Mist sighed. “I’m not playing hard to get. At least I don’t think so.” She propped both elbows on the counter, and then her chin on her hands, silver bangles chiming softly as she moved her arms.
“I’m teasing you, Mist,” Betty said. “You’re not the type of person to play games. But I sense you’re hesitant. You and Michael have had a connection from the start.”
“You’re right,” Mist said. “I’ve always felt close to him, from the first time I met him three years ago. He’s intelligent and gentle, perceptive about the world, and reserved but not standoffish.”
“Sounds very much like someone else I know,” Betty said, reaching across the table to touch Mist’s hand. “Someone special to all of us here in Timberton, but who also deserves to have her own life.”
Mist stood to fix a cup of tea for herself and a mug of coffee for Betty, and sat back down, setting both hot beverages on the table. “This is my life, Betty: the hotel, the café, you, Clive, everyone here in Timberton.”
“And Michael?” Betty asked. She sipped her coffee and waited.
Mist opened her arms wide, as if including not only the kitchen, but the entire world in her answer. “Michael is part of life here, just as everyone is who comes and goes from Timberton. And we are a part of their lives, as well. Life does not exist solely on a physical plane. Our lives are interwoven as soon as we cross paths.”
Clive, who had just entered the room while Mist was speaking, raised his eyebrows, turned and tiptoed out. Both Betty and Mist laughed at Clive’s reaction to Mist’s unique worldview.
“Don’t worry, Betty,” Mist said. “We are all exactly where we are meant to be.”
“For now,” Betty added.
“Yes, for now,” Mist said. “After all, ‘now’ is the only time there ever is.”
CHAPTER TEN
Sunshine flowed through the window and between the branches of the Christmas tree, casting cheerful ribbons of light around the front parlor. Poppy, Hanna and Jo carried bowl after bowl of sweets in from the kitchen, placing them on a long folding table that had been set up to hold the edible decorations for the gingerbread house. Licorice, gumdrops and candy canes all vied for attention, as if shouting, “Me first, me first!”
Greta and Rolf relaxed on the sofa, smiling as they watched the three girls arrange the bowls. Michael sat in his usual chair beside the fireplace, also observing, while the professor and Chloe examined the ornaments on the tree. Clara and Andrew were expected back soon from a post-breakfast walk.
“This activity is not just for the girls,” Mist said, her statement as close to an order as her sly smile could manage. She stood in the archway, dressed casually in a burgundy smocked dress that hit mid-calf, just above her work boots, long sleeves rolled up, ready for an afternoon in the kitchen. Although the gingerbread house decorating was meant only for hotel guests, the Christmas Eve meal that evening would draw a crowd from the town, as well.
“We don’t want to take away from the girls’ fun,” Chloe said, turning from the tree. “It’s so nice to see them enjoying themselves.”
“Indeed,” the professor agreed. “We’re glad to see Poppy making friends easily.”
“I’m happy the girls are working together, too,” Mist said. “However …” She paused, eyeing the adults in the room. “With a gingerbread house this size, we could use everyone’s help.”
“You’re even allowed to sample the goods as you decide where to begin,” Betty added, as she stepped into the room to add one more bowl of candy to the table.
Rolf laughed and stood up. “Well, in that case, I’d better volunteer my time and effort.” He strolled over to the table and tested a chocolate mint, then a second.
“For the greater good, of course,” Greta teased.
“Exactly,” Rolf said after swallowing and patting his belly.
The professor cleared his throat and joined Rolf. “Well, I’d jolly well better help out,” he said as he surveyed the table of sweets. He reached for the bowl of gumdrops, reconsidered, and then picked out a cinnamon candy and popped it into his mouth. “Ah, quite a blast to the taste buds!” he announced.
One by one, the adults joined in. They discussed dividing up the work: the girls started in on the front door and windows; Michael applied frosting along corners; Greta and Rolf tackled one side of the rooftop; and Clara and Andrew returned from their walk to tackle the other. Hours passed as the group slowly adorned the structure one sweet piece at a time. After all was said and done, they stood back and viewed their masterpiece.
“It’s exquisite!” Clara exclaimed. “And big enough to step inside, provided you duck through the doorway. I’ve never seen anything like it!”
Rolf nodded while swinging a red licorice string like a lasso. “I must say I agree.” He turned to Poppy and Hanna, who stood nearby. “How clever of you girls to use pairs of candy canes to create hearts alongside each window.”
“Thanks,” Hanna said. The girls exchanged high fives.
“And look at that wreath above the door,” Greta said. “Where did you get the flat, green leaf shapes? And that cinnamon candy scattered on top looks just like berries. Very clever and creative of you.”
“Betty brought those out,” Poppy said. “They’re candy lime fruit slices. We layered them on top of each other in a circle.”
“Except for all the ones Jo ate,” Hanna pointed out.
“Hey, I only ate a couple!” Jo said, sticking her head out of the doorway. Crouched on her hands and knees, she looked even younger than her nine years. “Well, maybe I ate more than a couple … like four.” She paused as her older sister crossed her arms. “Or five. But you both ate all those milk chocolate raspberry creams.”
Greta and Chloe exchanged looks. “I hope we don’t have a stomachache coming on in the near future,” Greta said.
“Never fun,” Chloe sympathized. “Especially on holiday.”
The front door opened, and Clive and Clayton entered. Clive whistled at the sight of the decorated house. Clayton slapped Clive on the back. “Not bad, Clive. It hasn’t fallen down yet.” Both men laughed.
Jo, unsettled by the suggestion that the structure above her might come crashing down, scuttled out. Poppy and Hanna, not at all worried, crouched down one at a time, and disappeared inside.
“It’s a good thing we made that doorway three feet high and almost two feet across,” Clayton said.
Clive nodded. “Yep, you’re right. I never even thought about the inside. Just seemed it would look better with a big entrance.”
“You know…” Mist whispered as she walked past both men toward the kitchen, “it’s what’s inside a house that really matters.”
“I suppose so,” Clive said, nodding.
Clayton agreed. “Speaking of which, I have a house full of family. I’d better get back there before my mother and Maisie decide to remodel or something equally traumatic.”
“Putting out fires before they start, good idea,” Clive said.
Laughing, Clayton headed out. Soon the others disbursed to rest in their rooms before the large evening meal, or bundled up to enjoy the lightly falling snow outdoors. Michael and the professor started a new game of chess; Clive went outside to bring in firewood for the evening; and Jo joined the two older girls inside what was now certainly the sweetest building in all of Timberton.
* * *
“What can I do to help?” Betty said. She sat at the kitchen’s center island watching Mist cut butternut squash into one inch squares. A bowl of already sliced mushrooms rested on the table nearby. The scents of mixed herbs and spices drifted through the air from main courses roasting in the oven.
“You are helping already,” Mist said.
“How is that?” Betty’s smile was both kind and resigned. Mist’s subtle techniques for refusing help were nothing new. In truth, she knew Mist felt more comfortable doing the work herself, though she always welcomed company.
“You are inspiring me with y
our presence,” Mist said. She brushed a tendril of wayward hair off her forehead with the back of her wrist, and then continued cutting the cubes of squash.
“That sounds very formal, considering I’m just slouched over the counter watching you do your kitchen magic.” Betty sat up straighter, perhaps nudged by the content of her own comment.
Mist divided the butternut cubes into two large roasting pans.
“I could help with the salad, or the dessert,” Betty suggested.
Mist smiled. “Both are already finished and waiting in the downstairs refrigerator. I made the chocolate caramel tart yesterday, and put the salad together during part of the time when the guests were decorating the gingerbread house. I’ll sprinkle pomegranate seeds on it just before we put it on the buffet. The dessert needs to stand at room temperature for about thirty minutes before we serve it. We’ll pull it out of the refrigerator when guests begin to arrive.”
“How many do you think we’ll have this year?” Betty asked. She turned her head and smiled as Clive came in the back door and discarded his work gloves.
“Quite a few townsfolk are away visiting family this year,” Mist said. “I estimate we’ll have around fifty, including the hotel guests.”
“I hope you made more than one tart.” Clive said. “I just worked up an appetite bringing in that firewood.”
Betty laughed. She already knew the answer. She stood, walked over to the side counter, and poured a mug of coffee.
“Of course.” Mist smiled as she looked up. “I made four – two with extra chocolate drizzled on top.”
“I’m ready anytime,” Clive said. As Betty handed him the coffee, he gave her a peck on the cheek and stood beside her.
“Did I hear talk of chocolate tart?” Michael said from the interior doorway. “I could use something to keep up with Nigel. Thank goodness he agreed to a short break. Maybe your chocolate tart has a magical chess finesse ingredient, Mist?”
“Let me see.” Mist closed her eyes and feigned concentration. “I don’t recall immediately.” She opened her eyes again. “I’ll have to check the recipe. I may have accidentally substituted checkers chicanery, instead.”
Betty stood up and linked her arm through Clive’s. “Michael, why don’t you stay and help Mist while I go over to Clive’s gallery with him.”
“I wasn’t planning…”
“Yes, you were,” Betty said, squeezing Clive’s arm tighter and giving him a look. “To set up for your after-Christmas sale, remember?”
“Ah, yes,” Clive said. He raised his eyebrows, pleased with the idea as if it were his and not one Betty made up in the moment. He took a gulp of coffee and carried the mug to the sink.
“It’s an easy job,” Betty said, turning back to Michael. “You simply slouch over the counter and drink coffee.”
Michael laughed. “I think I can handle that.” He took over Betty’s seat as the senior couple donned coats, hats and gloves and went out the side door.
“Betty understated your role in helping me,” Mist said. She added butter, cranberries and seasoning to the butternut squash, set the dishes aside, covered. Moving soundlessly to the side counter, she poured a mug of coffee for Michael.
“Is that so?” Michael smiled as Mist placed the coffee in front of him, and allowed his fingertips to brush against hers as he reached for the mug. “It sounded so easy.”
“It is easy,” Mist said. “It requires no effort on your part. You help by simply being here. Everyone who passes through helps in some way; each person inspires me.”
“What if I’d like to be more inspiring than others?” Michael leaned forward and sipped his coffee.
“Perhaps you are,” Mist said. The back of her neck grew warm, and she changed the subject. “How are your chess games going with the professor?”
“I can’t keep up with him.” Michael shook his head. “Maybe you’re feeding him the chess finesse ingredient, and I’m only getting the …what was that, exactly? Checkers chicanery?”
“I believe I stand wrongly accused,” Mist said.
“All right, I take it back.” Michael laughed. “But I will admit I’m envious of Nigel.”
“For his chess ability?”
“Well, yes, it’s admirable,” Michael said. “He’s quite the pro. But that’s not the only reason. I also envy his new job.”
“And why is that?”
“He’ll be close to Timberton, since he’ll be teaching here in Montana,” Michael said. “He could manage weekend trips to the hotel here if he wanted.”
“I suppose he will be a little closer than you will be in Louisiana,” Mist teased.
“Just a bit.” Michael said. He stood, finished his coffee and set the mug in the sink before heading back to the chess game. As he passed behind Mist, he leaned in and whispered. “But not as close as I am now.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Mist pulled a sprig of holly out of a table arrangement and reinserted it at a different angle. She stood back, satisfied. The clear glass cubes on each table in the café looked elegant with their mix of white tulips and paperwhites, yet cheerful with the accompanying bursts of red orchids, winterberries and holly.
The buffet centerpiece, rather than being more elaborate, matched the table decorations, the only difference being multiples: a row of glass cubes ran across the back of the serving area. Votive candles, evergreen branches and pine cones filled the spaces between each floral cube, scattered in what appeared to be random fashion, but was intentional.
Despite the day’s busy schedule, Mist had not felt rushed. Nor did any chore drag out too long. She’d also found spaces of peacefulness between tasks. Betty had taken over in the kitchen, which allowed Mist to ponder the miniature paintings she planned to give guests in the morning, as well as to dress for the dinner.
Now, with the door to the café closed, she stood alone in a simple, forest green dress that blended in with tablecloths of similar colors. The empire waist cut allowed the washed silk fabric to flow gently down to her mid-calf. Ballet flats exposed slender ankles usually hidden by her trademark work boots. A red orchid nestled in her braided hair at the nape of her neck, and vintage marcasite earrings dangled above her shoulders.
Mist moved from table to table, lighting candles, enjoying the glow as each flame took hold and reflected in already filled crystal glasses of ice water. She could hear the crowd gathering in the front parlor. The muffled chatter of hotel guests and townsfolk mingled with soft Christmas music. These moments, before this particular holiday meal, were among Mist’s favorites. It soothed her spirit to know people would come together shortly over a special dinner.
“Ready?” Betty spoke softly from the kitchen doorway, understanding how much Mist enjoyed this brief ritual of quiet before she invited everyone in. “Clive, Maisie and Marge are here to help.”
“Yes,” Mist said as she lit the last of the candles on the buffet. “Let’s bring everything out, and then invite the guests in.”
Betty opened the kitchen door wide and held it as Clive carried in hearty platters of rosemary orange roasted chicken and cherry-glazed pork loin. Maisie followed with the crisp, chilled salad, and Marge brought out overflowing baskets of warm cheddar chive biscuits, setting them at the end of the buffet, a crock of whipped butter alongside. Betty then followed, adding the side dishes of butternut squash and sautéed mushrooms. After a quick glance at the decadent spread and nearby beverage buffet, which Clive set up earlier, Mist nodded her approval.
“It looks wonderful.” She thanked all who had helped set up the holiday meal and opened the front café doors wide. “Your Christmas Eve dinner is served,” she announced.
Mist stepped aside, pleased, as the eager crowd flowed in and chose seats at tables around the enchanting room. Poppy, Hanna and Jo sat together again, their parents at a table close enough to supervise, yet far enough away to allow the girls independence. Michael sat with Clara and Andrew, making sure to save a seat for Mist, who did, on Chr
istmas Eve, allow herself to sit and enjoy the meal with guests, though usually only after some prodding.
Clayton arrived with his parents and joined Maisie at a table near the buffet. Betty had insisted on this, telling Maisie that “eating for two” was the perfect excuse to sit near the food. Mist and Betty both knew Maisie wouldn’t be able to resist jumping up periodically to refill the buffet despite their attempts to tell her not to, so the table choice was practical, as well.
Marge, Millie, Sally and other townsfolk scattered throughout the café with their families and friends. William Guthrie, of infamous “Wild Bill’s” greasy spoon fame, showed up in fancy western attire. Mist smiled at the sight of a red carnation boutonniere on his fringed leather jacket. Maisie had told her a week before that he’d ordered it for the occasion.
Glenda, from the Curl ‘N Cue, sat with Ernie, the night bartender from Pops Parlor. The town’s oddly adjoining beauty salon and combination bar and pool parlor had created a good friendship between the two.
Mist encouraged everyone to eat all they’d like, but didn’t want them to feel obliged to try everything. She knew people had different preferences and dietary needs. It came as no surprise that Bill Guthrie filled his plate with extra chicken and pork, while Millie made a main dish out of the pear, brie and pomegranate salad, accompanied by butternut squash and cheddar chive biscuits. In keeping with this philosophy, she’d prepared a fruit and cheese plate to bring out when the chocolate tart was served. She believed it was always good to offer choices, especially since Moonglow had no menus even on “regular” days.
As Mist floated from table to table, guests filled plates at the buffet and returned to their seats, starting up conversations with each other.
“Your garage is bigger than mine.” Clara pointed this out to Andrew as Mist paused to take the saved seat at their table. “So there’s more storage room.”
“True,” Andrew said as he stuck a fork through a cube of butternut squash and then topped it off with a cranberry. “But do we really need storage room? I’m all for getting rid of things we don’t use.”
Gingerbread at Moonglow Page 6