Snowfall At Moonglow (The Moonglow Christmas Series Book 5)

by Deborah Garner

  SNOWFALL

  AT

  MOONGLOW

  A Moonglow Christmas Novella

  Deborah Garner

  Copyright © 2019 Deborah Garner

  Cranberry Cove Press / Published by arrangement with the author

  Snowfall at Moonglow by Deborah Garner

  All rights reserved. Except for brief text quoted and appropriately cited in other works, no part of this book may be reproduced in any form, by photocopying or by electronic or mechanical means, including information storage or retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the copyright owner/author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Cranberry Cove Press

  PO Box 1671

  Jackson, WY 83001, United States

  Library of Congress Catalog-in-Publication Data Available

  Garner, Deborah

  Snowfall at Moonglow / Deborah Garner—1st United States edition

  Fiction 2. Woman Authors 3. Holidays

  p. cm.

  ISBN-13:

  978-0-9969961-4-3 (paperback)

  978-0-9969961-5-0 (hardback)

  Printed in the United States of America

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2

  Books by Deborah Garner

  The Paige MacKenzie Mystery Series

  Above the Bridge

  The Moonglow Café

  Three Silver Doves

  Hutchins Creek Cache

  Crazy Fox Ranch

  The Moonglow Christmas Novella Series

  Mistletoe at Moonglow

  Silver Bells at Moonglow

  Gingerbread at Moonglow

  Nutcracker Sweets at Moonglow

  Snowfall at Moonglow

  The Sadie Kramer Flair Series

  A Flair for Chardonnay

  A Flair for Drama

  A Flair for Beignets

  A Flair for Truffles

  A Flair for Flip-Flops

  Cranberry Bluff

  For my mother,

  who always made holidays special for us.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  RECIPES

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Snowfall at Moonglow

  CHAPTER ONE

  Mist stood on the front steps of the Timberton Hotel and looked up at the sky. It had been an odd December, warmer than usual despite a lack of sunshine. The possibility of snow seemed to whisper almost constantly from gray clouds above, teasing the small Montana town with hints of winter. Yet few snowflakes fell to the ground. Those that managed the journey dissipated before they could gather together into the white blanket that the holiday season longed for.

  The creak of a door preceded footsteps behind her on the porch. Mist knew without looking that it was Betty. This year’s Christmas guests had yet to arrive. Clive, Betty’s beau, was the only other person often at the hotel, and he was at his gem gallery. Business had been brisk with the approaching holiday, especially for a small town. Word of Clive’s custom sapphire jewelry had spread over the past few years.

  “It’s not looking like a white Christmas for our guests, is it?” Betty said. “They say a storm is coming, but I don’t see any signs of one.”

  Mist turned as Betty stepped beside her, admiring the hotelkeeper’s kind features and friendly disposition. She’d become a dear friend to Mist, almost like a mother. Their age difference was indeed that of mother and daughter, though Betty’s short stature, round face, and soft curves bore no resemblance to Mist’s willowy frame.

  A soft breeze picked up, blowing a curtain of Mist’s hair out of her french clip and into her face. She untangled a loose tendril from a dangling string of tiny seashells, a favorite necklace she’d had since her college days back in Santa Cruz, California.

  “The snow will come,” Mist said as she turned to go back inside.

  “I hope you’re right,” Betty said, following her into the hotel. “Guests expect that at Christmas. They dream of it, just like Bing Crosby did.”

  Mist smiled, well aware of Betty’s favorite Christmas tune. It was one of many they made sure to play for holiday guests. Nothing beat traditional music or food—or drinks for that matter. Christmas at the Timberton Hotel wasn’t just any holiday gathering. It spoke of days gone by as well as days to come. It was a season of magic, and no two years were ever the same.

  “Let me fix you some tea, Betty,” Mist said. “Or some coffee, if you prefer.” She entered the kitchen, Betty close behind her. Mist softly crossed the floor, her feet barely making a sound. She filled a teakettle with water and put it on the stove.

  “Tea sounds good,” Betty said, taking a seat at the kitchen’s center table. “It’s too late in the day for coffee. I need to get my beauty sleep.” Smiling, she raised one hand to her gray hair, making a dramatic pouf motion.

  “Cranberry scone?” Mist asked, lightly tapping a ceramic jar. “Fresh from this morning, you know.”

  Betty chuckled and patted a plump hip. “Indeed, I know. But I’d better work off the ones I already had first. Maybe I’ll have one for dessert tonight.”

  “A good plan,” Mist said. She set out two mugs and a variety of tea bags—chamomile, peppermint, lemon ginger, and cinnamon spice. She offered the assortment to Betty and then chose chamomile for herself.

  “What’s for dinner anyway?” Betty asked. She sniffed comically, as if trying to detect a clue. “Nothing in the oven yet, I take it.”

  This had become a daily guessing game of late as Mist had been pulling some surprise menus out of… well, her imagination it seemed. She was well-known for the mouthwatering food she served in the Moonglow Café, located on the ground floor of the hotel. Not only did the charming eatery feed overnight guests, but Betty and Mist could always count on a dozen or more townsfolk to show up at mealtime.

  “Burritos,” Mist said casually. An impish smile crossed her face as she fetched the teapot and poured boiling water into both cups.

  Betty quirked an eyebrow as if unsure she had heard Mist correctly. “Burritos?” she repeated. “All right then. What a great idea, something simple that you can throw together at the last minute. Good for you, Mist. You spoil us with all the fancy dishes you serve.”

  Dipping her tea bag in and out of her cup, Mist smiled. Yes, there was fancy, and yes, there was simple. And then there was that great region of in-between, which could be a surprise in itself. She switched the subject to a more important matter at hand. “I was looking over the guest book earlier.”

  “I noticed we still have a few rooms available, unusual at Christmas time,” Betty said.

  Mist took a sip of her tea, an intricate silver ring on her index finger reflecting the overhead light as she lifted the mug to her mouth. She set it down gently and opened the reservation book. “The Professor will be here this year as long as he returns from England in time. I’m keeping his room open. He knows it will be available for him.”

  “I do hope he makes it by Christmas,” Betty said. “But he did the right thing
, going back to England to be with his mother while she’s ill.”

  “Being with family and friends when they need us is always important,” Mist said. “Clara and Andrew will definitely be here this year.”

  “And Michael, of course,” Betty added with a wink.

  Mist didn’t need to see the wink. The hotelkeeper’s teasing tone of voice gave it away. “He will be here,” Mist said calmly, not taking the bait. Betty and Clive both enjoyed giving her a hard time about the growing romance between herself and Michael Blanton. Formerly a once-per-year Christmas guest, Michael had become more of a once-per-month guest, at times approaching weekly status.

  “What do we know about this year’s new guests?” Betty asked. “You took most of the reservations yourself.”

  Mist ran her finger down the printed list of rooms, noting the names next to each. “We have a mother and daughter arriving together, Allison and Kinsley Elliott.”

  “The ones from Indiana, right?”

  “Yes, New Harmony.” Mist almost whispered the name of the small town, so enchanting. “And Max Hartman, a businessman from New York, I believe.” Mist frowned slightly.

  “What is it?” Betty said, unnerved by an expression so contrary to Mist’s nature.

  Mist closed her eyes, inhaled slowly, exhaled, and finally opened her eyes again. “All will be well,” she said. Moving on before Betty could ask questions, she slid her finger to another line. “Nina Pereira is coming all the way from Brazil.”

  “An international guest, how wonderful,” Betty said. “It’s always fascinating to learn about other countries and their customs.”

  Mist looked up at Betty and smiled. “This is how I know the snow will come.”

  “And why is that?” Betty chuckled. “Surely she’s not bringing snow from Brazil.”

  “No, she is not,” Mist said. “In fact, she’s never seen snow before. She lives close to the Equator, in the Amazon rainforest.”

  Betty tilted her head to one side. “Maybe she’s young and hasn’t had a chance to travel.”

  “Eighty-seven.”

  “Eighty-seven what?” Betty took a sip of tea.

  “She is eighty-seven years old,” Mist said nonchalantly.

  “Is she traveling alone?” Betty leaned forward, attempting to see any additional notes in the reservation book, but there were none.

  “Yes, she will be alone. And she sounded quite proud of it when she called, which I found delightful.”

  “A bucket list trip perhaps.” Betty proposed.

  Mist nodded. “Exactly what she said.”

  “I’m envious,” Betty said. “There are places I’d love to see. Paris, for instance.”

  “You and Clive should consider taking a trip,” Mist said, looking up from the guest list.

  Betty shook her head. “Clive has the gallery to run, and it wouldn’t be right to leave you with the hotel on your own.”

  “Clive could close the gallery for a vacation,” Mist said. “I can take care of the hotel. And Maisie and others would help, if needed.”

  “I’ll think about it,” Betty mused. “Back to the guest list.”

  “We’ll make sure Ms. Pereira leaves here with cherished memories,” Mist continued. Raising her hand into the air, Mist plucked an invisible memory and deposited it in an imaginary bucket on the counter.

  “Sounds like a small group this year,” Betty said. “A quiet holiday perhaps.” She stood, took her teacup to the sink, and placed it in the basin. Taking a jacket from a coat rack by the kitchen’s back door, she donned the outerwear and picked up a basket at the end of the counter. Knitting needles and colorful skeins of yarn peeked over the top.

  Mist closed the reservation book and eyed the basket in Betty’s hands. “Off to work on the Winter Warmth project with the other ladies? How is that going?”

  Betty reached into the basket and held up a partial mitten in a deep purple hue.

  “Maybe I should make a parmesan dish out of that,” Mist said.

  Betty looked at the unfinished mitten and laughed. It did resemble an eggplant more than a knitted accessory. “I see what you mean. I’d better get this over to Glenda before you coat it with bread crumbs and throw it in the oven.”

  “Glenda is adding all the thumbs, right?”

  “Yes,” Betty said. “She loves that part, so all mittens get passed to her when they’re at that point. Millie, who has decades of knitting experience, adds the center design. And then Marge finishes off the cuffs. We’re having so much fun. I can hardly wait to send them off with the warm jackets we’ve been gathering.”

  “What you’re doing is wonderful, collecting clothing to provide warmth to those in need.” Mist said. “And it’s especially wonderful because you’re all working on it together.”

  “It gives us a chance to visit. And to gossip a bit! Nothing hurtful, of course.” Betty lowered her voice to a whisper even though no one else was around. “Did you know Millie has a little flirtation going with another librarian up in Helena?”

  Mist smiled. “I certainly didn’t.”

  “You’d be amazed at the things I find out there,” Betty said.

  “I already am.”

  Mist waved to Betty as the hotelkeeper headed out, then carried her own teacup to the sink. She glanced at the wrought iron clock on the kitchen wall: two thirty, early enough to get a start on miniature paintings before preparing burritos—Moonglow-Café style, of course.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Mist closed the door to her room, a quiet space toward the end of a first-floor hallway that ran behind the kitchen, away from guest rooms. It served not only as sleeping quarters but as a studio for her artwork. In particular, at this time of year, miniature paintings took precedence over anything else. Not only had they become popular sellers in Clive’s gallery—so much so that she could barely keep up with the demand—but Mist delighted in sending one home with each holiday guest. It had become an established tradition to present them to guests on Christmas morning.

  Securing the tiny canvases on a custom easel that Clive had built for her, Mist looked over paint selections and laid out what she needed. Passing over colorful hues, she chose an unusually plain assortment for immediate use: light gray, a medium gray, white, and several shades that were just a tad off-white. She hesitantly added black but took it away, replacing it with a dark charcoal.

  As was her habit, she stood back, folded her hands in front of her, and contemplated the blank canvases, waiting for them to give her instructions. This was her perception of the process, something she had felt since first staring at a blank sheet of paper as a child. The empty space would summon its own design. All she had to do was be patient. The inspiration might approach from deep within her, from a wisp of wind, or from her visual surroundings. On this day, the latter stepped forward as surely as if the lightly overcast sky flowed through her window and brushed itself across her room. Envisioning the light gray clouds encircling the easel, she transferred their subtle shades onto each tiny canvas. After blending the softer shades together into a hazy background, she followed with circular swirls of white and off-white.

  Stepping back, she tilted her head to one side and surveyed the overall effect. Satisfied, she cleaned up the paint supplies and returned to the kitchen. After all, she had a town to feed.

  * * *

  “Delicious!” “Exquisite!” “Dang-nab mouthwatering grub!”

  The last of the compliments came from William Guthrie, better known as Wild Bill around town. His greasy-spoon café down the road, Wild Bill’s, still served the occasional breakfast customer, but he was a true Moonglow Café fan when it came to his own meals.

  “Never had burritos like this before.” Wild Bill inspected the wrapped creation on his plate. “I’m not even sure what all I put in it, considering all those fancy dishes up there on the buffet.”

  “What did you put in it, Bill?” Clive asked. “You’ve got a mighty hefty concoction there.” Never one to s
kip one of Mist’s meals, Clive had closed the gallery just in time to slide in for dinner.

  William Guthrie shrugged his shoulders. “Some of everything, I reckon.” He held up the cumbersome burrito, which barely fit in his hand.

  Mist, who was passing from table to table refilling water glasses, smiled. “Then I believe you have a carne asada, Jamaican jerk chicken, ginger tofu burrito with cilantro-lime quinoa, Cuban black beans, avocado-jalapeno salsa, mango-mint relish, and apple-corn compote in a sun-dried tomato-and-spinach tortilla.”

  Clayton, the town’s fire captain, patted Bill on the back good-naturedly. “You’re supposed to choose what you want to put in it.”

  “I believe he did exactly that,” Mist said. “Not making choices is a choice.”

  “Spoken according to true Mist philosophy,” Clive noted. Several others in the room nodded. Mist’s reputation for having a new age viewpoint on life was well established.

  “It looks like a red-and-green football, just a little misshapen,” Clayton said. “You could probably pass that from here to Pop’s Parlor in one long spiral. Not that I suggest trying,” he added quickly as he saw Betty’s brow furrow.

  “Where’d you get these half-green and half-red tortillas anyway?” Clive asked.

  “They’re just two different batches of flour dough I made,” Mist said. “Pressed together at the center before baking.”

  Wild Bill nodded with approval. “Very festive for the season, if I do say so myself. I believe I’ll go short instead of long.” With that, he lifted the burrito to his mouth and took a sizable bite.

  The kitchen door swung open, and a spry young woman with purple streaks in her cropped hair entered. Maisie, Clayton’s wife and the owner of Maisie’s Daisies, held a serving tray with individual ramekins. Clay Jr. toddled behind her with a shaker of mixed cinnamon and sugar, a task cleverly assigned by his mother to allow him the satisfaction of helping.