Page 22 of Sweet Silver Bells
“Ladies, you’re on school property,” Principal Keanin muttered as he passed, coffee in hand, escaping before they could respond.
Hunter kept his eyes firmly on the floor, but it didn’t save him.
“We need to get you a . . . less sad . . . hobby, Hunter,” Elaine said dryly. “The poor widower vibe is getting old.”
“I like it. It’s gothic, dramatic,” Celia added, sipping her coffee.
“Suggestions?” Hunter asked. Elaine raised an eyebrow.
“Get certified in piercings. Side hustle. Bad economy.”
“Is it a hobby if it makes money?”
“Yes,” Elaine said as Celia said, “No.”
Hunter sighed and grabbed his favorite mug, round and speckled blue. It was a gift from one of his first students back when he still had hope this job wouldn’t eat him alive.
The hot, steaming liquid bounced in and around the interior until it found its smooth collective rhythm. Hunter followed the pour with two organic brown sugar packets and stirred, looking out at the rest of the staff that was trudging in and out of the lounge. The warmth and promise of a few weeks of rest put most of their faces at ease.
“Hunter, I know you’re coming to the Christmas market with us!” Nina, the bubbly kindergarten teacher, squealed as she tossed her gift on the table. She winked at him before heading for Malcolm, the stoic kindergarten teacher.
“I’ll be there,” he said, lifting his cup in salute.
The first bell rang. Everyone sighed and shuffled into the hall toward their classrooms.
As the caffeine hit his empty stomach, Hunter’s hands grew clammy. He stepped into Room Eleven. Papers flew through the air, phones flashed, and half his students were eating holiday cookies before lunch.
“Now, now,” Hunter called, quieting the room. “You might think I’d let you slack off today, but state tests are in four months. Might be smart to start early.”
The room froze.
“I’m kidding.” He grinned and set his coffee down. “Now, who’s got cookies? I need one.”
The morning blurred past. When the lunch bell rang, Hunter checked for his keys, heard them jingle, and followed his class out. He didn’t have much time, but if he didn’t get that gift, Sadie would hound him for eternity.
Snow mounded along the streets as he steered home. He parked, crunching through his unshoveled driveway, promising himself he’d salt it tonight. The last shriveled leaf clung to the tree over his roof.
Inside, the wooden floors creaked beneath him. A fireplace sat under a stone facade. Tiny painted yellow flowers dotted the white walls—Sarah’s half-finished project.
People told him to get a hobby. Sarah had had a million. After she died, Hunter spent years finishing her projects, like painting those hundreds of flowers.
They’d bought this place together. He couldn’t really afford it now; the accident payout helped with the mortgage, but it would run out soon. He’d have to sell eventually.
No couch, just a massive desk covered in paint stains and marker scars. His teacher's gift sat on top, wrapped in green paper and way too much tape.
His stomach growled. He stepped into the kitchen, where the fridge still smelled like vinegar and brine from Sarah’s pickling obsession. He kept the jars out of guilt. Now he pickled onions and tomatoes himself. He regretted trying it with eggs.
Hunter grabbed a yogurt hidden behind the jars, flipped on his old radio, and holiday music filled the kitchen. Peeling backthe lid, he licked the sweet pink yogurt and moaned at the sugar hit.
“Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way,” he sang, wiggling his hips as he spooned more yogurt.
A flash of movement in the dark, a tree falling apart, etched its way into his mind, and Hunter stopped moving. His yogurt was now on the floor, the clang of his spoon bouncing twice before it rested on the cheap linoleum tile.
Her.
He knew now. He hadn’t come home because he’d met her.
He stared out the back window at the snow-covered yard.
