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

by Deborah Garner

  “How’s your jewelry doing, Clive?” Betty fetched the empty coffee mug and moved it to the kitchen sink. “Those sterling silver pine tree pins with a tiny sapphire at the top were selling well, last I heard.”

  “That they are, especially the ones with the red sapphires. It always surprises folks to find out not all sapphires are blue.” Clive beamed. “But Mist’s miniature paintings are also selling well. In fact, I could use some more, if you have any.” He turned toward Mist and raised an eyebrow.

  “I’ll bring a few over later,” Mist offered. “I have flowers to pick up at Maisie’s this afternoon, which I’ll need to put in water right away. I’ll drop some paintings by after that.”

  “Great. Thank you kindly, Ms. Mist.” Clive waved good-bye over his shoulder as he left.

  “That’s right,” Betty said, turning back to Mist. “I can hardly wait to see what you come up with for centerpieces this year. Did Maisie order anything special for you? Do you even know what’s coming in?”

  Mist shook her head, causing long strands of beaded earrings to brush across her shoulders. “Not really. I put in requests, but some flowers are more difficult to obtain this time of year. We’ll see what she brings in. Whatever it is, we’ll make it work.”

  “You’ll make it work, all right.” Betty laughed. “I have no doubt about that.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Of all the shops in Timberton, Maisie’s Daisies was Mist’s favorite, not that she’d want to make a point of that in front of other town businesspeople. Each shop had its own appeal, and the business owners all deserved credit for the services they provided to the community. Marge worked hard to keep her candy shop filled with goodies, much to the delight of many. Ernie showed up promptly each night at Pop’s Parlor, filling shot glasses for those looking for something a little more intense than what Marge offered. Sally, who owned the thrift shop “Secondhand Sally’s,” had upgraded the shop substantially since purchasing the business earlier that year. And locals could always count on catching up on the latest gossip from Glenda while getting a shampoo and style at the Curl ’n Cue.

  But Maisie’s place offered something entirely unique to Mist. It brought to mind the palette of paints she used for art, except with added dimension. The flowers and foliage touched every sense. She loved the sculpted shape of rose petals, the soft tickle of asparagus ferns, and the sweet fragrance of gardenias. Most of all, she loved the unspoken challenge that Maisie’s ever-evolving inventory offered. She could pick and choose different ingredients and, gathering them up in her arms, head back to the hotel to create. The result was always something different, as was to be expected, in Mist’s opinion. The ingredients were always unique, the combinations new, and the muse’s presence varied. She never knew quite what she’d create at any given time, which was part of the delight.

  “There you are,” Maisie said as Mist stepped through the front door, a tiny bell signaling her arrival. “I knew you’d be by any time now. I hid a few things for you in back.”

  “You didn’t need to,” Mist said. “You know I’m happy to work with whatever you happen to have.”

  “This time I really did need to hide them. A woman came through a short time ago and started grabbing just about everything in sight.”

  “That’s unusual,” Mist said. “Was it Millie, decorating the library, or Glenda, looking to spruce up the beauty salon tables?”

  Maisie shook her head. “It wasn’t anyone I knew. I’d never seen this woman before. Could be someone new to town, I suppose, or someone simply passing through. She was in a hurry, in fact, downright rude, if you ask me.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. Rudeness is even more disagreeable to the person being rude, though that person usually doesn’t realize it.” Mist paused. “I don’t know of anyone new in town. But it’s always possible.”

  Maisie shrugged her shoulders and headed for the back room. “Yep, always possible,” she echoed over her shoulders. Mumbled words followed until Maisie reappeared, or at least Maisie’s body, with a hefty assortment of flowers and greenery where her face, chest, and shoulders normally would be.

  “Why, Maisie,” Mist exclaimed slyly. “I don’t believe I’ll need to arrange anything this year. You—if that is you behind that walking forest—can just come over to the hotel and stand in the front parlor, festive as you are.”

  “Very funny.” Maisie laughed. She gently placed the massive bundle of floral items on the counter and blew a wayward leaf off the tip of her nose at the same time. Mist reached over and pulled a cluster of berries out of Maisie’s hair, then paused and put it back in.

  “What?” Maisie lifted one hand to her head, curious what Mist had found.

  “Red berries,” Mist explained. “Leave them there. They look seasonally festive with your green hair.” Maisie’s spiked green hair was a unique sight amidst Timberton’s old Western flair.

  “Clayton’s not too crazy about the green,” Maisie said. “I’ve been thinking about changing it. Plus his parents are coming in Christmas Eve. I’ve never met them.”

  “You could try violet,” Mist suggested. “Violet offers a sense of truth and authenticity.”

  “I was thinking more along the lines of brown. As in, my natural color.”

  “I didn’t know green wasn’t your natural color,” Mist said, her heart warming as she took in the spread of reds, whites, and greens in front of her. “Green is peaceful, refreshing, like the flowers you provide. It suits you. Sometimes we have to choose our own natural colors in life. The ones that help us grow.”

  “Speaking of choosing...” Maisie hinted. She spread her arms out wide, framing the selection.

  “What a wonderful assortment you’ve brought in,” Mist exclaimed. “The white lilies and red hydrangea will make a stunning combination. And those pale green cymbidium orchids! Those will soften the deeper pine shades.”

  “How about some roses? I know you prefer more exotic flowers, but take a look at the ones in the cooler.”

  Mist turned to the small refrigerated display. “Definitely some of the white roses. Those will add elegance to the hydrangeas and lilies. I’ll pass on the red ones, but I’ll take as many of those white button chrysanthemums as you can give me, as well as red berries, spruce, and eucalyptus to work inside the arrangements.”

  “You need any pinecones, branches, or that type of thing?” Maisie pulled the roses and chrysanthemums from the cooler and wrapped them in paper.

  “I saved all the nonperishable decorations from last year,” Mist said. “I’ve been using many in fall arrangements but will rework them all into Christmas displays tonight. We only have one guest arriving this evening. The rest come in tomorrow.”

  “Betty’s annual cookie exchange is tomorrow too, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, it is,” Mist said. “Making this one busy weekend.”

  “Ooh, count me in on that. I already know I’m bringing snickerdoodles. I’ll just have to hide them so they don’t disappear before the exchange.”

  Mist laughed. “Yes, I imagine there will be plenty of hidden cookies around town.” She gathered four huge paper bundles into her arms and rested them against her right shoulder, craning her neck around them to bid good-bye to Maisie. “See you at the cookie exchange, if not before. Thank you for bringing in such beautiful ingredients this year.”

  “Ingredients?” Maisie said, a quizzical expression on her face. “Are you getting confused with the talk about baking?”

  “Not at all, Maisie,” Mist said, smiling. “Everything is an ingredient of something else. These flowers are ingredients for holiday memories, just like flour and sugar.”

  * * *

  It didn’t take long to return to the hotel and run water in the kitchen sink, setting the flowers and greenery from Maisie’s in to soak until time to arrange them later.

  As Mist expected, Clive was at his work desk when she arrived at the gallery, adding final touches to what she assumed was a new piece of jewe
lry at first. She crossed the room, set down a tub containing miniature paintings, and took a look.

  “Enchanting, Clive,” Mist said, eyeing the Christmas ornament with approval. “I love this piece. Any possibility it’s for your gallery shop? Customers would love it. I’m sure it would sell as well as your sapphire pendants.”

  “Nope, not a chance.” Clive shook his head and leaned forward, inspecting the piece closely.

  “Ah, I understand.” Mist smiled, remembering the ornament Clive had made for Betty the year before. She’d suggested he make others like it to sell at the gallery, but he had been firm that the ornaments he made would be for her. He’d started the collection with a sterling-silver-and-sapphire pine tree. The piece had caught the light beautifully as it dangled from a branch of the main room’s Christmas tree. This new ornament would make a lovely addition.

  “I know you all felt I should make ornaments to sell here in the gallery as well, but there’s only so much time,” Clive pointed out. “I’m doing well selling the jewelry, plus I keep busy teaching people about the sapphire mining in the area when they stop by.”

  “You have a wonderful way with visitors, Clive,” Mist said. “I’ve watched people sort through the gravel, hoping to find sapphires.”

  “They do love that,” Clive agreed. “Every now and then someone comes up with a decent stone. I’ve designed jewelry around a few of those finds.” He sat back and looked around. “Then I’ve got the art to sell too. Speaking of which...”

  “Yes,” Mist echoed. “Speaking of which, I have quite a few more paintings for you.” She lifted the tub onto a nearby chair, opened the lid, and pulled out a miniature canvas detailing a bird on a snowy tree branch.”

  “That’s a good one,” Clive said, nodding his head. “People like that bird. The last one sold right away.”

  “It’s not the same bird,” Mist whispered as if telling Clive a secret.

  “Huh. Looks the same.”

  “No bird is the same as another bird,” Mist said. “Just as no person is the same as another person.”

  “Here we go...” Clive sighed.

  Mist smiled, knowing Clive was prepared for a dose of Mist’s own unique philosophy of life. However, she intended only to give him the paintings he needed to restock the gallery. With flower arrangements, food preparation, and incoming guests, there was plenty of reason to get back to the hotel quickly.

  “Here, take a look at the others.” Mist pulled out a variety of paintings, most keeping within a seasonal theme. Clusters of pinecones and holly branches, winter scenes of Timberton’s Main Street, and snow-flecked Christmas wreathes had all proven to be customer favorites. She’d prepared several of each.

  “Perfect,” Clive said. “I have a customer who asked for that Main Street scene just the other day. I’ve been meaning to tell you. I seem to always forget whatever I’m going to say when I’m over at the hotel.” He grinned, knowing Mist would catch his meaning.

  “That’s understandable.” Mist laughed, thinking of the way Clive’s face lit up every time he saw Betty. “I think you get distracted easily there.”

  “Well, what guy wouldn’t around two such pretty women.”

  Mist smiled, set aside the paintings she was leaving with Clive, closed up the tub, and left Clive to finish up the ornament.

  * * *

  Settled back in the hotel’s kitchen, Mist looked over the spread on the kitchen counter, taking in the lush red of the hydrangeas and red berries, the pure, wintery white of the roses, lilies and button mums, and the soothing greens of the cymbidiums, spruce and eucalyptus. The color combination spelled Christmas in every basic traditional way, and the mixture of colors and textures would have been beautiful in simple vases. But Mist’s plans always leaned toward the unique. A paper sack sat on one of the kitchen stools, waiting to offer up its contents for Mist’s own artistry.

  Helena had been a half-day trip for Mist the week before. The city, much larger than Timberton, offered the supplies she desired for this year’s holiday decorations. Between antique shops and craft stores, she had found exactly what she needed to make centerpieces for the dining room tables and buffet.

  An oblong copper tub had been the most exciting discovery of all. She’d hoped for some type of container that would be a change from the bark-covered pots the year before, as much as she’d been pleased with those. When she’d found a matching set of small copper kettles in a second shop, the designs fell into place. She’d headed straight for a craft store where she picked up several dozen tiny silver bells and metallic gold wire-edged ribbon, a mixed-metal fantasy image in mind.

  Now with the copper containers lined up in a row, Mist began to blend the varied flowers into multicolored clusters, weaving gold ribbon in and out of each arrangement, tiny bells peeking out between buds and blossoms. In the end, each small copper kettle held a fantasy burst of blooms, bells, ribbon and cheer, as well as a slender candle. The buffet centerpiece was equally impressive as a larger version. To add to the charm, all it would take was a slight nudge to any of the arrangements to set off an unexpected chime of bells.

  Mist stepped back, satisfied with the table decorations. Setting them in the front parlor, she retired to her room. Late evenings were her personal time, and her watercolors waited.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Mist already had coffee brewing and banana nut muffins in the oven when Betty entered the kitchen and took a seat at the center counter. From the way the hotelkeeper opened the registration book and hovered over it, Mist knew she was working on logistics of some sort.

  “Checking over room assignments?” Mist asked as she poured coffee into the hotelkeeper’s favorite holiday mug—a plaid gingerbread-man design—and set the fresh brewed beverage in front of her.

  “Something like that,” Betty said, running her finger down a list of names.

  “We have rooms set for everyone, Betty. Do you think some need to be changed?” Mist took a seat across from her.

  Betty sighed. “I don’t know. You’re better at this than I am.”

  “I doubt it,” Mist said kindly. “You’ve been doing this much longer than I have.”

  “Maybe, but you have a way of knowing where people will be most comfortable. You have that... thing, you know, that intuition thing. Tell me what you think of this. I’m not sure how to handle it.”

  Mist reached out as Betty turned the registration book in her direction. Nothing had been changed, but several post-it notes had been added.

  “Belinda Myers needs privacy?” Mist read from one note, seeing that Ms. Myers had been assigned a room near several other guests. “When did this come up?”

  “Last night. I didn’t want to interrupt your evening time since I know you use it to paint. But I had a phone call from her... manager.” Betty sighed.

  “Her manager?” Mist repeated. “I don’t understand.”

  “I didn’t either at first,” Betty said. “Apparently Belinda Myers isn’t Belinda Myers.”

  “I must say you’ve completely lost me now,” Mist admitted. She reached behind her head and removed a carved teakwood hair clip, letting her soft brown hair fall loosely across her shoulders. She then wound her hair back up and clipped it in place again, as if rearranging it would sort out the odd conversation. “Though, really, if you think about it, anyone might be someone else.”

  The hotelkeeper’s silent stare told Mist her philosophy wasn’t going to solve the immediate problem. If it was a problem, that is. “So, who is this guest, Betty? Maybe a simple room change to a quieter section of the hotel is all we need to do.”

  Betty sighed. “It might be a start, but I’m not sure it’ll be enough. It turns out Belinda Myers is actually Catherine Ashley Turner.”

  Mist drew her arms together. She rested her elbows on the table and placed her chin in her hands, fingers curled around each cuff of her Peruvian alpaca sweater. Aware the pose gave her face a slight resemblance to a chipmunk, she’d always found it a
comfortable position for processing information. And this was information, indeed. Even Mist, who hadn’t owned a television set or seen a movie since she was a child, knew who Catherine Ashley Turner was. If there was a level of fame beyond superstardom, the actress fell right in line. This could take a little more coordinating than a room change. Or would it?

  “I don’t see any reason this should be complicated,” Mist said finally. “She’s just a person, like anyone else.” Even as she heard the words leave her mouth, she knew it wasn’t that simple. Fame could have a way of affecting people, and even if it didn’t, it affected others around them. It might take some maneuvering to keep the holiday festive yet calm. “All right,” Mist added, “we may need to watch the townsfolk when they come by, to make sure no one disturbs her. But she may just want a quiet retreat, might curl up with a book in her room. That would make sense, seeing as she booked a solo trip to a small town.”

  “I would agree with you,” Betty said, “except she’s not coming alone.”

  Mist tilted her head, giving one side of her face more of a chipmunk resemblance than the other. “The reservation is for one person.”

  “Not anymore.” Betty sighed. “Her manager is sending her bodyguard along too.”

  “Her bodyguard?” Mist straightened up and furrowed her brow, an unusual sight on the artist-chef who normally floated through life with surreal calm. “I don’t understand.”

  “He wants to make sure she isn’t disturbed.”

  Mist pondered this new information, equally weighing logistics with overall ambiance for the guests and townsfolk who would be spending much of the holiday weekend at the hotel.

  “Maybe we should put Ms. Turner in Room 16,” Betty suggested. “It’s quiet and at the end of the hallway upstairs. That would give her privacy.”

  Mist shook her head with a movement so slight it was barely perceptible. “Clara Winslow will want that room again. She loved it last year, and I’ve placed her favorite quilt on that bed.”