SILVER BELLS
AT
MOONGLOW
A Christmas Novella
Deborah Garner
Cranberry Cove Press
Silver Bells at Moonglow
by Deborah Garner
Copyright © 2016 Deborah Garner
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
First Printing – December 2016
ISBN: 978-0-9969960-1-3
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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.
Printed in the U.S.A.
Also by Deborah Garner
Above the Bridge
The Moonglow Café
Three Silver Doves
Hutchins Creek Cache
Cranberry Bluff
A Flair for Chardonnay
Mistletoe at Moonglow
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Recipes
For my mother,
who always made holidays special for us.
CHAPTER ONE
Mist stood in the doorway of the Timberton Hotel, looking out at the empty street. It had been a lively scene earlier that day, filled with cheerful faces as the small-town residents exchanged secret gifts with each other. This had been Marge’s idea. Betty, the hotelkeeper, had at first thought it simply a clever way for Marge to unburden herself of an item collecting dust on a shelf. Betty knew Marge had a habit of frequenting the town thrift shop, always emerging with a purchase or two whether she needed anything or not. Others in the town suspected the same motive behind the first annual “Secret Santa” exchange. Each person who participated in the holiday activity had thrown a name into a hat and pulled another out, all hoping to avoid the inevitable thrift shop item. Mist smiled, remembering a fleeting look of dismay on Clayton’s face when Marge handed the fire captain a small box at the exchange. His polite, courteous expression had turned into a huge grin when he discovered a batch of mint-chocolate fudge from her candy store.
Others had been pleased with their gifts as well. Millie, the town librarian, had received a hand-embroidered bookmark from Betty. Clive, who ran the local sapphire gallery, was thrilled with the fine bottle of whiskey from Ernie, the night bartender at Pop’s Parlor. Mist, who had chosen not to draw a name, presented Hollister, the quietest town resident, with a set of watercolor paints. William Guthrie, owner of the greasy spoon, “Wild Bill’s,” had then surprised Mist with a petite bouquet of flowers from Maisie’s Daisies, telling her it was a thank-you for letting him escape his own cooking.
All in all, it was a good start to a holiday weekend that promised to be eventful. With Christmas just three days away, the small Montana town of Timberton was gearing up for several annual holiday celebrations. Betty’s cookie exchange, a highlight of the season, was held each year at the hotel. Town residents always managed to come up with a few delicious new concoctions, in addition to regular favorites. This traditional gathering promised to be upstaged only by the feast to be served in the hotel’s café, Moonglow, on Christmas Eve. Mist, well-known as Timberton’s local chef and artist, resided at the hotel, where the café was conveniently located.
Mist stepped back inside the hotel and gently closed the door, setting off a brief jingling of bells from a wreath. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes, taking in the silence that followed. The only guests who’d already arrived for the holiday were resting in their room after a tiring flight from Philadelphia. Winter travel could be especially challenging, and Christopher and Michelle Callahan had faced the worst of it—cancelled flights, rerouting, a night spent in the Denver airport, and lost luggage, on top of it all. Mist had steeped a pot of chamomile tea and placed a cup of it on Mrs. Callahan’s nightstand, along with a forehead-width sachet pillow filled with lavender. The woman had thanked her profusely and excused herself for a well-deserved evening of rest. Betty had stepped out on an errand, vowing to rest up for the busy weekend as soon as she returned. Mist was pleased to hear the hotelkeeper planned to take a break from preholiday preparations. As much as Mist tried to handle most of the hotel’s upkeep, Betty insisted on doing her share.
The soft, under-counter lights in the hotel kitchen felt soothing as Mist stepped into the room. Although she utilized the bright, overhead light for meal preparation, the absence of it offered a peaceful ambiance for evening planning. Even the action of turning the main light off after the dinner hour signaled a shift to a different portion of the day. This was her own time, her time to contemplate and look forward. She poured herself a cup from the pot of chamomile tea and pulled out the registration book, looking over the upcoming arrivals.
There would be ten guests joining them for Christmas this year, some returning, some new. Hotel guests, that is. Timberton townsfolk would flock to the hotel daily, whether for a festive Christmas Eve dinner in the Moonglow café, or to participate in Betty’s annual cookie exchange, or merely to comingle in the spirit of the holidays. And there was always the temptation of enjoying a glazed cinnamon nut, or three, from the bowl Betty kept in the front parlor. That alone brought local residents in and out of the hotel. However, ten would be overnight guests, counting the Callahans. Belinda Myers would be a first-timer, and Mist knew little about her, only that someone else had made the reservation for her and that she was coming in from California. Three other guests were first-timers, as well, all sisters, each traveling from different areas, meeting up for a holiday reunion. Betty had warned Mist the sisters had been calling independently of each other with requests, and that it might take some maneuvering to meet all their needs.
And then there was Michael Blanton.
Mist closed the registration book and pictured the young man the previous year, sitting by the fireplace, reading. Of all the prior guests, his image was the clearest in her mind: lanky, relatively tall, with medium brown hair and the most unusual eyes she had ever seen. Patina, she thought, looking back. That was the description she’d come up with for the gray-green-coppery color of his eyes. He’d questioned whether or not that could even be a color—patina—and she had explained that, of course, a color could be anything. After all, it could be, as far as she was concerned—texture, sound, perhaps even the wind.
It surprised her—or did it—to acknowledge she’d been looking forward to Michael Blanton’s return. They had connected the year before in an unexplainable way, kindred spirits of an undefined sort. Was it their mutual interest in literature? Or the way he seemed to understand what she meant when others were baffled by her new-age view of the world? So many things about life seemed clear to her, but this did not.
At the sound of footsteps outside the kitchen’s side door, Mist closed the registration book and took a sip of tea. As expected, Betty stepped through the door, speckles of snow covering her knit winter hat and a recognizable bag from the candy shop clutched inside a red mitten.
“Let me guess... caramels?” Mist said, already knowing the answer. She smiled. It was common knowledge that Betty often took a short walk to Marge’s candy store to pick up her favorite addiction.
“I can’t believe you even guessed,” Betty teased. She set the bag of caramels on the kitchen counter and removed her coat, hat, and gloves, hanging them on a hook behind the door before switching on a coffeemaker, already preset. Turning toward Mist, she ran her hands over her plump hips, smoothing out a lengthy red sweater that had crumpled under her coat. Mist adored Betty’s casual attire, always slightly old-fashioned yet not frumpy. It suited her senior status and friendly yet calm personality.
Mist took a final sip of tea, then stood and placed her cup in the sink. Returning to the center island counter, she sat back down, her jewel-toned gauze skirt flowing over the side of the stool. She pulled her purple ballet flats up onto a lower rung, adjusted her balance, and pulled a binder from the side of the table, opening it and looking over her notes.
“Meal planning, I see.” Betty observed. “The town can hardly wait to see what you serve for dinner this year, you know. Not that they don’t adore everything you serve in your café, but your Christmas Eve dinner is legendary.”
“Our café,” Mist said, directing a soft smile at Betty. “The café is a community area, a place where people can come together and enjoy camaraderie over a meal.”
“Yes, dear,” Betty said. “I agree. And the town definitely feels that way.”
“As they should,” Mist said, pleased that those who’d first dined at the Moonglow café simply as a place to get a meal had grown fond of it as a gathering place. This had been Mist’s intention all along. Food was a way to bring people together. She’d learned that long ago, back as an art student in Santa Cruz, California, working part-time in a café, where she’d first learned to create culinary delights. Little did she know she’d later move to the small Montana town of Timberton. Or that her food might even work a bit of magic in people’s lives.
“So what’s on the menu?” Betty poured herself a mug of coffee and took a seat across from Mist. “You’ve been debating a variety of dishes.”
Mist looked over her notes. “I’ve had trouble deciding, not knowing what this year’s guest preferences will be, but I believe I’ve come to a good balance: some dishes with meat, some vegetarian, plenty of side dishes and, of course, dessert.”
“Ah, dessert,” Betty said. “You outdid yourself last year with that Bûche de Noël. I believe Clive’s been yearning for that since last Christmas.”
“Perhaps next year,” Mist said. “But he’ll be pleased with this year’s meal, I’m sure.”
“Hardly a doubt about that.” Betty laughed. “He loves anything you make, just like everyone else in this town. The hotel guests, as well.”
“I’m grateful for their compliments,” Mist replied. “But much of it is the feeling they get from dining together, the connection.”
“I do believe you’re right.” Betty took a sip of coffee. “I’ve watched the town come together since you’ve been here, and much of it seems to happen during meals. Why, look at Maisie and Clayton, for example. They might never have met if not for the café.”
Mist smiled and nodded. The romance between Maisie, who ran the flower shop, and Clayton, the fire chief, had been a surprise. They’d met over the Christmas Eve meal the year before, Maisie helping serve and Clayton, as always, sliding in first for a place at the table. It had been charming to watch Maisie casually volunteer to help with meals for the first few months after that dinner. And equally charming to watch the way Clayton started arriving for meals a little more spruced up than usual.
Yes, the Moonglow café worked a little magic, especially during the Christmas season. Which was exactly what Mist intended. And this year promised to be no different. The question was: what small miracles would this year’s holiday bring?
CHAPTER TWO
Mist pulled out a sheet of rice paper and a calligraphy pen and began to write.
tarragon
ginger root
garlic
almonds
walnuts
quinoa
fresh cranberries
oranges
pears
mint
baby spinach
tomatoes
shallots
sweet potatoes
zucchini
apples
beets
maple syrup—pure
Moving to the kitchen cupboards, she took a quick inventory of other items she’d need for holiday cooking. Most spices were already in stock. A good supply of flour and sugar always stood ready for morning baking. Only fresh produce and a few other items needed to be picked up in order for her to settle in, knowing she’d be prepared for the next few days.
She hadn’t planned a complicated menu, at least not complicated from her perspective. Variety was always a good thing to offer, especially with new guests who might have particular tastes. She wasn’t worried about the locals, not after feeding them for over a year. She knew Ernie, the night bartender at Pop’s Parlor, was allergic to shellfish. And that Millie, the town librarian, needed gluten-free meals. Even Marge, who owned the candy store, was, ironically, diabetic and always needed more protein and fewer carbs. Mist planned her meals for them accordingly, just as she did for William “Wild Bill” Guthrie, who had been told by his doctor to watch his sodium intake after a recent heart attack. He grumbled about it every time a pretzel or potato chip passed by.
Satisfied she’d planned properly, she closed the cupboards and turned back toward the center of the kitchen, where she found Clive Barnes standing, her list in hand.
“Looks too healthy to me.”
“If you’d like, I could fix you a chili dog and cheese fries.” Mist smiled, knowing this would actually sound good to Clive, as much as he loved her cooking. “That could be your Christmas Eve dinner,” she continued. “Think how jealous the other guests would be while stuck with their own heaping portions of apple-walnut stuffed pork roast, sugar snap peas with orange-maple butter, and sweet potato drizzled with maple syrup. They’d also have to make do with zucchini spice bread instead of your hot dog bun.”
Clive paused before speaking up. “Well... maybe I’ll save the chili dog and cheese fries for another time, like New Year’s Day, in front of a football game?”
“Might be slightly more appropriate,” Mist replied nonchalantly, “but entirely up to you.”
“She’s pulled one over on you again, hmm, Clive?” Betty walked in, a stack of kitchen towels in her hand. She set the freshly laundered linens on the counter and stepped beside Clive, who slid an arm around her waist.
“Sure did, confound it,” Clive said. “She’ll suggest something that gets my mouth watering and then follow that with some concocted combination of food that I know darn well will be a tastier meal even though I haven’t the least idea what half of it is.”
“Trying new tastes is one of life’s adventures,” Mist pointed out.
“I’m not about to argue with that, not after all the dishes of yours I’ve tried,” Clive agreed. “You’ve opened my eyes up to some mighty fine fixins. There was a time I would have thought pork and apples could only mean a chop and a scoop of applesauce. I don’t know what this stuffed thingamabob is that you’re planning to serve, but I know enough to expect a step up from a pork chop.”
“You’re learning, Clive,” Betty said. “And you’re eating healthier food since Mist came to Timberton. It’s good for you.”
“Thanks, Betty.” Clive smiled sweetly at Betty, then turned toward Mist and whispered. “But I can still have the chili dog and cheese fries on New Year’s Day, right?”
“Whatever you want.” Mist laughed. She glanced up briefly enough to see Betty elbow Clive. His whispered remark hadn’t escaped Betty’s keen hearing.
“How about a cup of coffee?” Betty moved to the coffeemaker on the kitchen counter and poured tw
o mugs before Clive even answered. She already knew what his response would be.
“Don’t mind if I do,” Clive said as expected. He took a seat at the center and smiled up at Betty as she handed him a mug of the fresh-roasted brew.
Mist was delighted to see the two senior lovebirds so happy. Things had certainly changed since she first arrived in the small mountain town, when Betty and Clive had an emotional standoff going on, after years of not acknowledging their mutual feelings.
“Betty,” Mist said, “tell me about the three sisters who are coming in for this year’s holiday period. Anything I should know?”
“I don’t know much,” Betty said. “Only bits and pieces from their phone calls. I tell you, it’s so much easier when one person in a group coordinates a trip. I never know what one has told another when different people call. Two sounded pleasant on the phone. One was quite abrupt. I know they’re all coming in from different parts of the country.”
“Yes, I saw that.” Mist set aside the shopping list and flipped the registration book open. “One is from Boston, another from Charleston, and the third from Seattle.”
“Almost as if they’ve purposely spread themselves across the country,” Betty said.
“That thought occurred to me,” Mist said. “Perhaps they’re looking at this get-together as a sort of reunion.”
“Ha.” Clive snorted. “That could go a couple of different ways, if you ask me.”
“I suppose it could,” Mist said. “But we can help it sway in a positive direction.”
“Well, if anyone can do that, it’s you,” Betty said. “You’re the miracle worker around here.”
“That’s sweet of you to say, Betty, but it’s really not true.” Mist had offered up this explanation before. “People work their own miracles; they just don’t always know it.”
“Whatever you say,” Clive said. He downed his coffee, stood up, and headed for the door. “Thanks for the coffee, ladies. I have to get over to open the gallery. Don’t want to miss any holiday sales.”
Silver Bells At Moonglow (The Moonglow Christmas Series Book 2) Page 1
