Page 87 of Sweet Silver Bells
“I’m sorry, what plans do you two have?”
“Well, I have to take Olivia shopping for the ball at the manor tomorrow night.”
“I didn’t realize we were all going to that.” Hunter raised his eyebrows, not excited at all to dance formally at the place where he had gotten married.
“We are not all going,” Minerva said with obvious frustration. “The two of you are. I packed an envelope with the tickets from your kitchen counter.”
Hunter wracked his mind, not putting together what she was saying, but finally, the memory hit him.
The teachers’ raffle prize.
“I can’t imagine you would deny Olivia a chance to be twirled around to a small orchestra on Christmas Eve. I couldn’t imagine something so romantic. I know exactly where to take you for your gown. Hunter, there’s a tux in your father’s closet that will fit you fine.”
Hunter looked at Olivia, a new ping of guilt building in his chest. He hadn’t even thought of the ball or inviting her. How very like Minerva to instigate this situation.
“Is it the manor by the forest?” Olivia asked him.
Hunter nodded.
“Home,” Olivia said.
“Home?” Minerva questioned.
“Home,” Olivia confirmed with no context.
“You’re quite strange, aren't you, Olivia?” Mark laughed. “We could use some of that energy around here.”
Hunter reached his hand out and put it on top of Olivia’s. “We can go.”
The dark-haired beauty before him smiled sweetly, looking down into her lap. She looked so out of place in the quiet opulence of the room they were in, with the crown molding up above them and the napkin rings gleaming silver from the low, yellow light bulbs glowing from shaded vintage lamps. Olivia was born into a world of wealth and yet did not seem at all at home when surrounded by it.
There were no plants in this room, Hunter realized, with the exception of the fresh thyme sprinkled over his plate. Surely, Olivia had noticed, too. Perhaps that’s why she looked so out of place here. Hunter didn’t like it; he didn’t like seeing her sitting there, a product for his mom to create, a future perfect wife.
That wasn’t Olivia. He didn’t want that for her. He wouldn’t accept that for her.
Inheriting his family home felt ever further away, a possibility that he could spit on, unless Olivia could make trees run through the windows and intertwine themselves in the walls, a ghostly version of the picture-perfect life the estate did its best to emulate.
Olivia wanted the forest. And Hunter wanted Olivia.
“I’ll take you, of course,” Hunter said. “We can go tomorrow night. My mom’s right, you should get a dress.”
Bringing Tom’s murderer to his funeral, on second thought, would be looked down upon. If Olivia existed, who was to say that angels were not looking down on them right then? It seemed better not to test the theory, not until he felt like the two of them were safe, not until he was sure they had forever in the palms of their hands with fists closing.
“We are going to have the best time.” Minerva put down her wineglass, absolutely giddy. “And after the ball—the tickets said it ended at midnight—you’ll come here for a night of sleep. When you wake, we will have a traditional Christmas. The caterer did not mind accounting for the extra people at all. In the evening, your aunt will be coming with the rest of her family. All those children, she is a breeder. We come from good genes, what a blessing.”
“What do you do?” Olivia asked.
Minerva blinked at her, as if it were the silliest question in the world.
“Well, dear, I am a housewife. I raised a child and took care of the estate.”
“That sounds lonely. I know how that feels, to be lonely.” Olivia said.
“Well, dinner was lovely,” Mark said. “I’m all finished. Will we be playing cards in the living room tonight? Your mother loves that.”
Hunter looked at his mom. Her eye almost twitched as she tried to avoid Olivia’s stare.
“You know, tomorrow is a big day,” his mom said, pushing her plate away from her. “I’d rather get some rest. Thank you for coming down to dinner. I know it’s been a hard day for you with the tree and your home.”
