of earplugs as he mouthed noisy. She noticed all of the workers were using them. Yes, it was noisy. But a creative sound. They passed one worker who was combing cotton. Tedious, but certainly with beautiful results when the smooth ball was added to the others in the basket. Catherine held up her camera in question. Her tour guide nodded. The worker looked up at her, but returned to the task after seeing Adams point at the Life’s Here! Magazine ID badge on Catherine’s jacket. The wrinkled face relaxed, and a faint smile appeared as she began working on another handful of raw wool. The lens was focused and several photos taken before the two moved to another area.

After at least an hour of nodding, smiling, and snapping numerous photos, Adams held out his hand for her to exit through a door in the back of the room.

I hope you found enough interest for a nice article.

Catherine looked up, saw his lips moving, but heard nothing. She cocked her head. He immediately realized the problem and pointed to her ears.

Earplugs. She grinned and removed them.

Better? he asked.

Much. Now, you were saying?

That I hope your magazine will give adequate praise for the job we are trying to keep alive in this generation.

Rest assured, she answered. Looking around this room, she saw neatly stacked bolts of both bold and muted colored wool. This is the end result?

Nodding, he smiled at her appreciation. Yes. You must remember at one time warehouses were filled with them.

Her fingers ran the length of one of the bolts. Her eyes closed to fully sense the finely loomed yarn. What softness. Almost velvety.

Our intention. Adams rearranged a few layers. We realized long ago what the future held, but many were determined to keep an important era of the past alive.

And so you have. After snapping a few more pictures of the end product, they turned to go back to the office when one bolt caught her attention. Chills! The sudden shudder couldn’t be squelched.

Are you all right? Adams asked.

Pointing at the piece noticed, the question sounded calmer than she felt. Is that an old pattern?

His eyes followed where she indicated. The mystical swirls, as we call it? Yes, quite vintage. I believe it’s traced back to the 1700s.

Swallowing, Catherine took a deep breath.

Perhaps you have seen it before? A few select hotels still ask for it to use in the entry. In years past, only the privileged could afford it because of the unusual design.

Flashes of blood dripping on swirled patterned carpet inundated her mind. Her eyes blinked several times to clear the vision. She glanced back at the bolt. No mistake. The pattern was the same as in her dream.

Is there anything else in the way of information I may offer? Adams asked.

His voice startled her out of the trance, and Catherine raised her camera. Mr. Adams, I believe I will allow the pictures to tell most of the story. With what I have witnessed, plus your brochure, I know I will have more than enough to relate your chronicle to the public.

Reaching for her hand, he looked into her eyes and smiled.

What? she asked.

A disappointed blonde, he said quietly.

Catherine reached up and touched her hair and winkled her nose.

With a chuckle, Adams squeezed her hand and allowed it to drop. An old saying, he said. Most blondes have blue eyes. Yours are brown. The saying is that you were created differently, a disappointed blonde, because you did not have blue eyes.

Hmm. Interesting. I think. Gathering her things, she prepared to leave.

People say I am an old soul, he said. I would repeat that to only a few along with all the myths that must accompany the classification. He opened the door for her. It has been a real pleasure visiting with you today, Miss? Mrs.?

Catherine touched her generic ID badge with only the name of the magazine and shook her head. I am so sorry. I thought my editor would give you may name. Henderson. Catherine Henderson. She stared at him a moment and dismissed the idea of relating the story of her short-term marriage and reinstating her maiden name. Miss, she answered when one of his eyebrows lifted. How did we get through the interview without my introducing myself? How inconsiderate of me.

I suppose we just felt comfortable. You know, oftentimes we feel as if one is familiar and have no clue why.

She started walking through the door. Yes, I know.

And she did know. All the way down the hall, she had an uncanny feeling she had known this man somewhere. But he had said he never lived anywhere near where she lived. Shrugging her shoulders, she pushed on the heavy glass door and took a breath of the cold, cleansing air. Then, the disappointed blonde’s brown eyes searched for the street crossing to the taxi stand.

Chapter Three

The ring finger on her right hand hit the period key with a bit more force than usual. She leaned back and admired the finished product. The piece was longer than had been originally planned. Surely her editor wouldn’t cut too much of it. Time and again she tried to trim it down, but taking out one paragraph spoiled the narrative in the next. With a toss of her head, she refused to fuss over it further. Studying her photos, she was pleased with their placement and hoped they could remain as they were. When she pressed the print button, her eyes focused on the one haunting picture...the carpet of swirls. The quiver ran up her spine. It could be omitted, but she refused to allow herself to be ruled by some stupid dream. The purples, reds, and greens were so vibrant that anyone reading the piece would glance at it more than once.

A labeled folder was soon filled with notes and sources. When she glanced at the clock, it was almost a shock she had labored so long on the final read. Hopefully, her editor had not left for the day. She was eager to hand over the best feature story she ever remembered writing.

Her thoughts strayed to the CEO of the mill. Her height of over 5’5" was always an embarrassment. However, she felt comfortable in the presence of those over six feet, and he was ever bit of that. His dark brown hair was neatly trimmed, almost to perfection. An infectious smile topped off the picture. Her eyes went back to the pages now neatly stacked in front of her. Would he appreciate the effort put in this package?

Nonsense, she muttered. Her assignment had been completed as requested. Although his praise would be appreciated, she knew it was well done. Rising, she clipped the pages together and turned toward the editor’s office.

The flutters in her heart couldn’t be squelched as her boss scanned