Out of the Past (Heritage Time Travel Romance Series, Book 1)

Prologue

The dreams began my first night in my new, very old home on a secluded acreage in Mahaska County, Iowa, just a mile south of the tiny town of Fremont. It was within a very short time of moving in that I had to stop calling them dreams, though, because they were much, much more than dreams. I didn’t know why it was happening, and I didn’t know how it was happening but it was like time traveling or warping into a different dimension.

The time travels were a blast, at first. It was as if I were an Improv actor and each night I had a brand new role to perform. I enjoyed the challenge of traveling into the past and navigating my way through old Fremont and I also cherished the chance to meet so many loved ones whom I had never known but would forever remember.

Yes, my travels had begun as an amazing and interesting phenomenon—a harmless and victimless experiment. They were my own private and wonderful escape, which soon became my secret obsession.

Until finally I realized, much too late, that there was also evil in the past; evil that would have been better left alone…

Chapter 1

Six months earlier…

March 1, 2012

When I pulled my SUV off of the gravel road and into the driveway for my afternoon appointment with the contractor that I’d hired (sight unseen); I found him waiting for me on the ancient and battered front porch. He was leaning casually against a porch post in a well-fitting white T-shirt, with his hands in the pockets of his blue jeans, which I noted with my keen appreciation of the male physique, set perfectly at his lean waist. If there were any lingering doubt in my mind as to whom he might be, it was dispelled when I noticed a shiny orange tube of construction blueprints tucked neatly under one arm. My first thought was, Oh yeah, I can handle spending three months working with this man.

David Cameron was absolutely gorgeous, in a rugged outdoorsy kind of way. I guessed that he was probably in his mid-to-late thirties; tall, tan, and toned, he had dark-brown hair that he wore layered and just the right length as far as I’m concerned—a clean-cut style but not too short. I couldn’t see his eyes just yet, but his face was lean and his jawline, chiseled. That I was so flagrantly checking him out made me more than a little disappointed in myself because I’m in a relationship, long-term, with my boyfriend, Derek. But, hey, what healthy all-American girl wouldn’t admire a fine-lookin’ man like this?

I lifted my sunglasses and took a moment to glance into the rearview mirror, checking my makeup and making sure that I didn’t have lipstick on my teeth before dropping my shades back into place and grabbing up my day planner and an album of old photos.

Dave? I asked, closing my car door.

At your service, Torie. Good to finally meet you in person. What about this warm weather? he asked in a casual way that immediately put me at ease.

I know—seventy-one degrees according to the radio. The record-breaking continues.

So are you ready for this? he asked with a flash of a grin as I approached.

Wow, dimples and light crystal-blue eyes!

You have no idea! I can’t wait to get started and I’m excited to see what you’ve done up to now.

I started to step up to join him and found that I had to straddle a rather large gap in the porch boards as I did so, so instead of stumbling like a newborn calf or worse, falling flat on my face at his feet, I accepted his offer of assistance and slipped my hand into his warm, work-rough palm.

That’s going to be next on my agenda, he assured me, pointing to the hazard that I had narrowly avoided, arriving unscathed at his side.

In fact, he said, looking around and then walking across the porch and retrieving a small piece of plywood, he returned with it and laid it over the spot.

I think that’s a good call, I agreed. Okay now, Dave, are you ready to be wowed?

You bet, he said. Wow me.

Okay, check this out, I said as I laid my planner and album on a handy makeshift workbench that he had improvised, composed of a sheet of plywood set atop two sawhorses.

I flipped open the album and removing my sunglasses, tucked them into the neck of my tee while Dave set aside his tube of drawings on the workbench and looked on with interest at what I had brought.

I splayed my hand over the first page of the album and looked up into his eyes, slightly embarrassed, knowing that this guy was about to realize that his newest client is a total nutcase. He had no idea of the extent of my obsession with this house or my family’s history, but he was about to find out.

First of all, I want you to know that I have hounded every poor unsuspecting relative living within a five-hundred-mile radius of here to gather these, I admitted with a short laugh. And I do feel more than a little guilty about that and I’m pretty sure that I’ve been disowned by, at least, a few of them, but look at all this! I said excitedly, ruffling through the pages.

I have any and every photograph that I could find of the house as it had looked in the late eighteen hundreds; at the turn of the century, and during the early nineteen hundreds when, somehow, my grandfather’s family came into possession of an early Kodak Brownie and they took shots of the barn, yard, porch, front room, and the kitchen when it had been complete with an old cook stove, farm sink, and indoor water pump.

Oh wow! That’s perfect. It shows every detail! Dave burst out excitedly when I flipped to the first photo behind the tab labeled, ‘Front Porch’.

I grinned up at him; a little surprised but very pleased by his reaction which was much as mine had been when I’d first seen some of these. It was easy to tell that his excitement was genuine.

I know. Isn’t it great? I turned the album so that he could get a better look.

The photograph was one of those from around 1910. The shot was taken from out in the front yard, looking toward the house. Seated along the porch were my grandpa Arlan, when he had been approximately twelve-years-old and sitting between his knees, was his favorite dog that he seemed to always have with him in many of the photos from that time period. Also in the photo were two of Arlan’s older brothers, Robert and Albert; my great-grandparents, Henry Mills and Alice Wyman Mills; and Alice’s mother, Rose Simpson Wyman who was my great-great-grandmother and the original owner of the house that I now own. She passed away at the ripe old age of ninety-seven back in the year 1927. Finishing out the photo was Great-Grandfather Henry’s older brother, Peter Mills, who is a bit of a mystery and was standing almost out of the shot to the far right side of the front porch.

It’s so amazing to think that this is exactly where they were all sitting, right here, a hundred years ago, I marveled, glancing around the expanse of the old covered porch.

These are great. They’ll help a lot, Dave said enthusiastically. He was practically salivating and I realized that he really is as big a history buff as I am. I’d hoped that these would blow him away.

Great shot of the porch brackets, he said absently as he touched the photo lightly with an index finger. He then turned to look at the porch supports, which no longer show any traces of the former adornment as seen in the picture.

I should be able to duplicate those, he said softly and stood contemplating the porch post closest to him for a long moment before seeming to shake himself mentally, letting the thoughts go for now.

Okay, he said turning to grin down at me and rubbing his hands together in excited anticipation which, I couldn’t help but notice, caused his impressive biceps to bulge. Are you gonna let me give you the grand tour? he asked with a voice full of pure unadulterated glee.

I relinquished control of the proceedings immediately and swept my hand in the direction of the front door.

Please do. Lead on, I said with a slight bow.

As I enjoyed the obvious excitement on my contractor’s face at the prospect of sharing the renovations with me, I thought to myself, Now this is the proper reaction to my project. This guy understands completely!

My boyfriend Derek doesn’t understand at all how I can be content to live in Fremont, Iowa, population 762, because to him, success means living flashy and living large; you know, keeping up with the Jones’ and all that. My sister Sarah can understand what I am after because she lives a similar slow-paced, low-key life out in Colorado but my sister Margo, she is of the same opinion as Derek.

Having two books on the New York Times best-seller list is not a walk in the park, though. It’s hard work! And the last two years of promoting my books and everything that it entails, from interviews for radio and TV spots, to book signing events, to meetings with my agent and with publishing house executives on a regular basis, has been enough to make me want to find a secluded island somewhere, park my butt underneath the nearest palm tree and never look back.

This project of buying my great-great-grandparents’ home along with the rolling five acres of pastureland that the house sits on the edge of, just a mile south of the wonderfully tiny town of Fremont, and working to restore the property to its glory days when it had been built back in 1870, is close enough to that deserted island. To me—it’s paradise.

Quitting my job and never needing to work again is a luxury that I’d never expected to experience in my lifetime, especially not at the ripe old age of thirty-six, but it’s a reality now, and I know exactly what I want to do: brainstorm for my next novel and work on my family history. What better place to do that, than in the little hamlet where it all began for my Mills family, back in 1852?

All right then, Dave said, assisting me by picking up the album and I followed him, heading through the front door.

First of all, he began. Electricians are going to be here in the morning. Heating and cooling will be here Monday and expect to finish in one day. Once that’s a done deal, things will move pretty fast—at least, the basics. All new plumbing is in, as we discussed last week, and the downstairs bathroom is done and the toilet and sink are now functional. I used the big old pantry off of the kitchen that we decided on. I can’t wait for you to see it.

We walked into the large airy front foyer and I looked up at the currently deconstructed Victorian staircase that was in the process of being restored and would eventually lead up to the second story. It was already beginning to show the promise of what would soon be an impressive, eye-popping first impression of the home.

Work in progress, Dave said indicating the stairs with a dismissive wave. I’ll have it finished in a few days, he assured me as we continued on and took a right, passing underneath a lovely archway.

Wow! I exclaimed as I entered my grandma’s large living room, called front room back in the day. Dave had already been doing some prep work in here and he couldn’t hold back the smile when I gaped at him, open-mouthed. I reached out to reverently touch the wall where he had removed layers upon layers of paint and, at least, several different wallpaper reincarnations.

Oh my God, Dave, that’s the original wallpaper! How can it be in such good shape? I squealed.

I accepted the album from his outstretched hand and found the tab marked, ‘Front Room’ and held the album up against the wall. The flowers, which were varying shades of flat gray in the photograph, were in vivid detail before my eyes—large powder and royal-blue peonies blossoms, delicate butter-yellow roses, silver cattails, and so many different shades of green leaves and stems, from bright, to Olive, to Forest, all with subtle silvery highlights and lowlights that added life; just a riot of color, depth and motion.

I would have never guessed, I breathed, completely awestruck. Do you think that it all looks as good as this small area?

When I turned to look at him, I found that Dave was standing with his arms folded across his chest, watching my reaction with a broad grin on his face.

I wouldn’t count on it, Torie, especially around the windows and the fireplace there, he said pointing at the soot-blackened hearth. I expect to find some damage in those areas but, at least, we have the pattern and colors so that we can order it custom. I’m hoping to find little remnants like this elsewhere in the house to help with the authenticity of the finished look. Wouldn’t that be awesome?

It would sure make our lives easier, I agreed, nodding.

I held the photo album out in front of me and moved around the room until I was lined up exactly with the windows and fireplace visible in the tintype photograph. This was an older photo, taken around 1883. My grandfather had told me once that early photographers would travel around entire regions, making their living by charging for tintypes and leaving behind these little gems that were glimpses back in time and would ultimately become family heirlooms.

The time frame fit with the subjects of the photo. My great-great-grandma Rose and her husband Judson were seated in matching bent cane rocking chairs. Rose was posed as though she had just looked up from reading a book that was open upon her lap; Grandpa Judson was clutching the arms of his rocking chair and staring the camera down, very stoic and proud.

There was a beautiful flowered oil lamp with a glass shade and dangling fonts sitting on the table between them. The table also held a framed tintype of my great-grandmother Alice Wyman Mills at about nineteen years of age and her sisters, two-year-old Emily Wyman and infant Ivy Wyman McFall, circa 1869. The fourth Wyman daughter, Mahala, would not be born until 1870. Between Alice, the oldest, and the other girls at the bottom of the pecking order were three Wyman brothers, not pictured.

I turned my attention to the room’s ceiling which in the photo was papered also, with a completely different pattern of flowers than that of the walls. I wondered aloud if the original pattern could still be up there, hidden under layers and layers of tawny and peeling white paint.

I’ll be finding out in the next week or so, Dave answered. You’ll want it reproduced as well?

Hmmm, I pondered. That might be just a bit too busy for my taste but if it isn’t too crazy, yes I think so. I guess we can discuss that when we see it.

Sure, Dave agreed with a nod.

I scuffed the toe of my tennis shoe along the hardwood floor that, in the photo, was covered with a large area rug that featured Iowa wildlife scenes but which is now just barren and gnarled old wood. Dave bent down beside me, smoothing his hand along the defect that my shoe had discovered.

That’ll be fine, he assured me. The original makings of a great hardwood floor are in there, it just needs a good sanding and fresh stain to bring it back to life.

I’ll take your word on that, I said a little unbelievingly, turning my attention back to the album and the tintype.

A framed photograph of people unknown to me hung on the far wall back behind Rose and Judson. I’d gone so far as to have this photograph professionally restored and analyzed, but the family portrait hanging on the wall in the background is, at best, just a fuzzy image of my long-gone relatives, lost to time.

Okay. Moving on, Dave announced, walking backward as he motioned me to follow and ushered me back across the entry and through another arched doorway on the far side of the front foyer.

Dining room, he announced unnecessarily.

Check, I said, flipping to the corresponding tab in my album. I paused to look up at the ceiling where a gas lamp had once hung over a long fancy dining room table. There was not a trace of where the lamp had once been.

Gigantic kitchen... Dave’s echoing voice continued as he entered that large room. I held the photo album out before me flipping from photo to photo making comparisons. Swinging door from dining room to kitchen—gone. Kitchen—barren; no wooden cupboards—no pie safe—no work table—no water pump.

I love this! I exclaimed and touched the faucet and farm sink which are modern and new but perfectly fit the large room with the flavor of the original sink circa 1880. I can already imagine how the room will look when the rest of my new cupboards, center island, and appliances, including a really fancy old oven hood I’d found, are put in place. There will be plenty of room for my antique kitchen table set to sit cozily against the large windows that will provide a great view of the big old barn out back and the seemingly endless acres of pastureland beyond.

Mudroom, Dave was gesturing. Backstairs that lead up to the second floor, and last but not least, the bathroom.

It’s perfect! I squealed, entering the half bathroom which had not existed in the original house. It was designed circa 1900 with a lovely cream pedestal sink, sand-and-cream colored hexagon floor tile and wonderful old-style fixtures and cabinets. I’d had to take some liberties regarding the bathrooms; forfeiting historical accuracy for convenience because frankly, an outhouse is not on the list of things that I want to restore, although it would have been the original arrangement for the home back in 1870. Besides, plumbing and indoor facilities upstairs had been added back in 1915, so really it wasn’t too far off the mark.

Next, we headed upstairs where most of the five bedrooms were stripped clean of all adornment, but one room did have some of the original woodwork still intact and the closet door and old crystal doorknob were original to the house. I entered that room, which must have been the master bedroom—I was assuming that it was by the size, but I could only guess.

I glanced out the front windows to see our trucks parked below. The view from this level is of empty fields stretching out to the horizon, ready to receive this year’s crops. I don’t have any photographs of the upper rooms, just one taken from a window of the second floor and facing the barn. My grandfather Arlan had probably been the one who had taken the picture because he’d spent a lot of time here when he was young.

I walked across the hall and through the rooms facing the backyard and barn until I found the correct angle. Yep, this had been the exact spot where he had stood when he’d snapped the shot. I could see the door of the barn and to the left of it would have been the subject of the photo: my three Wyman great-granduncles and their brother-in-law, my great-grandfather Henry Mills, with his team of draft horses, coming back from a day in the fields. I had been told by older family members that Henry had helped Rose’s sons with the planting for many seasons after Grandpa Judson had passed away. This shot would have been one of those days—one hundred-plus years ago. Absolutely mind-blowing!

Dave Cameron came up behind me and looked over my shoulder. I held the album up so that he could get a good look and he pointed to the barn door in the photograph.

I found some of the original paint on the back of that door. What color do you think it was? he asked.

Barn red? I guessed, glancing over my shoulder and up into his eyes.

Barn red, he affirmed, nodding. I’ve already ordered the paint. It’s being manufactured as we speak.

We continued our tour, and Dave pointed out where he had been working to enlarge the original bathroom by using a small portion of two of the bedrooms at the end of the hall. The new plumbing had already been run and the bare pipes were just waiting for the fixtures to arrive.

Everything will be delivered in just a few days, Dave explained.

I nodded, trying to imagine in my mind’s eye how it was all going to look. I’d opted for a more modern glass shower and separate antique claw-foot bathtub. The shower will have a Victorian feel by adding a custom subway-tile design and all of the faucets will have the flavor that I want to recreate.

I entered the small space that will soon be a complete linen closet, turning about in it to judge the size.

I’ve got the shelves and door out in one of my trailers, Dave assured me. Are you ready to move on to the outbuildings?

I nodded my agreement and we headed back downstairs, exiting through the mudroom and out back to take a look at the barn and other outbuildings as well as the area that had once contained a flower and vegetable garden.

I turned to a photo of my great-grandfather Henry Mills sitting on a white-washed wooden bench in the midst of abundant flowers. Two of his daughters, my grandaunts Joanna and Lucy Mills, were standing just behind him. My grandfather Arlan and his trusty dog were seated on the ground near Henry’s feet. The photo had been taken the same day as a group shot of the entire family which had included three generations of Wyman and Mills relatives, all standing out in front of the house and surrounding a tiny and frail looking Grandma Rose as she had sat in a bent cane rocking chair in the foreground.

***

As the afternoon was wearing on and the tour was coming to an end, I had to make a pit stop and christen my new bathroom facilities and then I joined Dave out front and waited while he locked up the house.

You have plans for dinner tonight? he asked casually, walking me toward my waiting vehicle, with his hands in his pockets and kicking at the loose gravel drive with the toe of his work boot. I was going to head into Oskaloosa and get a bite to eat. You’re more than welcome to join me if you’d like and we can talk more about our game plan. I’ll show you some of my sketches for the bathroom. He hitched his shoulder, indicating the cylinder that he held under his right arm.

Arriving at my truck, I paused, considering. I am staying at a small motel in Oskaloosa for the next week until the furnished house that I am renting in Fremont opens up. The previous occupants were now gone but the owner was still in the process of cleaning the carpets and upholstery for me.

Well sure but I want to make a stop at the cemetery first. Can we meet somewhere in Oskaloosa a little later on?

His mouth opened in surprise before he rearranged his features to a warm smile. "I thought that I was the only weirdo who enjoys the cemetery. I’d like to go with you if you don’t mind."

I had to laugh at that. Another weirdo here, I admitted, raising my hand. I always stop in when I’m in town just to say hey, I confessed. Why don’t you jump in and I’ll drive.

***

Cedar Township Cemetery is the resting place for three generations of my dad’s side of the family. The Mills plot is just to the left of the main gate and stretches in a long row from north to south. First is my great-great-grandfather Francis Mills, the patriarch of the Mills clan, who shares a headstone and resting place with his son Peter. Beside them are my great-grandfather Henry Mills and his wife Alice Wyman Mills and next to them are some of their eight children starting with the youngest, my grandpa Arlan and my grandma Virginia; she died long before I was born and actually; Grandpa and Grandma had moved to Des Moines in 1917, where they’d lived and died but per their final wishes had been brought back to Fremont for burial. On down the long row were some of my grandpa’s seven siblings; Wyatt, Albert, Robert, Lucy, Molly and many of their children and grandchildren.

Patriarch of the Wyman clan, my great-great-grandfather Judson and his wife Rose are buried near many of their Wyman children and grandchildren in a different section on the other side of the cemetery. In fact, nearly every single Wyman and Mills great-grand and granduncle and aunt inhabit this old cemetery, making it hallowed ground to me.

A couple of years ago, before my historical romance novels exploded onto the scene, I’d spent months coming here on weekends and photographing the headstones of every single person buried in the cemetery for their Findagrave memorials. The family ties here are so intricate and complex that even Dave and I share several ancestors and many mutual cousins. Using my family tree program, I’d added his line in and had discovered that my great-grandaunt Ivy Wyman McFall had married Dave’s great-granduncle Joshua McFall back in 1889. He’d died young in 1891, and Ivy had gone on to marry again. She died out in Washington State where she had relocated after husband number-two had passed on. She is buried out there with her sister Emily’s family whose home she had shared until her death, but husband number-two, like her first husband Joshua McFall, are both buried right here in Cedar Township Cemetery.

We pulled into the gated main entrance and parked along the line of tall imposing cedar trees that are the defining feature of the place. The canopy of mammoth wind and weather sculpted sentries that guard those at their eternal rest, are even visible from the highway as you come into town.

Interestingly, the cemetery land had actually belonged to Dave Cameron’s ancestors at one time. The McFall family and specifically Dave’s great-great-great-grandfather Samuel McFall had deeded the grounds to the town of Fremont shortly after the first burial had occurred here back in 1843. Little two-year-old Lucinda Koontz was the first death of the new community of Fremont and her headstone is still plainly legible today.

Samuel stipulated that no one should ever be charged for the cemetery space. If you lived in the town, you were given a plot, but no more space is available these days. The new Cedar Township Memorial Cemetery across town has been used for decades—except for my grandpa and some other original settler family members who are still allowed places beneath the tall cedars. This is the old-timers’ cemetery.

We jumped out and started making a tour around the grounds and I let Dave show me all of his family and give me the basics of who was who and I was impressed by his amount of knowledge regarding his ancestors, but, to be honest, I know every bit as much about his family as he does. I’m a total and I mean total, genealogy geek!

Next we strolled through my family’s plots and I showed him all of my people and we had a great time talking family history until a pesky swarm of midges and then the voracious and blood-thirsty mosquitoes came out in full force and chased us out of there; the price paid for the mild winter that we’d enjoyed.

We went back to the house to get Dave’s truck and I followed him the twelve miles to Oskaloosa for dinner at the Oskaloosa Family Restaurant. Then after we’d had a great home-style meal including crispy fried chicken and fluffy mashed potatoes and gravy, we ordered some coffee and spread Dave’s blueprints out on the table and we got into a heavy discussion about our mutual goals for Rose’s house. I was so pleased to find out that we are totally on the same page; he understands exactly what I want to accomplish and I can tell already that we’re going to make a great renovation team.

***

It wasn’t until about 9:00 p.m. that I finally bid Dave good night and while he headed back down the highway toward Fremont, I drove along ‘A’ Avenue and made my way to my home sweet home for the next week, the Budget Inn.

I had just gotten settled into my bed when my cell phone rang and I grabbed it and looked for the name of the caller.

Hey, sexy.

Hey, beautiful, how goes life in the sticks? Derek joked.

Ha Ha, I replied drolly. Actually, it’s going great! I met with the contractor today and talked to the rental owner also and in just one week from today, I’ll be officially living in the town proper of Fremont. When are you coming over?

I’ll be there next Friday in time for dinner and stay for the weekend if that’s okay?

Of course it’s okay. Hey, I wanted to tell you that Nancy added two more cities to the book tour today, Rochester and Minneapolis. I leave on the first of May. Have you decided if you’re coming with me?

If you don’t mind, I think I’ll forgo this leg, he said carefully. I feel like a third wheel on those things, Torie, he confessed.

Derek doesn’t like the book-tour scene at all and actually, I hate to admit it, but it is easier without him because he is often bored and I feel like I need to entertain him and really, I don’t have the time because my publicist Nancy and I are busy every minute. She has arranged for twelve stops now and more than two weeks on the road so it is going to be a non-stop marathon.

That’s okay, sweetie, I understand, I said magnanimously. Hey, it’s a ways off yet. Maybe you’ll change your mind by then but if not, I’ll spend a few days at your place after I get back, I offered conciliatorily.

That sounds like a good plan, he agreed. Jesus, Torie, you’ve only been out there for two days and I’m missing you already. I wish you were in my arms right now, he said suggestively.

We knew that we’d have some adjustment time with the distance, I reminded him. I guess I’ll have to give you plenty of attention next weekend to hold you over until I see you again, huh?

Promise? he whispered softly.

Promise. Well, honey, I’m gonna get some sleep, I said and couldn’t hold back a jaw-cracking yawn. I’ll see you next Friday. Do you remember the address of the rental house?

Madison Street—I have it in my GPS.

Okay. Love you, Der.

Love you too, babe. Good night.

I hung up the phone and set it aside on the nightstand; grabbing up the TV remote and settling in to watch some mindless reruns, to help me drop off to sleep.

Chapter 2

While waiting to get into my rental house in Fremont, I had time on my hands and not much to do with it in Oskaloosa, so I decided to pay a visit to the Keo-Mah Genealogical Society. I am already a yearly member and had spent a lot of time here during those years when I was working on my memorials; gathering obituaries for my family and such. They have an amazing library of microfilmed newspapers for Oskaloosa but also the Fremont Gazette.

Keo-Mah, which stands for Keokuk and Mahaska Counties, is situated on the main street of town and was formerly a small private residence that has been converted. It is such an unassuming building that most people go right past it the first time that they approach and usually have to take a left and go around the block to get another shot at the short and narrow drive.

I parked in the lot back behind the building and came up the ramped walkway and into what was once a screened in sun porch. The smell of old books is the first thing that I always notice upon entering the place. I love the smell of old books. There is nothing on earth quite like it.

An older man, whom I know quite well, was seated at the front desk with stacks of books piled high, all around him, hemming him in on three sides. His gray, wispy hair looked as though he might have been scrubbing a hand through it as he tended to do when concentrating or when agitated. His thick glasses were seated low on his nose which was causing him to need to lift his head to make use of his bifocals. He was deeply occupied with something on his computer screen until he heard the storm door latch behind me.

Welcome. What can I do… he began pleasantly and then recognized me after a brief pause.

Torie? he asked, pushing his glasses up higher on his nose with a forefinger to get a better look at me. I haven’t seen you in ages! Where on earth have you been keeping yourself? he asked rhetorically. Busy signing books, I suppose, he decided as he rose from the desk and made his way around another pile of books near his feet. He approached me with outstretched arms. I’ll tell you what, little lady, I am just so darn proud of your accomplishments.

"John, thank you so much. It’s so good to see you, I said, accepting his warm hug. Yes, I’ve been busier than I’d like to be, I admitted. Gosh, the place hasn’t changed a bit."

He released me and stepped back as I pointed to the sign-in tablet, in illustration of my remark and that still lay upon the same small pedestal as