And she loved him, too! It was there from the first, he realized, resisted because they each had spouses. Unpleasant, cheating spouses, but spouses none the less.
These were things to be separately dealt with. They can’t allow this newly discovered wonder to shatter their marriages. Those had to founder on their own set of rocks, despite every effort to save them. Better never to fulfill this wondrous thing than taint it with a less than honest attempt to rescue his crippled marriage.
So, he would go back into therapy. Bruce knew everything about him. He’d help him work it out and lead him to the right decision. No more delays making the appointment. Next week for sure. He was eager to begin, already confident of the outcome.
Ashley!
It would be Ashley. No way would Toni ever make the necessary long-term commitment to put their fractured marriage back on sound footing.
Ashley! It would be Ashley.
He could hardly wait!
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
“So Mrs. Easton, have a seat and tell me how things are progressing?”
She perched uneasily on the edge of the cavernous chair, rigidly upright, her fingers tensely interlocked in her lap.
“Not as well as I had hoped, Doctor.”
“Oh? You seem tense. Try to relax, and tell me about it.”
She settled tentatively into the folds of the soft leather.
“This thing… The Terror… it isn’t over.”
“Your fear during sex?”
“Yes. It happened again, a few days ago, just as strongly as ever.”
“You were making love with Keith and you became afraid again?”
“Yes and no. My horsy friend and I suddenly discovered we were more than just pals. It was only a kiss… a wonderful kiss… but the same panic was there, stronger than ever. I thought that terrifying regression was supposed to cure everything.”
“When dealing with the mind, there’s never any guarantees.” He fidgeted, knowing where this was going, uneasy with that knowledge, but there seemed little choice.
“Sometimes we have to do several regressions to find all the incidents conspiring to interfere with a normal life. Are you willing to try again?”
“God, that was so horrible. I couldn’t bear going through it again.”
“You won’t have to. We won’t go back to that time. We’ll see if there is something else contributing to these anxieties.”
“Anxieties sound a little mild. According to you, I invented my own murder. That’s pretty bizarre, don’t you think?”
“What I think isn’t important, but the mind does do some pretty strange things to cover its tracks. Another regression may be the only way to unscramble this mystery.”
“Is that necessary? The last one was so… so terrifying!”
“It’s your choice, of course, but if you want to resolve things…”
“Yeah, but it still makes me nervous. We going to do this now?”
“If you’re ready. No time like the present.”
“Oh, all right. Let’s get it over with.” She sighed, leaning back, resigning herself. “This spookiness has gotta stop.”
“Close your eyes then, relax, and empty your mind.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
She slid into a deep trance, descending those stairs, lying peacefully on the now familiar bench, her Higher Self hovering above her body.
“You are going back, back, back in time. Back to the time of your fear. Not all the way back to 1695, but to the next time you became afraid of making love.
“Three, two, one. Are you there?”
“Yes.” She frowned, a look of sadness clouding her face.
“Albert, stop the carriage. I will walk from here.”
Carriage? Warning bells went off in his head.
“What are you doing now?”
“I am walking home. I worry about father. He is ill. I am overwhelmed by unpleasant thoughts.”
Feldman knew her father had died six years before, but wasn’t it an auto accident? Was she doing it again? He began to hyper-ventilate.
“Where are you, and what is the year?” His voice tense, knowing he wasn’t going to like the answer.
“Philadelphia. ‘Tis the Summer of 1845.”
Oh, boy! Here she goes again.
But he had to see this through, for himself as much as his patient.
“What is your name?”
“Morgana. Morgana Quincy.”
“Tell me what’s happening.” He unconsciously clenches his jaw.
“I am lost in thought….,” she begins, spreading before Feldman a narrative of torment over her father’s illness and eventual death, disillusionment at her husband’s blatant affair, and the blooming but somehow familiar love for Robert Isaac. That tale, drawn over nearly a year, segues into a surrey ride to a picnic in a picturesque forest glade.
As she unfurled the details of that last afternoon, Feldman is drawn back with her. Her descriptions are so happily crafted, it’s as if he is there. He actually sees them making languorously love beneath the shade of a huge old tree.
Anger boils up, surging through him like flowing lava.
That bastard Jew, fucking the selfish bitch, right in the open, cheating us of our right.
He reels back into his chair.
Oh, God, not again! I can’t be doing this again.
Feldman struggles for breath. Oh the cheating bitch! She’ll pay for her infidelity.
He’s uncontrollably burning with raged again. Somehow, he sees them, locked together in a tangle of arms and legs, moaning in wicked ecstasy.
He senses someone rising from the ground beside him. A hand grasps his shoulder, pulling him to his feet, pushing him forward.
He rushes out of the woods, joined by a shadowy other.
The whirring and thumping of some mighty tool of destruction swamps his head, as the slaughter of two newly-found lovers is repeated… 150 years later… reducing them to unrecognizable chunks of flesh and bone, scattered across the meadow. Slippery gore covers everything.
You bitch! Feldman’s thoughts rage. How could you do it? You bitch!
Morgana’s cries ring in his head.
She is dead, turned to bloody pulp, but still her sobbing screams resound around him. He is paralyzed by his seething anger.
Punishment! The Goddammed bitch needs to be punished.
Strangely, her calls continue, impinging on his brain. But she’s dead!
“No! Oh, God, no!”
He blinks, and sees Ashley, curled in a fetal ball, a coppery veil of hair spilling over her face. Choking sobs rack her body, her arms crossed rigidly in front of her face, her hands curled stiffly, claw-like.
“Mrs. Easton?” His throat parched, the words a rasping caricature of his normally soothing voice.
“Mrs. Easton!” A dry squawk but stronger, as he regains some control of his own senses.
“Oh, God! It killed us. It killed us again.” She rocked back and forth in the chair, her body still twisted and stiff. Feldman takes a deep breath, struggling for control.
“You’re still safe in your protective bubble.” The therapist forced calm quiet into his voice, but his tongue burned with a terrible ache.
“Nothing can harm you there. Relax. You are just seeing these things, not feeling them. It’s all over now. It’s time to come back. Back to your body, lying peacefully on the bench.
“Back to the present…”
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
“…3,2,1. You’re awake now.” He reaches over, touching her forehead. “Safe, here in my office.”
Ashley remained scrunched into a tight, quivering ball, wedged into the corner of the big leather chair, keening softly. He had to regain control.
“It was only a fantasy,” his voice gravely. “A dream. It wasn’t real.”
But he was no longer so sure. What’s going on here? He blinked several times and wiped his brow. He was drenched with perspiration.
“But if
felt so real.” She was still panting, slowly catching her breath. Though the tears were drying up, she was crumpled and disheveled, dark bands of mascara streaking her cheeks.
Something was very wrong. He was the therapist and should be in control. Instead, he sat helplessly and allowed his patient to wallow in absolute terror.
Inexcusable! But it felt so real to him, too. Why was he drawn into these horrifying visions, seeing them as if he, too, were there?
Ashley was still crammed in the corner of the big chair, knees drawn up, her arms crushing them tightly against the chest. She rocked back and forth, moaning softly, her eyes jammed tightly shut, contorting her classically lovely face into a ghastly mask.
God, what have I done to her? He shuddered, a cold spear lacing his spine.
“Mrs. Easton.” Time to take control. “I want you to take two deep breaths and open your eyes. That’s it. Slowly. Slowly. Now, try to relax, a little at a time. Unclench your jaw and wiggle in back and forth.”
She began to respond as he forced his voice to again be soothing. Her gray eyes peeked open as the fear slowly seeped away. “Good. Now, release your arms. Let them go slack. Drop your legs back to the floor, or tuck them under you if that’s more comfortable.” She glanced warily over her shoulder, then tentatively complied.
“Fine. Now we’re getting back to normal, and can discuss what happened.”
“What did happen, doctor? Another fantasy?” Her voice hoarse and strained.
“Exactly. An invention of your subconscious.” Did his face reflect his growing doubt?
“Jesus, why? Why would I want to kill myself so brutally… twice? It makes no sense.”
“Who ever said the subconscious is logical? It acts out for reasons of its own, often to hide or disguise other feelings we’re unable to face directly.”
“I’ve done nothing to warrant my murder!” She shook her head vigorously.
“Even falling in love with another man and thoughts of divorce?”
“That’s no reason to kill myself. Anyway, it doesn’t add up.”
“How so?”
“Well, I was unhappy in my marriage long before I met him. And, how does that explain my speaking and thinking in fluent French? I don’t care what you say, I never knew enough of that language to speak it so perfectly.
“And why is it that I ride and jump so much better when I’m Victoria?” She paused, dabbing red eyes with a tissue and taking a deep breath.
“And why would I pick places like Devonshire and Philadelphia, places I’ve never even been? Places I never even remember dreaming of. Why would any of those last three things have anything to do with punishing myself with a vision of my own savage murder?”
“Frankly, I don’t know.”
And he had to put a good face on this until he did. There was a lot more going on here than he could possible tell her.
“What I do know, however, is that going through this, however terrifying, will be another catharsis for you. Despite the reasons for these unpleasant fantasies, they’re out in the open now.” He saw her eyebrows arch, eyes filled with doubt.
“I know it seems strange, but this should be a strong step toward quelling the fears you’ve had. Not an automatic cure, mind you, but a huge step in the right direction. Knowing the source of fear is a major step in conquering it.”
He rubbed the bridge of his nose, fighting a splitting headache. Thank God this was the last session of the day.
“I hope you’re right. What a draining experience. Don’t want to go through that again.” She lurched unsteadily to her feet, holding the chair back for balance.
“I don’t blame you. It was difficult for me, as well. I’m mortified that I let it get so out of hand. There’ll be no charge for today’s session, and I hope you’ll accept my apology.”
“Certainly. All you did was help me go to these places. I apparently manufactured the terror. It still makes no sense, but actually, I do seem to feel more… confident, I guess, now that everything’s out in the open.
“Do you think it likely that I may have still another of these so-called lives?”
“I doubt it, but see how you do with what we’ve accomplished so far. I suspect you’ll see a marked change in your emotions. Give it a little time. I’ll be here if you need me again.”
“Thank you, Doctor. I’m not sure I could take very much more of this.”
She paused at the door, turning back to him.
“You know, it’s interesting. In both these lives, I was saddled with unhappy marriages, just as I am today. I wonder if that has any particular significance?”
“An excellent question. Perhaps we’ll find the answer during your next visit.”
“Okay, but no more regression for a while. I’ve had all I can take.”
“Right. No more regressions for now. I promise.”
She nodded, straightening her skirt and adjusting her blouse, again a woman of the Twenty-First Century, back in control.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
Twenty minutes later, Doctor Feldman was sprawled on his couch, massaging his temples, awaiting the magic effect of three aspirins. He was worried. Actually, he was terrified…. more afraid than he’d ever been during his adult life.
Nothing in his professional experience remotely explained what happened to him during Ashley Easton’s two regressions. Despite all his calming words, he could not rationalize what she went through.
There was no such thing as past lives, despite what many of his colleagues said.
Or were there? He was no longer so certain. She seemed convinced, as she described them both in perfect detail… and once in such elegant French!
Victoria du Chevalier, Countess of Beaujolais, in love with Charles Wallace, the Earl of Devonshire, in 1695. Then, Morgana Quincy, daughter of Jonathan Denton, shipping magnet, enamored with Robert Isaac in 19th Century Philadelphia. Had such people really existed. Certainly, an experienced historian could find records of their lives… and deaths… if it were not fantasy.
He shivered, and sat up. The damned aspirin weren’t working. Hurrying to the bathroom, he made the toilet just in time to catch the remains of his lovely Italian lunch. It tasted bitter now, on the way back up. He flopped back, sitting on the cool tile, panting, covered with perspiration.
Good God. He’d been so smugly certain of himself. But what if those romantic colleagues weren’t so foolish, after all. How was it possible he saw everything she saw… and more! And why had it caused him so much anger?
It felt as if he were there, meeting out punishment. Each time, he had been furious with her, as the death blows fell.
He trembled, still sprawled on the chilly tiles. If he were wrong, and we did live past lives, it seemed pretty obvious that he’d been a murderer… twice!
Gut knotting and churning, he crawled back to the toilet to finish purging his stomach. He slumped to the floor, too weakened to move, grimacing at the acrid smell of bile permeating the air. His lunch was gone, but the fear of his guilt still shrouded him, a heavy quilt of doubt, smothering his breath.
He needed to know the truth. They can’t punish him now for something he may have done hundreds of years before as someone else. Retribution would be left to himself, if he were guilty. He had to know the answer, if he were to survive in this life.
And, he knew just the person who could check it out for him, if he would only ask.
He shouldn’t delay it any longer.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
The Green Monster ran rampant around them.
Walking arm in arm through the bustling concourse, Keith couldn’t restrain a small smirk. Men and women, owl-like, swiveled their heads to follow their progress.
Nicole drew their envious attention, and no wonder. A nearly translucent robin egg blue silk blouse, unbuttoned well into her cleavage, did little to hide the firm arch of her magnificent breasts, which bobbed and jiggled enticingly as they headed for Baggage Claim.
A wide le
ather Gucci belt girded the narrow isthmus dividing those from the wonder below… rounded hips and curved “bubble-butt” buttocks, encased in a tight silk skirt of the same color, ending well above her knees. Long, shapely legs were fully displayed for the frequent gawker.
Keith slipped an arm around her waist, relishing her movement against him. She grinned, pinching him surreptitiously on the butt, while a fall of fine, inky hair brushed his face. His heart pounded at the wonder of this incredible creature.
He never openly risked so much before, but his need for her in his arms, the raging passion, the pure physicality of their every encounter, was more addicting than the most powerful drugs. How could he live without her? She smiled at his continued stare, fine eyebrows arching above emerald eyes on a perfect, heart-shaped face.
“What?”
“God, I love you.”
She chuckled. “Love, huh? Sure it’s not lust?”
“Nothing wrong with lust, but this more than that. Lots more. Where have you been all those wasted years?”
“Right where you found me. But, let’s not dwell on the past. What about our future?”
They reached the escalators to Baggage Claim at Houston International Airport. He pulled her against him, nuzzling her ear as they descended.
“Are you really interested in spending your life with me, Nicole, or is this just a fling with a hot stud who knows how to get you off?”
“I’m insulted you’d even ask that. Studs are a dime a dozen, and I can have my pick of best.”
His turn to chuckle. “I bet!”
“Damned tootin’. I chose you because you’re different. There’s a kinda of magic between us. Sorta spooky, too. There’s been plenty of guys. You’re the only one I’ve even wanted to spend the rest of my life with.”
He glanced at her from the corner of his eyes.
“Yeah, that’s terrific. But, you didn’t say anything about love.”
“And you didn’t say anything about the rest of our lives.”
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