Silver Bells At Moonglow (The Moonglow Christmas Series Book 2)

by Deborah Garner

  “Then what do you suggest?” Betty handed her a pencil. Mist regarded the room assignments quietly, as if contemplating a move on a chessboard.

  “We’ll put Ms. Turner in Room 23 and her... bodyguard... in Room 22,” Mist said. “That will work. I hadn’t assigned those rooms to anyone, so they’re available. I’ll just do some quick freshening up to prepare the rooms for guests. Room 23 has that claw foot tub, which Ms. Turner might enjoy.”

  “You were going to put Michael Blanton in Room 22,” Betty pointed out.

  Mist felt the same strange sensation she’d felt earlier as she thought about Michael Blanton’s arrival but brushed it away. “He’ll be fine in Room 11, where the professor from England stayed last year.”

  “Any other room changes needed that you can see?”

  “No,” Mist said. “The three sisters will be in downstairs rooms since two of those open together into a large suite. That won’t interfere with Room 7, so Hollister can come and go as he wishes.”

  “And the Philadelphia guests are already settled in Room 12,” Betty said. “This will work nicely.”

  “Yes, nicely indeed.” Mist stood, closed the registration book, and handed it back to Betty. “Looks like I have some rearranging to do.”

  “And I have some baking to plan,” Betty said. “The cookie exchange seems to have crept up suddenly. I suppose holiday events always seem like that. One day it’s September, and the next day it’s suddenly December. At least it seems that way.”

  “Time is not always linear,” Mist replied, smiling as she headed out of the room. “Oh, and Maisie said to tell you she’ll bring snickerdoodles to the exchange.”

  “What a coincidence.” Betty laughed. “I happen to know Clayton loves those.”

  * * *

  Mist opened the door to the downstairs closet, the one she considered her secret stockpile of special items. It was her habit to leave a unique item in each guest’s room before arrival.

  Often it came down to a last-minute decision, some sort of impulse that inspired her as she looked through the assorted knickknacks she’d accumulated over the past year. For returning guests, she was at a slight advantage, having already met them in the past. For new guests, it became a challenge, almost a game, to figure out what might intrigue a visitor, or even be noticed, for that matter.

  Gathering the items was almost as fun as choosing which ones to put in each guest room. She’d seen how, the year before, a wooden puzzle had gone into the room of a family in need of being put back together. She hadn’t known the family was broken at the time she chose the puzzle, only that a child would be staying in that room. Thus began her scavenger hunt for a wide range of trinkets to store in the closet. Perhaps, she thought, even having variety on hand would bring in a varied group of guests, as if the objects themselves called out across the miles, beckoning people toward the hotel. Who was to say? There were many things in life that made no sense at first sight, or were thought to serve one purpose, while serving another. Like a simple wooden child’s puzzle.

  Reaching up to a high shelf, Mist pulled down a large, woven basket that she’d found at the thrift shop earlier that year. Several inches in height and long enough to stretch the entire length of the shelf, the basket served as a perfect container for small items. She set the basket on the closet floor, sat down, and crossed her legs—sukhasana, her Yoga teacher in California would say. She interlaced her fingers, raised her arms over her head and stretched, then lowered them and moved the basket into her lap.

  Secondhand Sally’s had been a gold mine this year, partially because, she suspected, Sally knew Mist often browsed the thrift shop shelves, looking for unusual items to add to her closet collection. Now rummaging through the basket, she recalled the days she found the tiny picture frame with paw prints, the candle with seashells embedded in its side, and the doll-sized apron with a wild print of purple grapes. A matchbook from a Paris hotel had also come from Secondhand Sally’s, as well as a tiny salt spoon with the initial T. One by one, she lifted out items and observed them, as if each had a personality or a message to give—a spool doll with a red gingham dress, a miniature china birdhouse, a tin toy fire truck, a harmonica in the key of C. And perhaps her favorite find of all was a well-worn copy of The Velveteen Rabbit with a torn corner on the title page.

  If anyone were to ask the common denominator of all the items in her closet, she would have said “whimsy.” No one item in itself seemed important, but each had a meaning, whether apparent or not. She never knew what that meaning would be when she picked up an addition to the collection. After all, what spoke to one person might not be the same to another. It was only in the combination of items and guests that reasons came forth. As they soon would again.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The front doorbell of the Timberton Hotel had a distinctive ring, one that hinted at tales of days gone by and people long gone. Mist found it a fascinating, though not disturbing, fact that the signal of an arrival carried echoes of the past. She almost expected to open the door sometime to find Meriweather Lewis stopping in for something warm to drink while on his expedition. Or Myrna Loy, who was born in nearby Helena, Montana, perhaps seeking to escape the glamour of Hollywood, as their soon-to-be guest intended to do. There was no knowing who had come and gone from the hotel in years past or from the area before the hotel even existed.

  So intrigued was Mist with these thoughts that the doorbell rang three times before she pulled out of her daze and went to answer it. There, on the front steps, was neither an explorer nor a movie star, but dear Clara Winslow, back for another year of Timberton holiday celebrations.

  “Ms. Winslow, how delightful to see you!” Mist welcomed the guest with a warm embrace.

  “Don’t you dare call me anything but ‘Clara,’ you hear me?” the elderly woman scolded, though never losing a smile while doing so. “How are you, Mist? I’ve been looking forward to seeing you. And to your wonderful meals, of course.”

  Mist smiled. She knew her reputation for cooking went hand in hand with the draw of Betty’s cozy lodging accommodations. Adding in decorations and festivities, it made for a perfect holiday guest experience.

  “Do I hear Clara Winslow out there?” Betty’s voice preceded her entry. Once she stepped through the kitchen door into the front hallway, she met Clara with an exuberant hug. Mist took the guest’s luggage and set it at the foot of the stair s as Betty ushered Clara in. “You look wonderful, Clara!” Betty exclaimed as she stepped back.

  Mist had to agree. There was a rosy glow to Clara’s face that had been absent the year before. This was understandable since that particular visit had been the first Christmas for Clara after her husband’s death. Clearly, the past year had helped to ease the pain. In addition, the elderly woman had fond memories of spending Christmas at the hotel the year before, even though she’d been on her own.

  “I have you in Room 16 again, if that’s all right with you,” Mist said. “I know you were comfortable there last year.”

  “Of course it is,” Clara said, smiling. “Such a lovely room, I remember it well—light and airy. How kind of you to remember.”

  A phone ringing sent Betty scurrying to the kitchen. “Don’t worry about the registration card, Clara. We can fill it out later. Just get yourself settled in and relaxed. Mist will help you.” With that the hotelkeeper disappeared, and soon the ringing of the phone ceased. Betty’s calm, professional tone told Mist the call was likely business—a guest calling to give an approximate arrival time, for example, or with a request for directions.

  Mist escorted Clara to her room and was pleased to see the woman smile at the sight of the Christmas quilt spread across the bed.”

  “Oh, how I love this quilt! I have to admit I hoped it would be here this time.”

  “Of course it’s here, Clara. This is your home away from home.” Mist offered. “We want you to be as comfortable as possible. I’ll let you settle in. I’ll be downstairs if you need anything
. There’s coffee and tea in the front parlor, as well as some treats.”

  “Such as those wonderful glazed cinnamon nuts that Betty makes?”

  “Of course,” Mist said. “An unlimited supply, as always. Help yourself.”

  Mist left Clara to get situated and returned downstairs just in time to hear the doorbell again. She walked straight to the door, opened it, and found three women lined up in a row, all of similar height and build. In fact—was she imagining it?—they were identical, other than clothing and hairstyles. No, she wasn’t imagining it. The three women were triplets, rare as that was. Mist estimated them to be in their sixties.

  “You must be the Anders sisters,” Mist said, stepping aside to usher them in.

  “Yes,” the first one who entered said. She sported a bright red wool scarf. “Like the Andrews Sisters, but not nearly as musical.” The woman laughed, as did the one who stepped in behind her, a green knit cap covering her ears and most of her forehead. The third had neither a scarf nor hat on but wore blue mittens with a faux fur trim. She remained silent, sighing as if tired of what was likely a long-running joke.

  “Welcome to the Timberton Hotel,” Mist said. “Let me take your coats and winter accessories. How was your trip?”

  “Trips,” the third, more serious sister, clarified as she removed her coat and hung it on a coatrack herself.

  “Yes, of course,” Mist said. “I hope you each had a pleasant trip. You all live in different parts of the country, I believe.” Small talk ranked low as a preferred mode of communication for Mist, but she sensed a tension between the sisters. If not the first two who had entered, then definitely the third. A little chatter might help lighten the mood.

  “That’s right,” the sister with the bright red scarf said. “I’m Lydia, from Charleston, and this is Helen, from Seattle.” The second sister smiled but remained quiet.

  “And I’m Deirdre,” the third sister said.

  “From Boston,” Lydia added.

  “Yes,” Mist said. “Well, we’re glad you all made it safe and sound. I have registration cards for you to fill out, and then I’ll show you to your rooms. Help yourselves to some coffee or tea and glazed cinnamon walnuts over on the buffet.”

  “Don’t mind if I do!” The clearly masculine voice caused all four women to turn in the direction of the kitchen, where Clive leaned against the doorway.

  “And who is this handsome man?” Lydia flashed a smile as flirtatious as her words.

  Mist wasn’t certain if she was humored or concerned by the grin that spread across Clive’s face. She could hear Betty still on the phone in the kitchen, likely not overhearing the current banter.

  “Clive Barnes at your service, ma’am, er... ma’ams, that is,” he said as he looked past Lydia and around at the other sisters. He let out a soft whistle. Mist smiled, in spite of herself. Clive wasn’t known for subtlety. He’d clearly noticed the similarity between the three women. “It would be my pleasure to help you with your bags.”

  “That would be appreciated,” Deirdre said.

  It took merely a few minutes to show the sisters to their accommodations, Lydia and Helen choosing the rooms with a connecting door, Deirdre taking the third room. Clive delivered the luggage to each room and returned to the kitchen. Mist followed shortly behind.

  “Everyone getting settled in?” Betty asked. The aroma of cinnamon floated in the air as Betty arranged glazed cinnamon nuts on wax paper to cool.

  “As settled as possible,” Mist said. “I sense some sisterly tension, at least on the part of one sister. We’ll see if a bit of holiday ambiance can give her some peace.”

  “If anyone can make that happen, it’s you,” Betty said.

  “We can only help,” Mist pointed out. “Peace comes from within. It’s up to each person to find it. With three sisters... they may need to help each other. We’ll see.” Mist paused. “Yes, we’ll see.”

  “Meanwhile, we have two guests yet to arrive,” Betty said.

  “Actually, three,” Mist said.

  “That’s right,” Betty said. “Counting Ms. Turner’s bodyguard.”

  Clive set his coffee mug down on the counter and looked at Betty. “I could swear you just said bodyguard, but I haven’t had my hearing checked recently.”

  “Nothing wrong with your hearing, Clive,” Betty said.

  “We have a guest arriving with a bodyguard,” Mist explained. “Though I find the concept of a bodyguard disconcerting, really. To have a wall between a person and the experience of life seems unfortunate.”

  “Unfortunate but maybe necessary,” Betty said.

  “Anyone want to clue me in?” Clive’s expression was a mixture of amused and perplexed. “This is beginning to sound complicated.”

  “It’s not at all complicated,” Mist said. “It turns out one of our guests is a celebrity with a protective manager who felt a bodyguard should come along on the trip.”

  “The guest is Catherine Ashley Turner,” Betty said.

  “Cat?” Clive’s eyebrows lifted. “You mean the Cat?”

  “Yes, Clive,” Betty said. “That’s exactly who we mean.”

  “And you didn’t tell me?”

  “We didn’t know,” Betty said. “She was registered as Belinda Myers. Her manager only called this morning. And I don’t think they want it to be big news. The whole point of using a different name was to avoid that.”

  “When is she due to arrive?” Mist asked the question merely as a matter of conversation. She knew all the guests would be in by the evening.

  “Soon,” Betty said. “That phone call was her manager. They should be arriving within the hour.”

  “Can’t the woman even make her own phone calls?” Clive asked.

  “I’m sure she can,” Betty said. “She’s probably simply in the habit of letting others handle arrangements.”

  “I think that would be difficult,” Mist mused.

  “Difficult?” Clive laughed. “Sounds easy enough to me.”

  Mist shook her head. “Having help might seem easy at first, but I suspect a loss of independence could make a person weary as time goes on.”

  “Well, I do believe this will be an interesting weekend,” Betty said.

  “I suspect you’re right,” Mist said. “In fact, I have no doubt.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Mist returned to the kitchen, satisfied that a quick room check had confirmed the guest rooms were ready for the remaining arrivals. Betty was placing a tray of flourless peanut butter chocolate chip cookies in the oven when the doorbell rang. Without hesitation, Mist went to answer the door, glad that Clive had returned to his gallery. The less fuss Ms. Turner’s arrival brought on, the better.

  Whatever Mist had expected when she opened the door, she was surprised. Cat looked nothing like the few photos she’d seen of her. The world-famous star sported a basic winter beanie pulled low over her ears, sunglasses, and a plain coat that could have been from a thrift store—or belonged in one. Her legendary blond curls straggled out from an army-green cable-knit cap in straight strands. She wore no makeup, as far as Mist could tell, though what appeared to be diamond studs of ample size peeked out just below the edge of her cap. A man of short height and slim frame stood quietly behind and to the left of the celebrity, holding two overnight bags, presumably one for each of them.

  “Welcome to the Timberton Hotel,” Mist said, stepping back. With a gentle sweep of her arm, she ushered the newcomers in. “We’re delighted to have you staying with us, Ms. Turner and...” She left the sentence open-ended, unsure of the other person’s name. Could this be the bodyguard Betty had told her to expect? His small stature hardly fit her preconceived image, though she chastised herself immediately for stereotyping, something she’d always felt was a weakness.

  “Simon,” the man said, his voice unassuming, though not quite weak. He nodded formally, in a polite manner, but didn’t lower a bag to extend his arm for a handshake. “Charming little place,” he added.<
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  “Thank you,” Mist replied. “We love it, and we enjoy sharing it with our guests. I’m sure you’ll enjoy spending your holidays here. The atmosphere is festive but peaceful.”

  “That sounds perfect.” The first words spoken by the woman were soft and, if Mist interpreted their tone correctly, relieved. “Festive but peaceful,” she repeated as if the thought itself was a Christmas gift. Mist suspected that was exactly what it was to this particular guest.

  “Let’s get you settled in,” Mist said, closing the front door. “We have registration cards over on the front counter for you to sign, and then I’ll show you to your rooms, Ms. Turner and Mr. Simon.”

  “It’s just Simon,” the man said. He approached the counter, picked up a pen, and began filling out the required information.

  “And please just call me Cathy,” the woman added, a wistful smile appearing on her face.

  “Very well,” Mist agreed. “And you may call me Mist.”

  “Mist,” Cathy said, contemplating the unusual name. “How lovely.”

  Once again, Mist was struck by the woman’s countenance. Nothing about her hinted at celebrity or fame.

  The sound of the kitchen door swinging open signaled Betty’s entrance. Mist smiled at the sight of the hotelkeeper, whose poinsettia-print apron was covered with flour.

  “I heard conversation and wanted to say hello,” Betty said. “We’re delighted to have you staying with us for the Christmas holiday. You’re in good hands with Mist.” She paused, and then laughed, aware of her appearance. “Cookies. I’ve been baking for an event tomorrow.”

  “Ah.” Cathy’s tone brightened considerably. “Are you having an old-fashioned cookie exchange? We used to have those when I was growing up in Michigan. They were so much fun.”

  “Yes,” Betty said. “We have one every year. It’s a Timberton Hotel tradition.”

  “Well, I would have come here for that alone,” Cathy said. “I used to make pecan shortbread for ours. Even won a contest with that recipe one year.”