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

by Deborah Garner

“Really?” Betty exclaimed. “That’s fabulous. We don’t have a contest here, but we do have fun testing all the goods at this time of year. You’re certainly welcome to join in. Speaking of which, I’d better get back to work, or we won’t have peanut butter cookies in the mix.” Betty disappeared back into the kitchen, a slight trail of flour floating behind her.

  Simon finished filling out the registration cards and returned to the luggage.

  “Let me help you with those,” Mist offered, only to be politely refused.

  “Just directions to our rooms will be fine,” he said.

  “Of course. I have your rooms ready,” Mist said, lifting two keys from behind the counter. “Follow me.” She headed up the stairway, both new guests behind her. Aiming for the far end of the upstairs hallway, she arrived at Rooms 22 and 23. “Your manager called and requested privacy,” Mist explained. “I think you’ll be very comfortable here.”

  “Marty is always too concerned,” Cathy said. “Any rooms would have been fine. But thank you for your consideration.”

  “Well, I do hope you’ll feel comfortable joining in with some of our holiday activities,” Mist said. “That’s entirely up to you, of course. Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help make your stay pleasant and relaxing.” She unlocked each room and handed a key to each guest, pointing out linens, light switches, and amenities. Leaving them to settle in, she returned to the kitchen, where Betty’s apron had now doubled its flour arsenal.

  “She seems quite nice,” Betty said, pressing a fork into the top of each round ball of dough on a baking sheet.”

  “Yes, I agree,” Mist said. “The gentleman is quiet, but perhaps he’s tired from the trip.”

  “I suppose that’s her bodyguard? We aren’t expecting anyone else to show up with Ms. Turner. Her manager said two people total. He just seemed... not what I would expect.”

  “I had the same reaction,” Mist admitted. “But I think we have a movie version in our heads of what bodyguards look like.”

  “Maybe,” Betty agreed. “But I still might prefer Arnold Schwarzenegger or Vin Diesel around if someone tried to attack me.”

  “Is that so?” Both Betty and Mist jumped at the sound of Clive’s voice but relaxed when they saw him grinning.

  “Unless Clive Barnes happened to be there, of course,” Betty added quickly.

  Clive laughed. “I take it the celebrity guest has arrived.”

  “Yes,” Mist said. “And she’s nothing like what you are probably expecting. I have a feeling she’s just hoping for a quiet holiday away from the hectic lifestyle she has.”

  Betty nodded. “I agree. So you behave yourself around her, Clive Barnes.”

  Clive furrowed his brow. “I’ll consider it... if you let me test one of those cookies. I could smell them halfway between the gallery and here.”

  “What do you think, Mist?” Betty said. “Is our guest’s comfort worth the price of a cookie?”

  “Maybe two cookies,” Clive interjected, thinking the situation over. “In fact, how many guests will you have this weekend?”

  “You’re pushing your luck, my dear man,” Betty said, smiling as she removed one tray of cookies from the oven and placed another inside. “But if you let these cool a few minutes, you can test this batch.”

  “That’s my girl,” Clive said, moving over to Betty and placing a soft kiss on her forehead. “So all your guests have arrived?”

  “All but one,” Betty said. “Michael Blanton should be here within the next few hours. I forgot to tell you, Mist. He called earlier to say his plane had landed in Bozeman, but he planned to run some errands before driving out here.”

  “It will be nice to have everyone here,” Mist said casually. “I should go double-check the front parlor, hotel entrance, and café to make sure everything is ready.” She grabbed a container of glazed cinnamon walnuts and stepped out of the room, quite sure she saw Betty and Clive exchange grins as she left the kitchen.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Silver tinsel tickled Mist’s face as she reached to straighten the front parlor curtains. The heat flowing upward from floor vents gave the Christmas tree an illusion of life. It only took a close stance to the evergreen branches to feel an ornament tap a shoulder or a strand of garland brush against an arm.

  Evening had settled over the hotel, warm and comforting, quiet and peaceful. Though the following day promised energy and activity, the day that was ending had been low-key, with guests arriving, the aroma of cookies baking, a wine-and-cheese hour that had brought a few people out to mingle, and now a silent building. Close to ten p.m. already, Betty had long retired to her private quarters, just as guests had settled in for the night. Mist had served a simple dinner in the café, knowing townsfolk would be saving their appetites for the Christmas Eve feast. Clean-up from the meal took little time, as did refilling the glazed cinnamon nuts bowl and placing cookies out for late-night snacks. Mist had changed from work clothes into a soft burgundy dress with gold embroidery and clipped her hair back with a carved wooden barrette. The long day had still left a good hour for Mist to paint, keeping the door to her room open in order to hear the doorbell.

  Now, standing in the front parlor, Mist glanced at the quiet street as she pulled the curtains together. The last remaining guest had yet to arrive, in spite of the late hour. Although snow was forecast for the following day, the evening was clear and driving conditions were favorable. Perhaps Betty had misunderstood Michael Blanton’s earlier phone call. Had he said he would be arriving the following day instead? No, she was certain he was only detained for errands and would still be at the hotel that evening.

  Mist settled into an armchair to wait, letting the rayon fabric drape softly against her legs. She browsed the stack of books she’d chosen earlier for the side table. The Canterbury Tales, Walden, David Copperfield, The Call of the Wild, On the Road.

  When a beam of headlights finally filtered through the curtains, announcing the arrival of the last guest, Mist sighed, a mix of relief, fatigue, and anticipation. She moved to the front hallway and listened as a car door opened and closed. Then, at the sound of footsteps on the porch, she opened the door.

  “Mist.” Michael Blanton smiled, his brown hair tussled from the wind, a wool neck scarf in shades of forest green and mustard gold accentuating his unusual eyes.

  “Mr. Blanton.”

  “You’re not going to insist on calling me Mr. Blanton, are you?” Michael stepped into the lobby as Mist moved aside to usher him in.

  “Michael,” she rephrased.

  “Much better.” Michael set a suitcase down and removed his scarf and coat, hanging them on the coatrack in the corner of the room. As he crossed the foyer, Mist noted with relief that his limp from the previous year’s visit was gone.

  “I’ve been looking forward to being here this year,” Michael continued. “And to visiting with you. I was delighted when Betty told me you were still here.”

  “I will always be here even if I’m not,” Mist said. “I don’t think we ever completely leave a place after we grow fond of it.”

  “I agree,” Michael replied, smiling. “This is why I come back here every holiday season. Christmas at the Timberton Hotel has a special place in my heart.” He followed Mist to the counter, filled out the registration card, and took a room key from Mist’s outstretched hand.

  “Room 11, at the top of the stairs,” Mist said. “It’s not the room you had last time, but we have more guests and needed to do some shuffling. I hope it will be satisfactory.”

  “Ah, the room the English professor stayed in last year. He was quite a character.” Michael laughed. “Will he be returning this year?”

  “Not this year,” Mist said. “Perhaps next year though. We received a Christmas card from him last week, saying he looked forward to bringing his family here in the future. Clara Winslow is back again though.”

  “Yes, we keep in touch during the year. I’m looking forward to seeing her, as well a
s enjoying Timberton again. This is such a beautiful town—perfect for a winter holiday, so peaceful with the snow, so invigorating with crisp night air.”

  “It’s a beautiful town any time of the year,” Mist said. “The snow is calming, but spring brings a burst of color in every garden. Summer offers a soft, warm afternoon breeze. Every season has its own charm.”

  “Yes, I can imagine that’s the case.” Michael picked up his suitcase and started for the stairs. “I can’t wait to relax in that front parlor chair, though I suspect sleep will catch up with me tonight.”

  “You’ll find plenty of choices for reading on the side table, whether tonight or tomorrow. I’m about to turn in, but I’ll see you at breakfast.”

  “Thank you.” Michael paused at the foot of the stairs. “It’s great to see you, Mist.”

  “And you,” Mist said.

  * * *

  Late morning sunlight filled the hotel kitchen. Mist found Betty sipping a mug of coffee, Clara Winslow beside her, dropping snowball cookies onto a baking sheet.

  “Everyone seems to have settled in,” Betty said. “Especially Clara here, who, as you can see, has insisted on contributing to the cookie exchange.”

  “How delightful and kind of you to contribute as well,” Mist said.

  “Nothing kind about it.” Clara laughed. “You’re giving me far too much credit. I’m just after a tray of mixed cookies at the end, like everyone else.”

  “For a special friend back home,” Betty whispered, her voice purposely loud enough to make sure Clara overheard.

  “Is that so?” Mist looked at Clara, pleasantly surprised.

  “Now, now, girls, don’t make too much of it,” Clara said, avoiding eye contact. “They’re just for a nice gentleman from my church group who’s been kind enough to give me rides home from church several times.”

  “Well, I’d say he deserves a batch of cookies,” Mist said, not missing a light flush on Clara’s face.

  “My thoughts exactly,” Betty said cheerfully. She and Mist exchanged knowing glances, each pleased that Clara was being social. It was time, now that she’d been a widow for over a year. She deserved to be happy.

  “Indeed,” Mist said before changing the subject. “The hotel has been quiet. Guests seem content to just relax for now.”

  “That’s not surprising,” Betty said. “Traveling is tiring. Breakfast was simple and casual too, which was nice.”

  “Yes,” Mist agreed. “Clayton’s crew came through early, as always, but without Clayton, which surprised Maisie when she stopped in. A few other locals stopped by too.”

  “I shared a table with Michael,” Clara piped up. “It was great catching up. He’s doing so well, don’t you think?

  “Absolutely,” Mist said. “I was delighted to see the two of you chatting.”

  “I noticed two of the Anders sisters sat together,” Betty said. “But the third sister skipped the meal, had a mug of coffee by herself in the front room.”

  “I noticed that too,” Mist said. “And Ms. Turner and Simon asked for trays to be brought up to their rooms, which I delivered, along with a tray for Hollister, downstairs. I believe the Callahans took some apple-cinnamon muffins to go and left to take a drive through the countryside.”

  “Yes, I filled a thermos of coffee for them to take along. It’s a perfect day for a drive, that’s for sure,” Betty pointed out. “What with the sun shining and the roads clear. Hardly seems like December, other than the light blanket of snow on the ground from last week. I do hope we get some new snowfall for Christmas. It would be nice for the guests to see it coming down. There’s something special about a white Christmas.”

  “Like being inside a snow globe,” Mist said.

  “Or looking into one,” Betty added. “It’s warmer to watch from inside the hotel.”

  “But then you miss the soft brush of snowflakes against your face,” Mist said. “I love that feeling of a cool whisper against skin.”

  “I’ll check the weather report,” Betty said. “Last time I looked, it didn’t show snow coming until next week.”

  “The weather has its own timetable, not one always shared in advance.” Mist smiled as if this were a secret, though she knew it should be common knowledge to anyone. “How’s the cookie exchange shaping up? Clara’s batch looks like a great addition.”

  “Why thank you, Mist,” Clara said.

  A proud smile crept across Betty’s face. “Should be the best one yet. You know I told all the girls they could add a few different items this year—within reason, of course. It is a cookie exchange, after all.”

  Mist nodded. “Maisie’s bringing snickerdoodles, as you know. And I think Marge is bringing Divinity Puffs. She was excited to have other options included in the event.”

  “We’ll still have many of the standards,” Betty said. “People count on those.”

  The kitchen door cracked open, and Michael stuck his head in to say hello.

  “Why, Michael Blanton, look at you!” Betty crossed the floor and opened the door the rest of the way, pulling Michael into the room, as well as into a sincere embrace. “We’re so happy to have you back again this year. Clara tells us you’re doing well. We were just chatting about you.”

  “In full remission,” Michael said. “I’m very grateful.”

  Mist let out a silent sigh of relief. She’d watched his casual walk across the foyer earlier and noticed the absence of the limp he’d had the prior year after surgery to remove a tumor from his leg. This confirmed her hopes that his easy walk across the lobby to the staircase earlier had been a good sign.

  “Help yourself,” Betty said, pointing to the tray of cookies.

  “Thank you, Betty,” Michael said. “I think I’ll wait. I’m still full from that delicious frittata Mist served for breakfast. I’m going to grab a cup of coffee and sit in the front room to read. It seems I’ve been given quite the reading assignment for the weekend.” He directed the comment to Mist, delivering it with a wink.

  Mist smiled as she casually looked away, busying herself by unfolding and refolding a kitchen towel. “You know those are just a few choices. There are more books in the shelf by the fireplace, as well. And let me check the coffee and tea service in the entryway. We like to keep that available to guests all day.”

  “The coffee and tea are fine, don’t worry,” Betty said. “I refilled the cream and sugar too. You might check the fire. I haven’t thrown a log on it for a while. Clive split some wood for us the other day. If you need more, you’ll find it out back.”

  “No need.” Clive’s voice called from the front hallway. “I just filled the metal rack beside the fireplace and threw a new log on to get the fire going again.” He stepped into the kitchen, shook Michael’s hand in greeting, and grabbed a cookie before Betty had a chance to either offer one or stop him.

  “What brings you up here at this time of day?” Betty asked. “Isn’t the gallery open today?”

  “It is.” Clive nodded. “And that’s why I’m here.” He turned to Mist. “There are some customers asking about your paintings.”

  “The ones I delivered yesterday?” Mist raised one eyebrow slightly.

  “Not exactly,” Clive said. “I think you might want to talk to them. They seem to be looking for something in particular.”

  Mist placed the folded towel on a rack and turned toward Clive. “Of course I’ll be happy to come down to the gallery. Give me a few minutes, and I’ll meet you there.”

  “Thanks, Mist,” Clive said. “And don’t rush. They went over to Marge’s to pick up some of her homemade fudge. I think they’ll be stuck there for a bit once they see her selection.”

  Betty laughed. “That wouldn’t surprise me at all. I didn’t even know there could be so many varieties of fudge before I met Marge—mint chocolate, cherry almond, butterscotch, raspberry, peanut butter honey, maple walnut, vanilla coconut, white chocolate pecan and, of course, the best of all: caramel. That one counter she has just
for fudge goes on and on.”

  “Well, now you’ve got my sweet tooth revved up,” Michael said. “Maybe I will take one of those cookies after all.”

  “That’s a good idea,” Betty said, pulling a small plate out of a cupboard and stacking up a generous portion of cookies. “You just put those by that armchair you like to read in. If you don’t eat the others, someone will.”

  “I can guarantee that,” Clive said.

  “Another guest,” Betty clarified, wrinkling her nose at Clive.

  “I can take a hint.” Clive raised his hands as he scooted out the back kitchen door, laughing.

  “I’ll grab a book and claim my favorite chair,” Michael said. He thanked Betty for the cookies and left.

  “And I’m full steam ahead on baking cookies.” Betty scraped another spoonful of batter from her mixing bowl and went back to work.

  “All right then,” Mist said. “It sounds like we all have our plans for this morning. And I have dinner to prepare later on too, so I’d better head over to the gallery.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  A brisk wind blew leaves along the sidewalk as Mist walked to the gallery. She pulled the turtleneck of her sweater up over her chin and slipped her mitten-clad hands into her coat pockets. Scattered clouds dotted the sky, none heavy enough to hint at snow. Still, the temperature left no doubt that it was winter. The wind chill factor had to be in the teens.

  Clive opened the gallery door as Mist approached—an unusual gesture that raised both her eyebrows and her curiosity. Even more surprising, he closed the door as soon as she stepped in, turning the “open” side over to “closed.”

  “Clive?” Mist asked, not getting an answer. Instead, she followed the direction of his extended arm, toward the center of the room. There she found Ms. Turner and Simon—or was it Mr. Simon?—standing at a worktable, looking at several of Mist’s miniature paintings in a row. Several other small canvases sat to the side, all Mist’s. Ms. Turner took one from the side and added it to the arrangement of others and then picked up another and did the same. She switched the order of the canvases around, comparing the different designs in relation to each other. Mist pulled off her mittens and put them in her pockets, then approached and stood beside Ms. Turner, taking in the same overview. After some contemplation, she reached out and moved one square to a different location, earning a cautious glance from Simon, who reached out to move it back.