Dreaming Ivy

by Rhonda Lee Carver

Genres: Romance; Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

Can a past love become their future? The Thorntons' mansion is full of timeless secrets waiting to be unraveled. When small-town journalist Ivy and ghost hunter Max are stuck in the forgotten, dilapidated house, they find more than just a haunting. Ivy finds herself dreaming of the former owners, Marcus Thornton and his lovely wife, Elizabeth. Their profound love was once the talk of the town, and the cause their mysterious, untimely deaths never found. When Ivy's dreams begin to become reality, the mystery starts to unravel and sheds truth on more than just the past. WARNING: Graphic language, naughty ghosts, a non-committal male, and a love that endures beyond time and death. 85,000 Words

Release date: May 1, 2012

Publisher: Lyrical Press

Print pages: 232

Sample

 

Chapter 1

 

“I must be hearing things. I’ve lost my mind. Or have you lost yours?” Ivy Kennedy eyed her boss, Marshall Deatrick, across the stretch of his paper-scattered desk. Her blood pressure rocketed. Sweat beaded between her breasts and on her upper lip. The air conditioning in the historical downtown building was on the fritz again. Tugging at the neckline of her blouse, she uncrossed her legs. “I could quit, you know.” She swallowed back the bitter taste of reality. She knew it was a weightless threat.

“Well,” he began easily, “you could quit, but we both know you won’t.” His lips parted with smug satisfaction. He lifted the lid from the antique box on the corner of his desk and took out a discount cigar. He laid his large frame back into his shabby leather chair as if he were relaxing into a bubble bath. He slid the cigar under his nose, taking a long, slow sniff like it was premium tobacco.

Ivy counted to ten. Her patience wore thin. “I hope you’re not planning to light that while I’m here. The heat and your arrogance are all that I can endure at one time.” The rotating fan on his desk squeaked as it turned, blowing hot air into her face. She pressed her fingertips to her temples.

“Don’t push it, Ivy.”

Dropping her hands into her lap, she sighed. Marshall was an intimidating man, but she’d learned over the years just how far to push. “Why this assignment, Marshall? Why stick me with a ghost hunter? You know I don’t believe in ghosts and paranormal activity. It’s amazing what people will write about to earn a buck.”

He rolled the stogy between his fingers, then placed the cigar into his front pocket and patted it like a loved one. “Now, now, Ivy. There’s no reason to get your panties in a bunch.”

“That’s a sexist remark,” she snapped.

“Forgive me. Don’t get your boxers in a bunch. Better?” He started to reach into his pocket but caught himself. Ivy knew he’d been making a sizeable effort to stop smoking. It was putting him on edge, obvious by the tense set of his jaw and deeper lines around his eyes.

“Much better.” She rolled her eyes. It was no use. Marshall didn’t understand the concept of political correctness or treating people with respect.

“There are a handful of columnists and reporters in that room–” He flicked his thumb toward the outer offices. “–that would give their eyeteeth to grab this story.”

“Oh really? Let’s take a look at the handful jumping for this opportunity.” She swiveled in the chair. She looked through the dirty window into the work area. Five desks filled the space, separated by short, gray dividers. One desk was occupied, not unusual for a Sunday afternoon. Jimmy Doyle, fresh from college with a golden journalism degree, had joined the Morgan Tribune two months earlier. The wet-behind-the-ears kid left a lasting impression of being an ass-kisser. She had nothing against the guy. In fact, she liked him. She respected anyone who had drive and passion matching her own. Too bad the ladder of success only had two steps above them. To get a better position at the Tribune, one would need to pry dead fingers off the rung.

She turned back to Marshall. He’d claw the eyes out of any person who dared to overstep him.

“Why not give this story to Jimmy? You don’t see anyone else hanging out here on a Sunday, do you?”

“You are,” he said.

She ignored his comment. She was always there. “Jimmy would get a kick out of staying in a haunted house for two weeks.”

Marshall shook his head and scratched the top of his shiny, bald head. “Don’t try it. It won’t work.”

“Try what?” She lifted a brow in dispute.

“To push this story off onto someone else. It’s yours. Like it or not.”

“Why me?” She shivered. Her voice was close to a whine. She didn’t like to bellyache but there were moments. She considered herself a true journalist, open to all stories, but there came a time when she had to stand up for what she believed in. This was where she drew the line. “I’ve been here for five years, Marshall. Aren’t I supposed to be above and beyond all of this small-time news? Hasn’t my column doubled in readers in the last two years? Don’t you like my articles? Isn’t that worth something?”

“You want big? Go about two hundred miles upstate and you’ll get your massacre headliners and your TV highlights. Here, you’ll get what is available.” He shrugged when she groaned. Maybe a silent apology? “Look Ivy, you’re my best journalist. I realize you think you’ve earned the right to call the shots, but you’re not looking at the whole picture.” He scooted forward in his chair. “For example, about that story you did last week. You know, the one about the stolen lawn ornaments. The day after the story ran, the thief was caught, thanks to your amateur detective work.”

Why did his comment feel more like a slam than a pat on the back? He said it like it was something grand. It wasn’t a prized moment for her. “Marshall.” She leaned forward too. “The thief was a ninety-six-year-old escapee from the convalescent home. He had been suffering delusional outbreaks and thought he was a savior to all statues of the world. When he was busted, the deputy couldn’t tell who was moving faster: the ornament or the thief. It wasn’t a big-deal story and it didn’t take a genius to figure out the culprit wasn’t a clever thief with a devious, complex plan. The sheriff’s office just didn’t want to waste time on a pointless crime.”

Marshall got up from his chair. He moved his large frame around the massive cherrywood desk and propped himself on the corner like it was his throne. “What do you expect, Ivy? Old men stealing lawn ornaments are the story here. If anything, you gave people a laugh. We’re running a newspaper for a town of less than thirty thousand people, not a city with a population of drug users, felons and murderers. A tale like Thornton House with its ghost sightings and so-called haunting is news to these townsfolk. It has been the curse and talk of these parts since before you were the twinkle in your mother’s eye. For an admired ghost hunter to come here from Chicago to investigate...Well, that is a huge story.” He sighed. “I don’t get why you’re dragging your heels on this.”

Ivy had a murderous urge to look Marshall straight in the eye and tell him where to shove this so-called story. With great control, she swallowed her pride. As much as she hated to admit it, and would refuse to say it aloud, he was right. Bigger stories than a ghost hunter coming to town wouldn’t be on the horizon. “I’m curious why this ghost hunter thinks it’s a value of his time and effort to come all the way out here to investigate paranormal activity. The house hasn’t been lived in for years. Is he really in that dire need of snapshots of ghosts and goblins? You’d think they would have enough horror stories in Chicago.”

“Tsk, tsk, Ivy.” He clicked his tongue. “You’re becoming cynical with age. Your hunger is growing into an evil beast.”

At least she had hunger. “I’m just pointing out the facts.”

“And you’re saying you don’t believe Thornton House is haunted?” One bushy brow popped up.

“We both know the story. I did a piece on the house and its history when I first started working here, remember? There were so many rumors swirling around town. My intention was to piece the puzzle together.” She sat back. “People have lost sight of what’s real and what’s fantasy. They’ve glorified the house with stories of murder and mayhem. There is history there, but–”

“History of a rich landowner who died a lonely man,” he interrupted. “A lot of people believe the spirit of Marcus Thornton and his wife still roam the halls of that old house. Others believe he buried his fortune somewhere on that property.” Out of pure habit, he took out his cigar and took a few unlit drags.

“If that were true we’d have the whole town over there digging up the property. Now that would be a story.” She laughed.

He shrugged. “Maybe it’s time someone found a truth to all those rumors. And that’s where you come into the picture.”

“I’ve already been there and done that. There is no truth to the rumors. It’s pure drama that keeps the rumor mill turning.”

“But this will be different. You’ll be there getting first glance.”

“Why is this so important to you?” No doubt he had an ulterior motive. He always did.

“Imagine the publicity it will bring to our little town. We have to be a part of this, Ivy. We can’t just let some out-of-towner come in and grab our story. We gotta get our piece of the pie. Not to mention that Mayor Tisdell and the owner of the Tribune, Mr. Parks, are breathing down my neck for me to make this work. Since they got wind of this man’s arrival, Tisdell and Parks have been fired up, twisting and spanking this opportunity half past dead. We’ve kept it under wraps until the definite plans were made.”

“All over a ghost hunter?”

“This ghost hunter’s investigations are well known in his field and gobbled up by believers–and some not-so-believing. He’s written a shitload of books on his observations and findings. They sell like crack hotcakes. Imagine all the tourists who’d want to come here just to get a glance at that old dump.” His eyes sparkled dollar signs. “However, if my plan works…” He stopped.

She saw the mischief bubbling in his chubby face. “What are you up to, Marshall?” She narrowed her eyes. “Who is this man anyway?”

“Max Shepard. Heard of him?”

“Maybe, but once again, paranormal activity isn’t my cup of tea.” And then a thought struck her. “Wait… Isn’t he the man who was in all the gossip magazines after he divorced that paper-thin supermodel? She walked the catwalk for those fancy fashion designers. When was that–maybe five, six years ago?”

“I don’t know about all that nonsense.” He snorted. “You know how those good-for-nothing tabloids feed off the crud of other peoples’ lives.”

“You mean the same sort of trash magazines you worked for before coming here?”

He didn’t even acknowledge that. “Why he has chosen to come here and investigate the dilapidated Thornton House makes no sense to me.” He rubbed his palms together. “What I do know is that Shepard made arrangements to stay at the old dump. The latest owner of that shack is all for this investigation. He sees this as a future sale in the making.”

“You mean your golf buddy. Nice how that fits so comfy. Let me guess–you scratch his back, he’ll scratch yours?”

“I have a lot of golf buddies, sugar.”

“And what makes you think this ghost hunter guru would want some writer tagging along? Aren’t most of those people loners?”

His eminent sneaky grin returned. “I’m afraid that choice won’t be given to him. The property owner arranged for you to stay also. It’s all been smoothed out. No worries. Just do your job.”

“That’s nice,” she muttered. “Okay, let’s say this man is worth a story. But what a waste of time investigating Thornton House for haunting. There’s nothing to find but cobwebs and rats. I’d rather just skip the whole haunting buzz and go straight for a personal interview with Max Shepard.” She grinned. “I bet I’d get a good one.”

“Thatta girl.” He stood up and straightened his tie. “And you never know, Ivy. From the photos I’ve seen of Shepard, he’s a looker and known as a ladies’ man. You may have to use those womanly wiles to convince him to give you an exclusive. Cozying up to him might be a blessing instead of a disaster.” He winked.

“Oh…my…my…my.” She surveyed him closely and her stomach twisted. “What are you thinking? You wouldn’t! You couldn’t!” she sputtered.

“What, Ivy?” He pretended innocence, which was a long shot. “Just remember us when you get that interview.”

“I’ve never used seduction to get a story, Marshall. I won’t start now.”

He rubbed his double chin and shrugged a beefy shoulder. “That thought never crossed my mind. But just between the two of us, sex is not taboo in getting an exclusive. You could do worse things–”

Ivy jumped up from the chair, sending it hard against the wall. “Stop right there. There is no chance in hell I’d lower my values for a story. I will not go in there and seduce this man to convince him to let us publish his personal story. This is deplorable.”

“Calm down, Ivy. I’m not asking you to seduce the man, for Christ’s sake. I’m just asking you to go in and get a story on what he finds. Show Shepard how nice our townsfolk are. If he gives you an exclusive, that’ll be icing on the cake. Look at it as a partnership. And being the journalist you are, think of the story you can get from him. And what if he picks up on a few freaking mysteries and ghosts? If we earn a story in one of his books, well hell, this town will no longer be stories of stolen lawn ornaments. Can you only imagine the boost such a story can give to a writer’s career?” He pointed a stubby forefinger in her direction.

Ivy didn’t respond. She toyed with the idea of an exclusive on Max Shepard. She didn’t care whether there were spirits or walking dead. What she did believe in was finding an opportunity to make a name for herself. A story on the Max Shepard would be of interest to a lot of people, and definitely wouldn’t hurt her lackluster career. “I think this Max Shepard is a phony. He claims to see ghosts? I bet he’s never seen a spark of supernatural his entire life. Now that would be a story. To reveal a fake.”

“A fake? Sure, go that route. I don’t give a rat’s ass what your storyline is as long as there is one. Find out what makes this man tick. Stay on him like white on rice.”

“Desperate, are we?” Ivy raised a brow.

“When you get to be my age you’ll know desperation.” Something flashed across his face. Ivy couldn’t read what it was before it disappeared. Was there more to this than met the eye? He turned toward the window and stared out. “Besides, you’re a journalist. Journalists like to report. Maybe this is the story that’ll get you that move into a big-shot newspaper. If not, you may be stuck in this small town for the rest of your life. Unless we both fail on this story and get fired.”

She sucked in a deep breath. “That sounds like a threat.”

“Well, one way or another, you may get your wish.” He turned back to her. “You’ll be leaving dodge by choice or involuntarily.” He chuckled but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. He returned to his chair.

“Marshall, you know I came back here to live for one reason and one reason only. My mother and her ill health. She needs me. I need this job until I have a backup plan.” With her dismal thoughts burning a hole in her head, she told Marshall, “You should be glad that I’m still here doing your demeaning jobs. I bet we wouldn’t see your star reporter, Jasmine, sleeping in a deserted haunted house for two weeks.”

His scoff echoed off the empty walls. “You’re a much better writer than Jasmine. Good looks, big tits and a tight ass can only get you so far in life.” He thrummed his fat fingers on the desktop.

“And what am I? Chopped liver?” She scowled.

 His face softened slightly. “Ivy, you don’t need me to feed your ego. You’re single because you choose that life. You’ve got the whole kit and caboodle. Looks, brain and future.”

“I’ll remind you of those sentiments later. And if I get this story and those photos, if he takes any, I better land a huge raise and a private office, you hear?”

“Does this mean I can count on you?” He was already smiling in success.

“On one condition. Well, two conditions.” She smiled.

 

 

Chapter 2

 

“Why do you have to go, Max? I’m only in town for a few days before I leave for California. I can’t believe you’re leaving me.”

Max Shepard eyed Renee. She was his comfortable, pleasing-to-the-eye diversion. He couldn’t call what they had a “relationship.” Maybe a friendship with benefits. “I’m not leaving you,” he finally said. He turned to her, giving her tousled blond hair and slender body, outlined under the thin white sheet, a long, slow perusal. He slid her his most meaningful wink of appreciation before going back to packing his tattered leather bag.

“But why to Morgan Sites? Where the hell is that anyway?” Her words bordered on a wail. He clenched his jaw in reaction.

He swiped a hand through his hair and sighed. He didn’t have a relationship, with her or any other woman, because of this very reason. He couldn’t even understand why they were having this discussion. “Renee, you travel all over the country. You’re gone most of the time on modeling shoots. When you do roll into town, every few months or so, we reunite, have a drink, share dessert–usually in bed. You haven’t cared that I wasn’t around before to keep you entertained.”

“I thought you’d be happy that I visited. It’s been months since I’ve been here last.”

“Sure, I was happy. I was just surprised to see you.” The words came out automatically. He instantly wished he could’ve snatched them back. Sugar-coating the truth wasn’t his style–and for some reason he hadn’t been pleased that she’d dropped by unannounced. Coming home late from a book signing, he had found her waiting, naked, in his bed. Only an ungrateful ass would have complained about a sexy, available woman. But, exhausted and spent, all he’d wanted to do was fall into bed alone and sleep. Her luscious body in his king-size bed hadn’t even tempted him into adult playtime. Angry that he’d denied her, she’d gotten out of bed, stomped around the room and thrown a temper tantrum. He couldn’t give a damn anymore at that point. If she’d called first he’d have told her he wasn’t up for company. Sometime in the middle of the night she’d come back to bed.

“Can’t you postpone your trip for one day?” She moved languorously toward the edge of the bed, causing the sheet to slide off her shoulder, in the process revealing her firm, expensive D cups.

Her body was definitely a weapon against a man’s libido. Normally the sight of her nudity would result in a tent behind his zipper, but it just wasn’t working for him. Was he ill? After all, she was good. Not just good, but skilled at seduction. That’s what made her great at her job–seducing the camera lens.

He glanced over her pert, pink nipples. Not one twitch.

There was something wrong with him.

He didn’t have time for this. He certainly couldn’t let Renee’s passive-aggressive behavior deter him from his focus. “If it makes you feel any better, it’s not a pleasure trip. I’m going to be holed up in some old, dilapidated house for two weeks. And to top it off, I have a rookie journalist shadowing me.” He still couldn’t believe he’d agreed to the tagalong, but in the scheme of things he really didn’t give a shit.

An elegant groan escaped her throat. “I thought you were supposed to be alone?” She looked up at him through a perfect veil of false eyelashes.

“I did, too. That was the plan, but damn these people in these small towns. They find a way to bust a man’s balls every time. They think their towns are separate from the rest of the world.” He sighed. “I guess if I really cared I’d say ‘screw it.’ But hell, let the woman do her job. Everyone’s got to get ahead somehow.”

Renee’s mouth opened into a faultless O. “A woman?” Lifting a thinly manicured brow, she made an expression that he was certain had taken her years to perfect.

It didn’t do a thing for him. He continued packing. “Yeah. So what?”

“Should I be jealous?” She reached up and ran her red fingernail down his abs, stopping at the waist of his jeans.

“Not unless you want to push me away.” He shot her a quick glance.

In a soft, sexy voice she said, “If you stay, I’ll cook you a meal. Afterward, I’ll cook you.” The tip of her tongue came out, licking her plump bottom lip, as if to drive the hidden meaning home.

He chuckled. “You cook? You don’t even know how to boil water, Renee.” His words weren’t mean to offend her, but she drew back and hammered him with a cold blue stare.

“Oh yes, I do.” She huffed and covered her body with the sheet. He guessed it was a way of punishing him.

“Okay, maybe you do know how to boil water.” He shrugged.

“Three minutes on high in the microwave,” she snapped.

Closing the suitcase and clicking the lock, he sat next to her on the bed, kissing her gingerly on the lips. “I’m sorry.” He meant it. He usually wasn’t in such a foul mood. He didn’t know what it was, but instead of exciting the hell out of him, Renee was beginning to repulse him.

Before he could move away, she shimmied closer and burrowed her bare breasts into his chest, whispering into his ear, “Stay.”

“I’m going.” Enough. His patience grew thin. He got up and grabbed his suitcase. “Don’t forget to lock up on your way out.”

* * * *

A prickle slithered up Ivy’s spine as she approached Thornton House. The place gave her the creeps. Were the rumors getting to her? She laughed. Her trepidation had nothing to do with gossip and had everything to do with the idea of sleeping with creepy crawlies and whatever else lurked in the shadows.

The property was overgrown with weeds and sat back on a dead end road. If a person didn’t know the country roads of Morgan Sites, they wouldn’t know the three-hundred-year-old house existed. Seldom did anyone drive on the gravel road, by mistake or otherwise.

She drove through the broken, rusted gate and took in the view of the house. The red brick two-story was only a figment of the beautiful house it had once been. The windows were overrun with foliage and years of filth. There was no life, only darkness. Weatherworn shutters hung haphazardly. A place forgotten in time.

She frowned. Marshall said the owner had the house checked every so often for problems. There was a big problem. The house was missing underneath layers of grime and neglect.

Ivy climbed out of her car, fighting the urge to climb back in. She inhaled and exhaled through her mouth, gaining the strength she knew she had. Two weeks would fly by. She could tolerate it. At least the place had electricity, water and a roof. It could be worse.

She grabbed her bags out of the back seat and moved toward the house. “I must enter with an open mind.” Ivy chanted the words over and over.

She came upon the weathered porch and stopped in her tracks. A few warped planks thrown together didn’t classify as a porch. Many of the boards were missing and she didn’t trust the ones that remained. With the toe of her shoe, she tested the first step. The board seemed sturdy. With slow, deliberate movements, she walked up the stairs and across the dry rotted timber as it creaked in protest.

Reaching into her front pocket, she pulled out the skeleton key. When Marshall had handed it to her that morning, she’d laughed, thinking it was a joke.

It took her three tries until the metal slid into the lock, but it still wouldn’t turn. She struggled as irritation swirled in her stomach. She had a second’s worth of patience left when the bolt finally clicked. The heavy door screeched with age as she pushed it open. It stopped halfway. She pushed, but it wouldn’t budge. There was only enough opening for her to slip through.

Apprehensive, she peeked ins. . .