Dreaming Ivy. Rhonda Lee Carver

      “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