Sweet Silver Bells, page 9
The unbelievably soul-crushing beauty of her siren song stopped.
“That’s enough for now,” Olivia said to the vine. “Now, where to hang you where light can shine through the windows?” She turned, her face pensive, her lips pursed and pulled to the side.
Adorable.
His head was stuck in that haze, the spell from her song. He knew he didn’t need it; his thoughts of her were true, but it did help erase the anxiety that hid in his stomach, knowing what she could do, knowing it was likely just a part of what magic she had.
“I’d like to wrap this around the mantle.” She didn’t ask, as if this were her house.
“You can decorate however you wish,” he said, bowing slightly.
Bowed. You bowed.
A full smile spread across Olivia's face, her nose scrunching a little. The confidence his approval gave her sent butterflies into a vortex formation inside his core. He smiled back as she skipped over to the mantle, placing what she could carry of the elongated mistletoe along the back, humming and coaxing the plant into hanging. It grew and slid into several feet of corkscrew-shaped vines, hanging onto the textured walls in the living room once there was no room left.
After a few blinks, yards of green graced the entire living room, wrapping around the beamed ceiling overhead.
“Wow,” Hunter said, “the house is already so different.”
He knew that the forest responded to her voice, her song, but seeing the magic that laced her vocal cords in action with natural light in a familiar space was a new level of surreal. Hunter stared at her in awe, doing his best not to allow his mouth to hang open.
“It’s filled with life now,” she whispered.
Hunter’s mood plummeted, triggered by the words from the lips he so carefully studied.
Life.
Like when Sarah was alive.
It was a sobering sentence, uttered from the first woman he felt pulled to get to know since the tragedy. The haze of Olivia’s song did what it could to push the grief out of his mind, focusing him only on this black-haired beauty, but Hunter couldn’t allow himself to forget. He would never forget.
Am I ready for this? If she wants me, too, can I move forward, Sarah?
“What are your hobbies?” The question felt small, but it tugged him out of the quiet cocoon of his grief.
Smooth, Romeo.
Olivia only blinked at him, her smile waning. “Hobbies?”
“What did you do for fun before you went into the forest, before you decided to never come back out?”
“You want to know me, Hunter?” Her head tilted, considering. “Is that why you sang for me?”
She’s crazy and terrifying; why can’t I let her go?
He nodded.
“What is this box?” she asked, moving her finger across the dusty screen.
“It’s called a TV, a television. It plays stories that move. Should I turn it on?”
Olivia frowned at it and shook her head no. “Your tree doesn’t like it.”
“My tree outside?” Hunter looked out the window.
“It doesn’t like the noise. Its hum is too loud when the sun goes down.”
“I didn’t realize.”
Who would?
“I don’t think I had any hobbies. I worked in my little garden, the one my mother had made for me under the window to my bedroom,” she finally answered his question. “When I was sure that I was alone, I would sing to the plants—the jasmine, the pink alliums, the lavender, and the thick vines that grew up the side of the brick. It was the only time I was allowed to sing, when there was no one there to hear.”
Hunter looked for sadness in his eyes, but he only saw acceptance.
“I studied with my tutor," she continued. "I went to dance lessons. I was regularly fitted for new dresses as I tore mine running barefoot. I was always purposely losing the strings to my corsets.”
Olivia’s focus moved on to the coffee table that was still alive with the seven poinsettia plants. Hunter winced, just a little, imagining the house filled with hundreds of them if she took the same route with the festive red leaves as she had with the mistletoe.
He supposed it could be funny, explaining to the neighborhood that his little house exploded from wild holiday plants.
Your willingness to accept that was awfully fast, Hunter.
Olivia held her hand out over the leaves, petting them, and like a cat, Hunter swore he could almost hear it purr back at her. She hummed, the leaves curling under in response, comforted, nurtured, the red color brightening even more. Hunter had never seen a natural color so brilliant.
“Where should we put them?” Hunter asked.
“They are asking for more light,” she said. “The poor things have been practically deprived, but still bloom to the best of their ability. They are valiant, strong.” She lowered her voice, speaking to the plants, “I’m proud of you all.”
There was no tune to her voice, but the plants still reacted, shooting up, each growing four or five feet, nearly tumbling over as the shiny gold foil paper that held their plastic container crinkled with ferocity. Olivia beamed at them, her children.
Hunter put his hands on his face and bent, crouched down to brace himself. There was no silence once the foil stopped resisting, no cracking of the containers that split down the middle, no dirt flooding the floor. Instead, his ears were immediately hit with an uncontrollable, free laughter. Hunter looked up at Olivia, partially hidden by the foliage surrounding her. Her hands were on her belly, and her face was pointed at the ceiling as her body shook from joy.
Hunter wasn’t sure if he should be offended or not.
You probably should.
“I didn’t know what was going to happen,” he said, and stood awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck, grimacing.
“Are you scared of me, Hunter?” she asked, and the laughter finally ran out of her body like helium being squeezed from a balloon. The energy was lighter; there was a joy in his living room that wasn’t there before, that hadn’t existed in any way.
“Terrified, if we are being honest.” He chuckled.
It wasn’t a lie.
“I think I rather enjoy that.” She tenderly moved her hands through the poinsettias that now stood at her eye level. “I suppose we could move them in front of each window. They will need larger pots. Do you have any to spare?”
Hunter shook his head, bewildered that he would be expected to have such a thing lying around.
Maybe for her, you should.
“I can get some. I can go now if you’d like. I can bring back some takeout, too.”
“Take out?” Olivia cocked her head.
“Food prepared in a kitchen, a restaurant,” he clarified. “Catering, perhaps.”
She nodded.
“What kind of food did you eat in the forest?”
“I stood in the rain, I soaked up the moisture from the soil, I pulled in vitamins from the sunshine when I dipped my toes out of the edges of the trees.”
You’re going to make this as hard as possible for me.
“Olivia, what did you like to eat before you became a part of the bark?”
“Hmmmm.” She smiled. “I don’t remember eating much. I was always a bit of a waif as a child. I suppose that I appreciated sweets and beautiful pastries that were displayed near the champagne fountains on birthdays and during balls.”
“During Christmas?” Hunter asked.
She nodded again.
“If I leave to get sturdy pots for the poinsettias, will the house still be standing when I return?”
Olivia smirked. “Perhaps.”
“How does it work?” Hunter asked. “The plants grew without you singing. You only spoke to them that time.”
“They are a part of me; I am a part of them. My singing is necessary only to control other humans, a funny consequence.”
“Is it just men that are affected?”
“That’s a peculiar question. Plants do not have genders.”
Hunter sighed. “Your singing—does it only work on men? Or does everyone forget?”
“Women are affected as well.”
Hunter walked into the kitchen, turning his back on her to grab his wallet off the counter. When he returned, Olivia was peering out the front window, her eyes large, sad.
“Your poor tree,” she whispered.
“We can put the TV in the garage, unplugged when I return,” he suggested.
“Yes, we must. We must bring it relief.”
Hunter opened the front door and walked out of the house. “I’ll be right back. Please stay inside, don’t talk to anyone, don’t trust anyone.”
Olivia just stared at the tree from the window, blowing her hair off of her face, her eyes going vacant as she sighed.
Hunter closed the door, watching her from the other side of the window, his stomach tightening again as he admired her face, her hair, her beauty, her strangeness.
“Let’s go buy pots on your teacher's salary,” he muttered to himself as he walked to his car, the snow on his lawn crunching under his boots.
12
CHAPTER TWELVE.
“That one,” Hunter said to the jolly middle-aged man behind the counter, his face too close to the glass as he stared at the pastries on the other side.
“Good choice, that’s one of our specialties for the season,” the man said, grabbing the beige fluffy pastry topped with powdered sugar and candied oranges.
Hunter didn’t often explore the more tourist-focused shops on Main Street, but the nearest nursery in Stockbridge was only a few blocks away, and he was famished. If sweets were what soothed the tree siren’s stomach, then they would eat like kings today.
“Are you Klaus?” Hunter pointed to the wall sign, the store named Klaus’s Danish Bakery in bright, cheery letters. The man behind the counter lit up, his jolly cheeks perfect cherry circles, nodding enthusiastically.
“I am. It’s a busy season, so all hands on deck this week. We’ve got more than three hundred Kransekages to make before customers come in to pick them up for their holiday celebrations.”
“That’s amazing. This place is so great, though maybe not so great for my wallet,” Hunter said, pointing to another donut-like Danish topped with berries and cream.
“How many?” Klaus asked, chuckling.
“Let's get two of those as well.”
Klaus wrapped eight Danishes in a creamy cerulean box and tied them with a beige string. “Let’s get these in your car before the rain starts,” Klaus said, watching Hunter insert his credit card into the reader.
He looked out the glass windows to see the dark gray skies inching overhead.
“Nothing cozier than snuggling up on a rainy day and eating Danishes. Sharing them with someone special?”
Hunter took the box Klaus held out to him. “You could say that.”
“Judging by the blush on your face, I’d take a guess that they are really special.”
Hunter didn’t have the heart to tell Klaus that his face was red from the blistering cold winds whipping at his face as he walked the block to the storefront. Besides, he could be lying to himself. Olivia could only be described as special.
“She is,” Hunter finally said, waving and exiting the store. The ring of the gold bell above the door bid him farewell as he hurried to his car.
Hunter set the box on the passenger seat floor, wincing as his elbow knocked against a black, glossy pot jutting from the backseat. It wasn’t alone. Three more crowded beside it, heavy and awkward, their bulk promising an unpleasant struggle once he got home. One rogue pot had already escaped to the trunk, rolling and thumping with every turn. Each distant thud spiked his pulse as he waited to hear one shatter and break.
Part of him hoped Olivia was still at the window, staring out at the tree in his yard. It had been so long since he’d come home to someone, and the thought alone stirred small butterflies deep in his stomach.
But coming through Market Street today had reminded him of the cost of ignoring warnings. The general store was boarded up now, caution cones and tape forcing pedestrians to weave around it—a silent memorial. Flowers wilted in the cold, hand-painted signs faded by the season, and stuffed toys sagged under melting snow, all a tribute to the fallen officer.
The Mason family had no answers. And they never would. Only he and Olivia knew and ever would know.
She’s a murderer, and you don’t care. She’s a murderer, and you didn’t turn her in.
Of course, he cared. He cared about her too much. That scared him. It shook him to his core. It was so right, mysterious, and because of his never-ending grief, because of the lifeless person he had morphed into in the past few years, this all felt wrong. A woman who piqued his interest, made him curious, was filled with every red flag possible, a nurturing that couldn’t be pure evil.
She was scared once, too. The nonchalant sinisterness that rose to the surface, gleaming from her eyes in sneaky one-second intervals, only existed because she was once fighting for something. Isn’t that how all villain origin stories began? He’d have to see if his comic book collection was still in that box in his parents’ attic.
She could not like you. She could be using you.
Hunter could not get past the thought, a blinding archway inviting him into the world that was Olivia. He would go through it, protecting his heart, protecting Sarah’s memory, keeping his distance while continuing to be a gentleman.
She’s yours.
Hunter laughed out loud at his own jumbled, contradicting thoughts. The car moved forward with his foot pressing against the gas pedal, wheels spinning on slush and ice until he pulled back out onto the salted, snow-plowed road. He got stuck behind a car going fifteen miles under the speed limit as the clouds opened up, letting the rain drizzle down, a light mist that would get heavier as he gripped the steering wheel and tried to control his road rage.
We live in Massachusetts—how can you be scared to drive in the weather?
When he finally made it and turned down his street, the rain had progressed into a violent dumping. His windshield wipers struggled to catch up. Hunter let out a yelp, swerving the car, stepping on the brakes in panic when he noticed a figure standing in the middle of the road, nearly blending in with the rain, with the doom and gloom of the day.
He opened his car door and let out his frustrations.
“What the heck are you doing? Are you trying to get killed, you idiot?”
“Your tree is so melancholy that it called on the sky to cry, to ask for attention.”
Olivia.
Hunter’s eyes quickly looked over to his house, only a few lots down, to make sure it was still standing. It looked the same from where he stood. The tree was also unchanged. The front door was wide open, the rain spilling onto his already damaged, old wooden flooring.
Olivia was soaked from head to toe, the thick sweater dress retaining water that streamed off a seam on her thigh. She didn’t shiver despite the bluish tone to her cheeks; she only smiled as she tilted her head back, letting her arms stretch wide as she began to turn and dance.
“What are you doing?” he asked, walking towards her, his car in park but still running, the engine purring under the sound of heavy droplets against metal, against the pavement, and houses around them.
“You reminded me that I was hungry,” she shouted, spinning, swaying, water puddling at her feet while she kicked and stomped with elation. She hummed, and Hunter watched as the trees and bushes in yards nearby seemed to lean in towards her, as if they were waiting for something.
“In this world,” he said, putting his hand out and gripping her by the arm, “we don’t get our nutrients from the rain.”
Olivia stopped moving, her smile wiped as she looked down at his hand gripping her.
"Everything grows because of rain."
“I’m sorry,” he said, letting go. He’d gotten lost in the moment, casually touching her like they had known each other their entire lives. “I wasn’t thinking, I just wanted to get you into the warmth.”
Instead of pulling away, Olivia shuffled in towards him, her fingers finding his as she raised them, two star-shaped hands, wet, cold palms touching. Hunter curved his fingers in, intertwining with hers as rain dripped off his nose, soaking through his coat, his pants.
He could still smell her, even in the downpour. That warm earth smell brought him relief, any worry he had going away, as if her song were casting a spell over him again. This time, there was no song, no haze. There were only the deep, dark eyes that stared into his, that bore into his soul. It was as if she had been waiting one hundred years for him.
“Where else can I absorb more nutrients?” she asked.
Was she breathless? Panting under her words?
Or was that him?
Olivia pulled her hands down to her sides, bringing his with her as she came into him, no more space separating them, her chest pressing against his, her chin raising to his. Hunter succumbed to how she felt against him, how he was putty in her hands. He surrendered. There was no going back after this. Hunter placed his lips on hers. This kiss was something new. It felt like electricity zapping him as he stood in a puddle.
She’s yours.
It was as if it were the very first, a kiss that confirmed he was choosing to be a different man, a different person. This kiss would ensure that he needed to take action, be proactive, and take care of the beautiful, strange creature that trusted him enough to follow him into a world that was not hers.
She baited him, staring at him with those longing, thick, wet eyelashes, inviting him in. She wanted that kiss, too. She wanted him. She saw something in him. Olivia saw something that he himself could not see. Whatever it was, he could learn, change, and become better. He could bring that out of himself and let the entire world see that he got a second chance, that Hunter was worthy of life.
You can do this. You can move on.
Their lips pulled apart. Hunter smiled, his cheeks heated, his heart open as he stared into the danger he could not escape.
