Distant Memory

PROLOGUE

The car jostled over the rutted dirt lane, where not even a pearl of sunlight could squeeze through the dense canopy of trees. Ahead, a ghostly mist marked an exit to the shady funnel.

Emerging into sunshine was painful at first. A blink or two to acclimate revealed a lush clearing carved out of a stockade of pine trees. The rectangular plot was flanked by a split-rail fence, and at the end of the unpaved lane sat a two-story farmhouse.

Approaching on foot, the scrape of shoes against flagstone amplified in the crisp forsythia-scented air.

The front door towered just steps away.

So tall.

So very tall.

Dark knots speckled the wooden surface.

A hand reached up and curled into a fist, preparing to knock…

CHAPTER ONE

Hollie Musgrave woke with a start, her hand still fisted. A quick glance at the clock on the nightstand read 2:17 AM. Seven minutes had passed since the last dream, and about eight minutes before that.

All the same dream.

All ending at that door.

Swinging her feet off the bed, she moved on auto-pilot to the medicine cabinet. Over-the-counter pills were not going to make the dreams go away, though.

Why now?

Why had they returned?

It had been over two decades since the same dream had assaulted her with such frequency. Back then, she could crawl into bed with her parents—into a sanctuary that would temper the visions.

There wasn’t anything particularly scary about them. A tree-canopied road. A large fenced-in yard. A rustic house. There were no monsters.

Still, she always woke with the same apprehension.

You’re too old to be spooked, she chided the image in the mirror.

The garish glare of the bathroom light revealed smudges of fatigue beneath charcoal brown eyes, and any traces of Florida sunshine had waned from her cheeks. Of course, the mirror was rarely flattering at 2:30 in the morning.

Hollie swept dark bangs away from her face and massaged her temples to ease the pounding.

One flick of the light switch and her reflection disappeared.

Trouble sleeping again?

Hollie stared at the black grounds speckling the surface of her Styrofoam coffee cup.

A little, she shrugged.

I worry about you, Maryann Baumann nagged.

Hollie smiled at the silver-haired woman sitting opposite her in the lobby of their condominium building. Maryann Baumann was her best friend. Maryann was eighty-one-years-old. If that said something about Hollie’s social life, so be it.

The only affordable waterfront rental she could find in the Tampa area was this building predominantly occupied by senior citizens. The limited view of the Clearwater intracoastal waterway was an indulgence she couldn’t resist.

Maryann Baumann had been her next-door neighbor for the past three years. They lived in back-to-back corner units on the third floor with views of the causeway bridge and the Clearwater Beach lights in the distance.

Florence! Maryann called with a slight German accent. A thin wrist wrapped in pearls waved in exaggeration. Come over here. Hollie is having the dreams again.

Shrinking back into the plastic upholstered chair, Hollie sought to hide behind the potted yucca plant.

Florence bustled over from the laundry room and plopped down on the loveseat next to Maryann. Her unnaturally red hair was scored with a white skunk line along the roots.

The farmhouse?

Nodding, Hollie ducked her head. There were no secrets in the Harbor Breeze building. At times it was a curse, but more often it was comforting. Hollie’s mother had passed away when she was just eleven, and her father was now enjoying retirement in Arizona, leaving her with no family but the curious and delightful Harbor Breeze community.

You should see someone, Florence echoed Maryann’s declaration.

See someone? Hollie raised her eyebrows. "For dreams?"

Not waiting for their response, she flipped her phone up to check the time. It was only 7:30. I’m late for work.

No, you’re not, Maryann scolded. "And yes, you should see someone for dreams. A counselor. A psycho-somezing."

Hollie clutched the phone between her knees, staring at her jeans. There was no need for her to dress up today. She was heading to the stadium for a publicity shoot with the NFL team and a group of special-needs athletes. At her feet was her camera case, ready to go. She stooped to retrieve it, but her hand wavered at Florence’s next decree.

Reincarnation.

Hollie’s gaze shot up.

That’s a tad excessive, don’t you think? She forced a chuckle.

Maryann’s coral lips sucked in and she looked like she might make the sign of the cross.

Really, Flo. That was certainly not my first thought.

Florence flicked slightly jaundiced eyes back and forth between them and then her head jerked at the sound of a sliding glass door opening in the foyer. If it was the Meals on Wheels delivery, this conversation would be history and Florence would latch onto the volunteer.

Unfortunately, it was just a delivery of newspapers secured by twine.

Oh, here comes Frank. Florence looked past the deliveryman toward a woman who was rolling her walker through the entryway.

Frank was actually Francine Lentine—a robust figure with a bag of donuts cradled between the legs of the buggy.

Frank! Florence called out loud enough to guide a ship in from a storm. Hollie’s having those dreams again.

Francine’s head snapped like a dog hearing the word treat. One wheel squeaked as she changed trajectory of the walker and ambled over to them.

It’s those late dinners, Francine chastised as she plopped down into a seat. If I eat after five, I’m plagued with dreams. Of course, mine usually include a pool boy, not a farmhouse. She winked a lid caked in blue eyeshadow.

She had the same dreams when she was a child, Florence recited from previous powwows such as this. And then they just stopped. I think she is recalling a past life.

Hollie closed her eyes and squeezed her fingers at the top of her nose. A whopper of a headache was brewing. 

A memory of her mother sitting at the kitchen table with the sleeves of her robe spilling across the surface replaced the engrossed voices around her.

"We’ve lived in Florida since you were born, Hermey."

Hermey was a nickname her parents had coined for her when she was a toddler. It came from the independent dentist elf in Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer. Hollie was just as independent. If her mother tried to cut her food up for her, Hollie’s face would turn beet red and her little fists would pump in frustration. She never wanted help. She always wanted to do it herself.

What you’re describing doesn’t sound like the Gulf coast. Maybe you saw it in a movie—at school?

"No, Hollie would shake her head and frown. This is different. I can—" she hesitated, "—smell it."

A gleam of collusion sparked in Ginger Musgrave’s brown eyes.

"Maybe it’s reincarnation."

What’s reen-carashon?

"They say when you’re real young you can remember your former life. But then you grow up and forget about it."

Indeed, a year or two later the dreams had stopped and any memory of them had lapsed.

Look ladies, Hollie grabbed the handle of her case, I really have to be going. I’ve got some staging for the event to get started on.

Maybe you’ll bring home a football player tonight. Maryann raised thinning eyebrows.

Oh! Francine clapped. Bring us all one.

Maryann’s eyebrows fell. Stop being selfish, she scolded. Hollie is zee one who needs za boyfriend.

Francine clamped her lips tight and then nodded. True. True. I don’t know how they don’t go crazy over you. You know, I had a hot body like yours once upon a time. What are those jeans, a size 6?

Usually they would have been a size 6, but she wasn’t eating well. Today she had on a leftover pair of size 4’s. And regardless of whether or not she had a boyfriend, this intent group would then decree that the boyfriend wasn’t good enough and that she needed a different boyfriend.

Basically, in the eyes of these lovely ladies, Hollie always needed something.

In the eyes of this family, she deserved the best.

Feeling a touch of moisture creep into her gaze, she climbed to her feet and stooped over to hug each woman in turn.

Okay ladies, I’m off.

What time will you be back? Maryann asked.

The invasion of privacy should have aggravated her, but it didn’t. The women fawned over her. They would literally stage a vigil for her return, and if she was five minutes late they would call the police.

I’ve got a dinner function with the crew so probably not until nine or so.

"A dinner function." Flo’s eyes widened. The ladies exchanged knowing glances.

Hollie snorted and left through the sliding glass doors with a smile on her face.

CHAPTER TWO

Cold air blew across her bare shoulders. Hollie delved deeper under the sheets to escape the air conditioning. It had been a long day. The shoot went well, with the athletes and children interacting in a way that tugged at her heart.

One athlete in particular, the kicker, paid close attention to her to the point that he received several elbow-jabs from his teammates. Hollie was flattered, but, truth-be-told, she was a justified introvert—even at the ripe old age of thirty-two. It was the reason she was behind the camera and not in front of it. Granted, there had been dates over the years, even an eight-month-long relationship. But, that guy finally decided he wanted something more flamboyant. Flamboyant came in the guise of a cheerleading coach.

Hollie drifted into a fitful sleep defending the fact that she wasn’t flamboyant.

The door loomed ahead.

A pocket of gnats flitted before her face. She swatted at them and hesitated, looking up at the flat face of the house. Brown. The house was brown. There wasn’t much else she noticed because she was walking toward the door.

That tall door.

She climbed the first step and felt the coarse iron rail under her fingertips—

—fingertips that curled up into a fist.

The air conditioning still churned, but the sheets had been tossed aside, one tangled around her leg like a python. Hollie kicked herself loose and sat up, reaching for her cell phone on the nightstand. Snatching it up, she sat cross-legged, her back stiff against the headboard.

She typed one word in the search bar.

HYPNOSIS.

There were several online self-hypnosis videos that claimed to aid in memory recall. After the third video of spinning wheels and creepy voices, Hollie set the phone aside.

A quick glimpse at the clock had her reaching for her jeans.

6:18 AM

Another night had passed with very little sleep.

So, there are a few people in Tampa that offer memory retrieval through hypnotherapy, Hollie mentioned.

Maryann sat in a quilted bathrobe, her white anklet socks visible beneath the kitchen table. She frowned mid-sip over her porcelain tea cup.

Hollie. With her accent it sounded more like Hole-lay. If it’s really bothering you that much, do what you have to, but— she set the cup down. Just be careful.

I want to see if there is more to this dream. A street name. A house number. Something I can investigate.

Hollie swept a hand through her tousled hair, taking a moment to rub her fingers over the pain behind her forehead.

Fool! Dreams were stories. Illusory movie reels. They didn’t contain specific street names and house numbers.

Maryann primly adjusted the gap in her robe. I’d just be worried about one of zose hypnotists having control of my mind. Zey might ask for your bank account number or somezing wizout you even knowing it.

Hollie concealed a grin behind a lock of hair.

That’s a myth, she said. As I have read, you’re actually in full control under hypnosis. You will only answer the questions you want to. Reading Maryann’s skepticism, she continued. A hypnotherapist is just a guide, helping you dig deeper into your mind—ummm, like a navigator.

Unconvinced, Maryann shoved a plate full of cookies across the table. It didn’t matter what time of day or night Hollie came over. That plate of Vienna Fingers would be there.

I can go wiz you, Maryann offered.

Glancing across the doily-covered table at the woman with bobby pins securing white curls for the night, Hollie marveled at the glowing skin. A regimen of cold cream and sunscreen voided many of the wrinkles on Maryann’s face. Shrewd blue eyes stared back at Hollie as pale lips pressed over the edge of her cup.

You don’t have to do that, Hollie answered automatically.

A gray eyebrow arched in retort.

Well, let’s see if I even find someone, Hollie added hastily. You know I’ll change my mind a thousand times before I schedule anything.

Zat much is true. Maryann set her cup down, a puddle of tea pooling in the saucer. Gnarled fingers smoothed out the doily. You know, if your mind was preoccupied zese dreams might go away.

Tucking her head, Hollie knew where the subject was heading.

It’s been a long time since—Mark.

And bam, the M-word.

Usually Maryann preceded the name with such harsh adjectives as louse—or even the dreaded, foul ball.

Yes, Mark was a mistake, Hollie admitted.

A big mistake.

But I’m not ready to jump back into the dating pool. One day I’ll dip my toes back into the shallow end.

Reaching for the remote, Maryann turned on the early morning news.

You’ve been saying zat for over a year now. Wouldn’t a husband take your mind off some pesky dreams?

A husband was an outlandish and impractical notion. Not after Mark decided that the cheerleading coach had more to offer him. But, Mark aside, it was the pesky dreams that no one seemed to understand. Innocuous as they were, their frequency and veracity were destroying her sleep and chipping away at everyday functionality. Even now, the television screen in the living room was blurry until she ground her palms into her eyes.

One day, she answered.

It was an evasive defense she used religiously. So frequently that Maryann pursed her lips into a crooked smile.

It was tempting to counter with, what about you? But Maryann’s husband, Henry, had died when they were both still young. That left Maryann with no children of her own and no incentive to find another man. To her, there would never be another Henry.

A nephew took care of some of Maryann’s affairs, but he was married with children—children she only received pictures of. Hollie and Maryann were orphans together in this coastal establishment.

Well zen, while you’re off to work I will start making some calls to local counsellors.

Eeek! That was a scary notion. Hollie could imagine Maryann discussing and enhancing every gritty detail of her situation.

For heaven’s sake, I’m not that bad.

Maryann reached for another cookie. Drink more coffee. She waved her hand at the cup. "Lots more."

Give me a big smile, Benny.

A cute boy with choppy brown bangs and a few missing teeth beamed up at Hollie. He wore the distinctive red and pewter jersey of the Tampa Bay football team. One arm was circled around a football, while the other sleeve hung empty.

Around her were other children with similar disabilities. From their enthusiastic interaction with the NFL players, you’d never suspect they were challenged.

This was Hollie’s favorite part of the job. Working on events with children of all walks of life, getting to experience a day with their favorite sports hero. Benny was staring up at Colton Brooks, a hulk of a man busily signing autographs.

Do you think Colton will sign my football?

Hollie’s smile faltered ever so slightly. Colton had an ego larger than his 300-pound physique. She’d had run-ins with him in the past. Evidently hating the PR aspect of his career, he was never very cooperative. She glanced up and met the eye of Benny’s mother who was locked in conversation with a group of mothers, all tapping fingers on their cellphone cameras. The woman nodded her consent.

I don’t know, Hollie replied, but let’s go ask him.

She wanted to place herself there to soothe any sort of rejection.

Mr. Brooks? she addressed on behalf of Benny. Benny here wondered if you’d sign his football.

Gray eyes under bulky eyebrows stared at her a little longer than necessary before the gaze passed her shoulder to the lineup of pom-pom wielding young women posing with a group of kids.

Jerking his eyes from them down to the young boy, his lip curled up in some semblance of a smile.

I usually charge $600 for an autograph.

Benny’s face fell. He tucked the football under his armpit and looked up at Hollie with sad eyes. I don’t have $600, he whispered.

If she could, she would give Colton Brooks an uppercut into that square jaw and send him flying into the cardboard likeness of himself three feet away. Almost all of the players she’d ever worked with were actually very sweet. Particularly the ones who attended these charity events—they usually had big hearts.

Just kidding, kid, Colton laughed, but it was a sound you might shrink from.

Benny gave Hollie a quick look. She nodded encouragingly, vigilant of Colton’s actions—her fist at the ready. But the beefy man carefully extracted the football from under Benny’s arm, scratched across it with a pen and handed it back over. Benny grabbed the ball and tucked it back into his armpit.

Thank you, Mr. Brooks! he shouted. Then, with a beam cast at Hollie he scurried back to his mother’s awaiting arms.

Cute kid, Colton mused at her side. If you like kids.

Hollie sighed and stepped away from him with a mumbled excuse. Maryann had visions of Hollie hooking up with a professional athlete, but working with them was her job, not her life. Actually, she had no idea what type of man she wanted to hook up with, but someone in the spotlight—that just wasn’t for her.

Her wrist vibrated.

Hollie glanced down at the message on her watch.

Found doctor.

One thing she had been diligent to do was to teach Maryann how to text from her phone. Sometimes the texts were tough to decipher, but if there should ever be an emergency, Hollie felt better knowing that Maryann could call or text her. Maryann’s nephew had also rigged her up with some sort of Life Alert necklace, but he lived too far away to react in time. He was aware of how much Hollie helped out, and linked her as a contact to that system.

Smirking at this text, she could only imagine what doctor Maryann had located. Images of an elderly man with thick bifocals came to mind as she packed up her equipment.

It was worth a try, though.

Anything was worth a try for a solid night’s sleep.

CHAPTER THREE

A young blonde woman with glasses and a ponytail sat with her hands folded over her lap. She was a certified clinical hypnotherapist, not a licensed medical doctor as Maryann had presumed. It didn’t matter to Hollie one way or another. At the moment, she was locked in an internal debate on whether she wanted to bolt out of this office or not.

I can see you’re anxious, the woman cooed.

Hollie almost snorted. The result was a quick inhale of vanilla and coconut. She searched for the source and found two candles near the window. Candles were one of her weaknesses. Anytime she saw them out in a store she had to stop and sniff each one—usually resulting in an impulsive purchase.

The scent soothed her more than the woman’s calm demeanor.

Tell me what it is you hope to achieve with hypnotherapy?

Sleep, she joked with forced mirth.

Patience clamped the therapist’s lips tight until Hollie was forced to elaborate.

Details, Hollie dragged the word from her defenses. I have a dream—a recurring dream—of a house I’ve never been to.

You know for a fact that you’ve never been there?

Hollie nodded. I had this dream as a young child. Neither my mother or father recognized the description, and I’d never been away from them on my own, so my mother found it quite odd that I kept having the dream.

And the dream went away? the young therapist prompted.

Yes. I don’t know when exactly. I’d say when I was eight or nine.

And you’re here today because—

They’re back. Hollie’s shoulders slumped.

Was this woman judging her?

A brief glimpse assured that was not the case. In fact, her look of understanding eased some of Hollie’s angst.

Why are they back?

Fair enough question. One she had mulled over without a profound revelation.

As silly as it sounds—I was sitting on the couch, eating a bowl of ice cream, and watching one of those fixer-upper shows…and I fell asleep. That was the first night I recall having the dream. I mean, since I was a child.

All right, the woman said. What details are you hoping to obtain?

I don’t know. Something that might tell me the house is real. A street name. A mailbox. Any small fact.

Okay. The therapist used the heels of her shoes to inch her wheeled chair closer.

For the record, people come to me to recall forgotten passwords, forgotten names. Some forget where they put their keys. It’s all in here. She tapped the side of her head. Sometimes we just try too hard and that pressure only makes the resistance all the stronger.

Maryann’s warning reared its sinister head. Will you ply my bank account password out of me?

The therapist, whose name was Samantha, chuckled.

All I ask of you is that when you leave here today, please try to dispel concerns like that to anyone else seeking hypnotherapy. She smiled patiently. "You are not going to be put into a trance. You and I are just going to sit here and have a relaxed conversation. You will be in total control at all times. You answer only what you want to. The keyword here is relax. Relaxation is the only way to open up your mind."

Relax.

Hollie nodded and tried to breathe. She occupied one of two comfortable guest chairs seated before a glass and chrome desk. It wasn’t as if she was reclined on a couch or anything cliché such as that. There were no spinning wheels taped to the wall. No swinging watches. Only a framed degree, plus a lovely sunset painting.

Samantha had rolled her office chair out from behind the desk and sat facing her.

Do you want to try? she asked with a conspiratorial smile.

Curiosity made Hollie’s head bob in assent.

What do I have to do?

"Unclench your hands. Snap them to get some of the tension out, and then lay them flat on your