Mistletoe At Moonglow (The Moonglow Christmas Series Book 1)

by Deborah Garner

  The variety of cookies mounted, one by one, some holiday favorites, others simply beloved family recipes. The owner of the beauty shop brought Melting Moments, a recipe she’d begged a local client for after receiving a batch as a gift one year. Soon after, Millie, the town librarian, showed up with a plate of ginger crackle cookies. She poured a cup of coffee, and joined Betty, who was in conversation with the curator of the local historical society, who had just arrived with a tin of powdered sugar concoctions.

  “Cook’s Nut Balls, you say?” Betty eyed the tin with delight. “I do believe I’m gaining two or three pounds every time someone walks in.”

  “That’s what the holidays are for, Betty!” Marge laughed.

  Three women from the local church choir showed up with almond thumbprint cookies, peanut blossoms, and other decadent treats, each variety looking even more delicious than the one before. Betty, knowing she’d want more than one assorted plate to serve guests for the next few days, contributed four plates herself, just as she’d done previous years. Regulars to the annual cookie exchange knew to expect her usual favorites.

  Mist excused herself and left Betty to bask in the glory of this longstanding Timberton custom. Although Betty needed Mist’s help running the hotel, she also needed to allow herself to indulge in this tradition without Mist hovering. The cheerful chatter and laughter filling the hotel proved this.

  Back in her room, Mist pulled out her sketchpad and thought over the arrangements for Christmas Eve dinner and Christmas Brunch the following day. She never reserved specific seats for meals, but let the diners choose their own tables depending on what felt comfortable. Corner tables, large tables, smaller tables for one or two, and round tables, perfect for group conversation.

  Mist felt differently about the upcoming Christmas meals. Although she didn’t know the specifics of all the guest’s circumstances, she did sense that she might need to offer extra care. Clara Winslow had lost her husband; the Morrison parents had lost a child, Robert a brother. Mist knew that Michael Blanton came to Timberton alone each year, and “alone” was his normal, but something about his limp made her feel this year held a different tone. The visiting professor was away from his family in England. And she knew little about Ellen Greeley, except that there must be a reason behind a trip for two turning into a solo journey. Every guest faced a challenge, even if they didn’t realize it.

  Picking up a pencil, Mist sketched out place cards for each guest, along with a holiday image for each, something specific she could contribute to the memories of the guests, designs like simple sleds and fir trees, stars and bows, stockings and the outline of a gingerbread man. Christmas memories were special. They became part of their personal life paintings.

  Satisfied with her drawings, she set them aside and returned to the kitchen, finding it now empty. Betty had her hands full with the cookie exchange and Clive would be back at his gem gallery, where he spent afternoons working on jewelry designs and hoping customers would come in for last minute gift purchases.

  Planning meals for an unknown number of people was a challenge, but Mist always had back-up plans in place. She prepared larger portions than necessary, knowing she could leave leftovers in the spare refrigerator in Room 7. The small room in the back of the hotel remained available for Hollister, just in case he chose the heated space some nights over his colder makeshift home under the railroad trestle. Often enough, the food disappeared and the covers on the twin bed in that room looked adjusted. Mist felt her heart warm each time she saw that the homeless man had accepted the hotel’s generosity. The town had come together for the unusual resident, allowing him the choice of comfort, but also the independence he was used to.

  Now, Mist pulled the ingredients she needed from the pantry, refrigerator and root storage area. Within an hour, the oven would be filled with culinary magic, with two simmering saucepans above adding fragrant aromas to the mix. Later, she would pass through the café, adjusting tables and setting up the buffet, every detail, aside from the food. Plates, napkins – always cloth, never paper, serving dishes and utensils waited for hungry recipients. Only the food itself would be missing. It would appear at 6 p.m. on the dot, just like it did every night. Almost like magic, the townsfolk often said. Others would call this clockwork.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Incessant pounding on the front door sent Mist scurrying to the entryway. It was rare that anyone knocked on the door, much less used it for a punching bag. As a hotel, the building was always open to the public. Guests usually walked in on their own, heading for the registration desk. Residents of Timberton considered it a home away from home. They came and went at will, perhaps grabbing a chocolate chip cookie and dropping some change in the collection box.

  When Mist opened the door, she found a huffy, red-faced man in his mid-fifties. It was hard to tell whether he was angry or merely cold. Mist’s best guess was a little of both. Tips of graying hair peeked out from below a winter hat. He wore wire-rimmed glasses that were steamed up, if not from the weather, then from his indignation. His salt and pepper mustache wiggled as he furrowed his eyebrows and spoke.

  “It’s cold out here.”

  “Why, yes it is.” A sudden impish urge inside Mist tempted her to remain still, leaving the two statements hovering in the air. Her manners got the upper hand, though. She promptly invited him in.

  “I’m Professor Nigel Hennessy. I have a reservation.” The man stomped his feet, leaving patches of melting snow on the floor. Mist made a quick mental note to fetch towels as soon as the man filled out his paperwork and headed off to his room. It wouldn't do for the elderly Clara Winslow, or anyone else, for that matter, to slip and fall. Especially not right before holiday festivities.

  “Welcome to the Timberton Hotel, Mr. Hennessy,” Mist said. “Would you like me to take your coat?”

  “Professor Hennessy,” the man clarified.

  Mist repeated the question. “Would you like me to take your coat, Professor Hennessy?”

  “No, I would not. I’d like the key to my room. Can’t you tell I’m tired and cold?”

  Mist was grateful Clive was at the gallery and not in the kitchen, which would have put him within hearing range. Clive was protective of both Betty and Mist. It wouldn't have been beyond him to tell the man he shouldn't have remained outside, pounding on the door, if he didn't want to be cold. Mist smiled to herself. There was a reason Clive wasn't in the hospitality business.

  “Let’s get you warmed up, then,” Mist said, hastening to give him a pen and registration card. “Perhaps I could get you some coffee or tea?”

  “Tea, of course,” the man huffed. “How you Americans drink that bloody coffee all day is beyond me.” He scribbled his information on the card and slapped the pen on the desk, extending his hand for the key. “I’ll have the tea in my room.”

  “Milk or sugar with that?” Mist held the man’s room key in one hand, tapping it against her other hand while waiting for an answer.

  “Naturally.” The professor reached across the counter, snatched the key from Mist’s hand, turned and headed upstairs without another word. Mist was amused at his abrupt manner. Though she normally offered to walk guests to their rooms, she hadn’t even had the chance to tell him his room number. She stayed behind the desk until the professor came back down the stairs.

  “What room does this go to?”

  “Room 11, Professor Hennessy, just to the right of the stairs.”

  “It doesn't say so on the key.”

  “No, it does not.”

  “Why?”

  “Because if you lose your key and a stranger finds it, that person wouldn’t know which room the key belongs to. It’s for your safety.”

  “Well, that’s ridiculous. Does that really seem like a good idea to you?”

  Mist paused. “I believe I’m the wrong one to ask, Professor. I don’t think there should be keys at all, anywhere.”

  “You’re a very strange girl.”

  �
��Yes, so I’ve been told,” Mist said, watching the professor go up the stairs.

  In the kitchen, Mist opened one of many cabinets she used for special stashes. When it came to beverages, people were particular. This was a matter of habit, personality and preference, all rolled up into one desire for liquid nourishment.

  Fifteen minutes later, at precisely 4 p.m., she placed a tray outside Room 11. She tapped on the door and left, quite certain the professor would be pleased with the delivery, though she didn’t expect him to say anything. The spread of PG Tips tea, with teacup, saucer, milk, sugar and teapot of boiling water was sure to delight the persnickety Brit. If not, the accompanying tin of McVitie’s digestives and plate of cucumber finger sandwiches would.

  Betty was seated at the kitchen’s center table when Mist returned downstairs, an empty plastic wrapper in front of her.

  “Caramel?” Betty offered.

  “No thanks,” Mist said. “I just had an unexpected cucumber sandwich.”

  “An unusual afternoon snack,” Betty mused. “I’ll stick with my caramels. What brought on the cucumber?”

  Mist smiled. “Our English professor. He arrived in need of a little defrosting.”

  “Oh, dear.”

  “He’ll be fine,” Mist laughed. “I think the holidays must be hard for him because he’s here alone, away from home. We’ll make him feel comfortable.”

  “You’re a miracle worker, you know that, Mist?” Betty unwrapped another caramel and popped it in her mouth, then stood, throwing away both wrappers.

  “I appreciate the kind words, Betty, but we can’t work miracles in other people. They have to work them within themselves. All we can do is be supportive. If Professor Hennessy defrosts, it will be his choice, not because I brought him a tray of tea, biscuits and finger sandwiches.”

  “You gave him biscuits, too?”

  Again, Mist smiled. “Well, I didn't say we couldn't help push the miracles along.”

  “Did someone say frosting?”

  Both women turned to see Robert standing in the doorway, eyebrows raised. He clutched the wooden puzzle in his hand and surveyed the kitchen, presumably on the lookout for cupcakes.

  “Hi, Robert,” Mist said. “Sorry, no frosting here. But we’ll have cookies after dinner.”

  “I wanted something now.”

  “How about some cucumber?” Betty teased. When Robert rolled his eyes and left, both Mist and Betty laughed.

  Betty retired to her room for her afternoon ritual rest, which was designed more to let Mist have full reign over the kitchen as she finished dinner preparations than it was to rescue Betty’s feet. Although Mist didn't want people to feel unwelcome when she was working, she relished the solitude of the last hour before dinner when she could put all of her energy into cooking.

  At 6 p.m. sharp, Mist set a large pan of lasagna on the buffet, next to a mixed green salad and side dishes of zucchini-tomato casserole and garlic-sautéed French green beans. Loaves of sourdough bread baked that morning filled a basket at the end of the buffet.

  The usual local suspects filed through within the first fifteen minutes, as was their pattern. Clayton and his crew were in and out the door first. Clive also finished the meal quickly, but lingered to visit with Betty and to help with dishes, something he never heard the end of from the other guys around town.

  Bob Morrison came down for dinner with Robert, choosing a table close to the buffet. Mist poured water with lemon into a glass for each, then moved to fill a third at an empty place just beside them.

  “Thank you, but that one’s not necessary,” Bob said, holding up his hand to stop Mist. “My wife isn’t feeling well. She won’t be joining us tonight.”

  “She never does stuff with us anymore,” Robert said. He grabbed his silverware off the table and sent it clattering to the floor. It landed beside Mist’s foot. She picked it up quickly to avoid a potential standoff between father and son over who should pick it up. Other diners were already starting to notice.

  “Thank you,” Bob said to Mist before turning to Robert. “You need to behave. And it’s not true that your mother never does things with us. She’s here on this trip.”

  “She didn't even want to come here! I heard her crying and yelling before we left home!”

  Bob gave Mist an apologetic, discouraged look.

  “Robert,” Mist said, moving a little closer to the boy. “We all get mad and cry and yell sometimes. I know I do.”

  “You do?” Robert raised one eyebrow, an unexpected, inquisitive gesture that made Mist fight to stay serious. To top it off, she found herself at a loss to provide an example. It had seemed like the right thing to say, yet her response to anger was usually to close her eyes, take deep breaths, and imagine a flock of birds, each representing a frustration, flying off until they disappeared over the horizon.

  “You remember how mad you were at the wooden puzzle yesterday?” Mist watched Robert contemplate the question and then nod his head. “Are you still mad at the puzzle?”

  Robert shook his head from side to side. “No. It’s a cool puzzle.”

  “You see? I think you’ll find your mom is happy to be here with you and your dad. Maybe today she just needs to rest.”

  “Maybe,” Robert said, his focus already moving from the discussion to the lasagna. Calmer, he accepted new silverware from Mist and started in, eating a hefty serving of lasagna and the minimum amount of veggies required to earn his father’s permission for a warm brownie afterwards.

  There was no sign of the professor all evening, but Clara Winslow and Michael Blanton entered the café at the same time and chose to eat together. Though Mist couldn't hear their conversation, it looked amiable and polite from the door of the kitchen – not overly animated, yet not uncomfortable. At one point, Clara reached across the table and touched Michael’s hand. He had brought a book with him, which he’d set aside and later took into the front parlor, along with a cup of coffee.

  Over the last few dishes, Clive looked out the window above the kitchen sink and turned to Mist and Betty, who now sat at the kitchen table. Mist was wrapping up leftovers to take to the refrigerator in Room 7 and Betty was working her way through a second brownie.

  “I don’t like the looks of it out there,” he said. “The wind has picked up, and we’re starting to get some flurries. Don’t you have another guest due tonight?”

  Betty nodded, concerned. “One more, the woman from Arizona. What time is it?”

  “Half past seven,” Mist said.

  “She should have been here by now.” Betty pushed the brownie away, worried. “In fact, she should have been here a good hour ago. She was going to come in by bus. That bus usually comes through town around 6:30.”

  Clive put down the kitchen towel after drying the last dish. “I’m going over to Pop’s Parlor to ask the bartender if the bus came in. He always gets a few customers when it arrives. He’ll know.” Grabbing his jacket, hat and gloves, he took off.

  “I hope she didn't get caught in the weather,” Betty said. “The whole reason she was coming in a day early was to avoid that.”

  “Maybe she only made it part way, missed a connection or something and will be here tomorrow morning.”

  “I’d rather see her make it tonight,” Betty said. “The weather is just going to get worse.”

  Mist reassured Betty. “Don’t worry. She’ll be here tonight.” She hoped she was right.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Michael Blanton sat in the armchair next to the fireplace, a copy of Charles Dickens’ A Tale of Two Cities in his lap, unopened. His head rested on the back cushion of the well-padded chair, his eyelids closed, not a glimpse of patina visible. His breathing was soft, but not silent. For the first time, Mist saw traces of worry in the creased lines of his forehead.

  She moved to the front curtains, looking out at the street. Still no sign of Clive or the late arrival. The flurries began to change into a light snow shower, and Mist grew worried.

&
nbsp; What she felt wasn’t just concern that the last guest was safely on her way; it was like a heavy fog, like something almost tangible that she couldn’t quite identify. It filled the hotel, subduing the cheer of the holiday decorations, dimming their brightness. Each guest had brought along a type of sadness, some clear, others unknown. And the combination of it all weighed heavily in the air. Mist could feel it in Clara Winslow’s soft handshake, could sense it in the professor’s unease. She could read it on Michael Blanton’s forehead and hear it in Robert’s angry young voice.

  At least all this emotion had pooled together under the roof of the hotel, where the burdened guests might find relief in companionship and might even give hope to each other.

  Mist turned away from the window at the sound of a dull thud. Michael Blanton had shifted in his sleep, sending Charles Dickens to the floor. Fortunately, a thick rug broke the fall, causing harm to neither one city nor the other, and leaving the reader in slumber. Mist crossed the room, picked up the book, and was setting it on a side table when a voice posed a question.

  “It’s the way it is, don’t you think?”

  Michael Blanton’s eyes met Mist’s, then glanced at the book, then looked up again. Not for the first time, Mist could see something in the tones of grey, green and copper that moved her in an undefined way. She knew what the guest meant.

  “The best of times, the worst of times,” she said.

  “Exactly.” Michael rested his head against the chair’s back cushion and closed his eyes again.

  “They do go together, it seems,” Mist said, knowing he wasn't asleep.

  “I wonder why that is.”

  “Because it’s life, Mr. Blanton,” Mist said. “Life is a mix of situations and emotions.”

  “You must call me Michael, I insist.” A pause. “And I don’t believe I know your name at all.”

  “It’s Mist.”

  The eyes opened again, taking in Mist’s face in a pensive manner. “Just Mist? Like fog?”

  “I hope not.”