Dreaming Ivy. Rhonda Lee Carver

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      Blowing off her frustration for the useless argument with a pigheaded man, Ivy headed straight for her food rations. She had a tendency to eat when she was upset. Chocolate was always top choice. She fumbled through her supplies and didn’t find one ounce of chocolate. Her choices: a granola bar or an apple. Grabbing the apple and her cell phone, she went to explore her surroundings. She was certain if she looked hard enough she’d find something to satisfy her curiosity. And she’d get a big kick out of finding something before Mr. Ghost Detective.

      The kitchen was the first room on her list. It was in dire need of a caring touch and a broom. Besides old-fashioned wooden cabinets, cracked countertops, and an old stainless steel sink, there was a small decrepit table.

      Opening each cabinet door, she peeked in, did a brushing of her hand inside and was disappointed to find nothing except mouse droppings and a box of matches.

      Next place: upstairs.

      She was excited to explore the master bedroom. Passing through the bedroom the first time, Ivy had assumed the door by the bed was a closet. Now, she opened it and was shocked to find a nursery. The antique wooden bassinet and rocking chair looked desolate in the barren room. Lacy curtains yellowed with age hung haphazardly at the window. Ivy’s heart pained. She knew the history.

      Records showed that Marcus Thornton’s first child had perished in a fire around the age of five, along with his wife, Sarah, in their home in Boston. Years later he had married his second wife, Elizabeth, and she died during childbirth a mere year and a half into their marriage. There was no written history of a live child being born, so it was believed that the baby had died too. Fifteen months later, Marcus died. Townspeople said it was from a broken heart. The entire heritage had died away.

      The story was a wretched and sorrowful history of loss and tragedy.

      Ivy opened the door to the closet. A strong whiff of dust came barreling out. Coughing, she started to close it. She almost missed seeing something in the far corner. She stepped into the small space, opening the door as wide as it would go to allow light in. She saw it was a painting. Kneeling down onto her hands and knees, careless of her clothes on the grimy floor, she lifted the frame only to realize there was another behind it. Her heart raced.

      “What did you find?”

      She jumped. The deep voice behind her had startled her. She turned and eyed Max with fury. She hadn’t heard him come into the room. “Do you have to sneak around?” she snapped.

      “A little jumpy, are you?” He cocked an eyebrow. One corner of his mouth lifted as if he were happy to see her unsettled.

      The man had the ability to scrape her nerves like fingernails down a chalkboard. She wasn’t sure if it was because of his overinflated ego or the fact that every time he came near she felt an unfamiliar tingling down her spine. “Make yourself useful.”

      Ivy fumbled with the paintings until they could easily be pulled through the doorway.

      She lifted the first painting to Max. He stared down at it with narrowed eyes. He blew his breath across the dusty frame and a cloud of dirt surrounded them. She coughed again as her lungs filled with the particles.

      “Nice,” he said sarcastically.

      Then came the second. It was in worse condition.

      “I can’t believe these paintings were tossed into a closet.” She swiped her dirty hands across the legs of her pants. They were covered in cobwebs and grime. It was too late to worry about cleanliness.

      “It seems they should be hanging up instead of shoved into the darkness.” Max set the paintings against the wall and they stood back to stare at their find.

      The first painting was a portrait of a beautiful woman. Her raven hair cascaded like swirling waves over her bare shoulders and along the exquisite green lace gown she wore. The ornate gown was the only sign of wealth. She was bare of expensive jewelry and the kind of trendy hairstyle that most women of riches would have adorned their bodies with, especially for a portrait. The woman’s enchanting green eyes spoke volumes in the finely painted portrait. It was Elizabeth Thornton.

      The next painting was of a man. Ivy knew it was Marcus from an old picture she had seen of him. However, his exquisite good looks, intense dark eyes and hair like the midnight sky all seemed oddly familiar. He was standing by the fireplace downstairs, his chin rested on his fist. He carried an expression of a man in deep thought.

      Both paintings were superb.

      Ivy turned each of them over. To her surprise, scrawled in one corner on each painting was the name Elizabeth. “Elizabeth painted these. Marcus’s second wife was an artist. A good one, so it appears.”

      “The paintings seem–” Max seemed perplexed. “–haunting.”

      He was right. There was a quality to both paintings that exuded deep emotion. Ivy was overcome with such sentiment. Tears sprang to her eyes. She swiped them before they fell to her cheeks.

      A draft of cold air passed through the room. The hairs on the back of her neck rose. She wrapped her arms around her chilled body as she kept her eyes on the paintings. She felt Max’s eyes on her. Minutes seemed to pass in slow increments until he finally asked, “What do you know of this house’s history?”

      She swallowed as she searched for her voice. “I really know so little about Marcus and Elizabeth. There was only a minuscule amount of research I had luck in uncovering. Most of the information comes from years of rumors passed down from generation to generation. Each tale gets juicier and further from the truth, I’m sure. There is probably only a figment of fact left to any of them. But one legend still remains the same.” She looked up at him, hoping he couldn’t see the remnants of tears left in her eyes. “Marcus was known for his kindness. History labeled him as quite the charming gentleman who’d had more than a few single, and married, women interested. He was roguishly handsome, as we can see by his portrait–” She darted a glance back at the man in the painting. “–passionate, and exceptionally wealthy.”

      “But as you said yourself, they could have molded his memory into a kind man. It seems a man can be shaped by the untruths of others.”

      Ivy understood there СКАЧАТЬ