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

by Deborah Garner

  “No, she’s right, it’s better there.” Ms. Turner held her hand up and then smiled, looking over the arrangement. “These are beautiful, Mist. I love the soft textures and mix of colors. It’s as if there’s a mountain stream running through them, tying them together. Maybe it’s the light brushstrokes. They remind me of water.”

  “Do you paint, Ms. Turner?” Mist asked.

  “Please, you must call me Cat. In fact, Cathy would be wonderful. I’m so tired...” Her voice trailed off. “Anyway, no, I don’t paint. I used to. I... well, it isn’t important now.” She shifted her position, looking over the canvas arrangement again.

  “You miss it,” Mist said softly.

  “I haven’t thought about it for a long time,” Cathy said. “But now looking at your wonderful paintings, I realize I do.”

  “Ms. Turner would like to order more, Mist.” Clive spoke up, not one to miss a sales opportunity.

  “It’s Cathy,” both Mist and Cathy said at the same time.

  “I’d be delighted to make more up for you,” Mist offered. “I could have a few done within the next couple of days, before you leave.”

  “I believe that won’t be enough time,” Clive said, a slight cough making its way into his statement, as if a speck of dust caught in his throat.

  “Well, you let me know what you’d like, and I’ll put it together for you,” Mist said.

  Cathy turned to Simon, diamond earrings catching the gallery lights, a stark contrast to her casual jeans and sweatshirt. “How large is our living room wall?”

  Our wall. Mist caught the comment without reacting.

  “I’ll call the architect and find out.” Simon pulled out a cell phone and dialed. “I’d guess the open space is about thirty feet wide,” he added while waiting for the line to connect.

  “And how high is your ceiling?” Clive’s voice still sounded rough. Or was he nervous? Mist pondered his odd behavior. Was he starstruck? Was he simply hoping for a good sale? Clive was well-known for his reputation as a smooth salesperson.

  “Eighteen feet.” Cathy sighed, as if the height of the wall were more of a downside than a plus, as many would consider it.

  “Thirty by eighteen,” Mist mused, the dimensions forming in her mind. “And what is the color of the paint?”

  “The paint?” Clive scratched his chin, confused.

  “Yes, the paint on the wall,” Mist said, answering Clive and then turning to Cathy. “If you would like a few paintings on the wall, the background color is important.”

  “It can be any color you’d like,” Cathy said. “Whatever you think is best.”

  “I see.” A fluid vision of the wall formed in Mist’s mind, a spatial expanse of changing images, colors and tones. A golden sunset. The sky on a starless night. Warm sand along the gulf shoreline.

  “Twenty-eight feet,” Simon said, sliding his cell phone into his jacket.

  “That was fast,” Cathy commented.

  “They had the blueprints out already,” Simon explained, “to work on the changes to the north wing.”

  Cathy sighed. “It’s so unnecessary, the extra wing. Why can’t... Oh, it doesn’t matter.” She turned toward Mist. “What color would you paint the wall?”

  “For a background to art, I prefer neutral—off-white or a pale ivory but without much yellow,” Mist said. “Something subtle enough to showcase whatever other art you bring in.”

  “There won’t be any other art on this wall,” Clive said.

  “Oh,” Mist said, uncertain what her next words should be. She looked at Clive, noting a smile had replaced his earlier tentative expression, and then looked at Cathy. “Well, then what portion of that space would you like to use for these paintings?”

  “All of it,” Cathy said.

  “All of it,” Mist repeated, just to make sure she had heard correctly. “Twenty-eight by eighteen feet...”

  “Yes.” Cathy rearranged the small paintings again, experimenting with the spacing before turning back to Mist. “How much room do you think we should leave between each one?”

  Mist closed her eyes, attempting to picture the spacious wall, and then opened them. “Do you prefer solid ground or air?”

  “We just need measurements, I think,” Simon said hesitantly. “Right, Clive?” Both men shrugged their shoulders.

  “No, wait.” Cathy looked back at Mist. “I understand the question. I prefer air.”

  “I would choose the same thing,” Mist agreed, “for a sensation of floating, for peace of mind, for lightness of spirit.”

  “Perfect.” Cathy smiled.

  “Are there particular images you’d like?” Clive picked up a form for special orders and began to fill it out.

  Cathy paused, thinking, and then looked at Mist. “Everything.”

  Clive stopped writing. “Everything?”

  “Yes, Clive,” Mist said, a slow smile spreading across her face. “You don’t need to write out any details. I know what Cathy wants.”

  * * *

  “What was the mystery about?” Betty asked as Mist stepped in through the back door. “I’ve never seen Clive act so strangely about a sale.”

  “It’s an unusual order,” Mist said casually. “I don’t think he was sure how to handle it.”

  “Something out of the ordinary? Or a difficult customer?” Betty took a final batch of snowball cookies out of the oven and turned the oven off. She set the tray aside to cool and looked over the wide spread of cookies covering the counter, some already boxed in containers. “There. I told Clara I’d pull out the last batch for her. That should do it for the cookie exchange tomorrow.” She rubbed her hands together in satisfaction and wiped them against a holly-patterned apron.

  “Yes, the order at the gallery is wonderfully out of the ordinary,” Mist said, “but not a difficult customer at all. “In fact, the customer is Ms. Turner.”

  “Really?” Betty exclaimed. “Our Ms. Turner from here? Cat?”

  “She prefers to be called Cathy, it turns out.”

  “I like that name,” Betty said. “Nice, simple, old-fashioned—nothing that shouts stardom.”

  “I have a feeling that’s why she likes it. I sense she’s missing freedom, space, ordinary life. We all need air to breathe. And water...” Mist paused, remembering Cathy’s initial comments about the paintings.

  “Yes,” Betty said as she stacked containers of cookies and moved them aside, ready for the next day’s event. “I suppose when it comes right down to it, we all need the same things.”

  The sound of the telephone ringing sent both Betty and Mist scurrying toward the front reception desk. Betty reached the phone first, greeting the caller and then opening the reservation book, flipping forward to June. Mist smiled. Advance reservations were always a good sign.

  Leaving Betty to handle business, Mist continued to the front parlor where, as she expected, Michael sat in the armchair by the fireplace, a book in his hands. Dressed in corduroy slacks, an argyle sweater, and loafers, he looked more like a preppy college student than a man on vacation. The look suited him though, and Mist found herself fighting back a smile.

  “Which one did you choose?” Mist leaned sideways, a strand of seashells sliding past her shoulder as she attempted to read the cover. “Ah, The Call of The Wild. One of my favorites. It’s not your first time reading it, I bet.”

  Michael smiled. “No, probably my fourth or fifth. But it’s been a few years. Reading it again reminds me how intriguing the concept of destiny is.” He slipped a bookmark into the spine and closed the book, setting it aside. “How much of what happens to us in life is free will, and how much is fate?”

  Though phrased as a question, Mist knew the words were meant to be rhetorical. There was no perfect answer, and they both knew it. Jack London’s main character, Buck, had to adapt to a series of harrowing circumstances. In the end, did he face the future as a result of his experiences, or did he merely follow preordained instincts set long before he was born?


  “It’s a good question,” Mist said, sitting down on a couch across from Michael. She crossed one leg over the other, displaying work boots that formed an odd contrast to her sage-colored, distressed silk skirt, a favorite find at Secondhand Sally’s. “One without a perfect answer.”

  “But it’s something to think about, isn’t it?” Michael leaned forward, clasped his hands together, and rested his elbows on his knees.

  A third voice entered the conversation. “Maybe we end up where we are because we follow what others tell us to do, rather than making our own choices.” Cathy crossed the room and took a place on the couch beside Mist. Her diamond earrings had been replaced with simple silver hoops, and her hair was pulled back and held with a black elastic band. With her face scrubbed clean of makeup, she could have fit in unnoticed almost anywhere.

  Michael shifted in his chair, a spark of recognition in his eyes. He stood and extended an arm, introducing himself. “Michael Blanton,” he said. Mist was pleased, though not at all surprised, to see him sit back, relaxed again, undaunted by the presence of a celebrity.

  “Cathy Turner, pleased to meet you.”

  “We’re still choosing,” Mist said, as much to herself as to anyone else. “Maybe not even considering that we could say no.”

  “I think about that often,” Cathy said. “Many decisions are made for me. I go along with them, and sometimes I have to. But now that I have a few days to reflect, I think I could say ‘no’ more often than I do. Like the new house, for example.”

  “The one you’re having built,” Mist said.

  “Yes, the one I’m... Actually, there’s an example, probably an extreme one. That house is not going to be just for me. Simon and I are building it together, as a home.”

  Mist nodded, remembering the “our wall” comment at the gallery. “I suspected as much.”

  “Ah, so he’s not a bodyguard,” Michael said.

  Cathy laughed. “Oh, yes he is. I wouldn’t try to tackle him. He’s a former Navy Seal, as well as a black belt in karate. We grew closer after working together.” She paused. “The powers that be decided it would be best to keep my status as single and available. But I’m tired of others deciding how I should live my life outside of work. Or, rather, how I should make it appear.”

  “I can’t imagine how difficult that would be,” Michael said.

  “And exhausting,” Mist added softly.

  “Yes, that’s it exactly!” Cathy exhaled and relaxed against the couch. “I’ve never thought of it that way before. But it is exhausting, always watching what I say, how I appear in public.” Turning the conversation in a lighter direction, Cathy addressed Michael. “Mist and I have been talking about art. She’s agreed to create a set of paintings for me. And Simon,” she added, smiling.

  “How wonderful,” Michael said. “She’s a talented artist. You won’t be disappointed. I have one painting of hers that I keep on a wall at home. I enjoy seeing it every day.”

  Mist felt herself blush at the praise. She’d had many compliments on her art over the years, yet the thought of Michael seeing on a daily basis the painting she’d given him the Christmas before came as a surprise.

  “Any particular subject matter for the new paintings?” Michael asked.

  Mist straightened her skirt, uncrossing her legs and placing her work boots quietly on the floor. She glanced at Cathy and then back at Michael. “Yes, everything.”

  “Everything?”

  “Everything under the sun,” Cathy said. “She can surprise me.”

  Michael smiled. “I’m sure she will. How many paintings are we talking about?”

  Mist and Cathy looked at each other and then back at Michael.

  “No more than two hundred, I think,” Cathy said. “Based on the size of the wall.”

  “That sounds about right,” Mist said casually. She almost felt guilty being pleased at the stunned look on Michael’s face.

  Sharp pounding on the front door interrupted the discussion.

  “More guests arriving?” Michael asked.

  Mist shook her head. “No, everyone has already checked in.”

  “Locals then,” Cathy offered. Mist noted a trace of wishful thinking in the statement.

  “They wouldn’t knock. Locals come and go during business hours, for meals at Moonglow, or just to have coffee and visit. I’ll see who it is,” Mist said, standing. Noticing Cathy’s uncomfortable expression, she was prepared when she opened the door.

  Scruffy, anxious, and practically hyperventilating described the two men who stood on the doorstep of the hotel. Cameras hung haphazardly across winter jackets not quite zipped up, as if they’d been thrown on in a hurry while scrambling into their vehicle. One of the men looked weathered, pushing midfifties. The other, barely into his twenties, had an eager expression halfway between charming and obnoxious.

  “Can I help you gentlemen?” Mist looked the two over, waiting for the obvious question.

  “We only want some photos, miss, and we’ll be on our way,” the older man said.

  Mist raised one arm, pointing behind them. “The town square is especially lovely today. I recommend some shots from a northern angle. There’s just enough snow on the ground to catch the sunlight.”

  Not dissuaded, the men didn’t even bother to follow the direction of her arm.

  “Don’t play coy with us. We know she’s here.” This came from the younger man, who balanced on tiptoes, trying to look over Mist’s shoulder.

  “I’m sorry, are you looking for anyone in particular?” Mist cocked her head to the side, assuming a puzzled air.

  Both men paused, appearing to second-guess their location. The younger one adjusted the camera strap around his neck and spoke up. “We have a tip that there’s someone special here.”

  “Yes, you’re right.” Mist straightened her head and nodded as both men grew excited. She paused, simply for her own impish pleasure. “In fact, there are many special people here. All our guests are special. Just like you two are special.”

  The older man huffed. “We’re talking extra special, if you get my drift.”

  “Well, yes, now that you mention it,” Mist said. “Every person here is extra special. I believe my comment before didn’t adequately describe the human spirit.”

  “You know exactly what we’re talking about,” the younger man insisted. “We heard Cat was staying in Timberton. Since this is the only hotel, she must be here.” As Mist observed, half-amused, half-stunned, the young man actually meowed, which earned him a bizarre glare from his fellow photographer.

  “I’m afraid you’re mistaken,” Mist said. “We have only a few guests, and they are all ordinary people. Everyday people, just like you two guys, just like me.”

  “No one extra special?” the younger man said, clearly disappointed.

  “No one more special than anyone else.”

  “Then we apologize for bothering you, miss,” the older man said.

  “It’s quite all right,” Mist said. She closed the door, rolled her head from one side to the other, squared her shoulders, and smiled.

  CHAPTER NINE

  As Mist added a dish of toasted sweet corn pudding to the dinner buffet and arranged the basket and sign for customers to “pay what your heart tells you,” her own unique philosophy of restaurant pricing, a chattering of voices accompanied the sound of the front door opening and closing.

  “Why do we have to go through this every year?” a female voice said. “Every Christmas, for that matter?”

  “Because that’s when it happened, of course,” a second, equally exuberant, female voice replied. “When the holidays roll around, I’m reminded, that’s all.”

  “As if I’m not since I have to hear about it all over again every Christmas,” a third voice chimed in.

  Mist peeked around the corner, observing all three Anders sisters hovered together just inside the entry. It was difficult to tell who was the most perturbed, but if Mist had to guess,
she would put Deirdre, the aloof one from Boston, at the head of the line, with Lydia, red scarf and all, second, and Helen, the third, doing the softer protesting about having to endure whatever was being repeated on a yearly basis.

  “It was supposed to be me,” Deirdre said, her tone accusatory.

  “You were sick!” Lydia exclaimed.

  “I should have just cancelled,” Deirdre said.

  “Well, you agreed.” Lydia huffed. “So don’t blame me, especially after all this time.”

  “Every year...” Helen sighed, pulling off her winter gloves. “Every single year...”

  Mist felt movement and turned to see Betty behind her, a basket of dinner rolls in one hand and a serving dish with butter in the other.

  “What’s going on?” Betty whispered.

  “Some sort of sisterly sibling disagreement,” Mist said, her tone hushed. “Or rivalry, I suspect is more like it. Sounds like something that happened a long time ago. Not really our business,” she added, a tinge of guilt washing over her for eavesdropping.

  “Well, they did pick a public location to discuss it, whatever it is,” Betty pointed out, leaning in closer. “You can’t hold a conversation in a hotel lobby and expect no one to hear.”

  “You have to admit it was a clever idea,” Lydia said.

  “At the time,” Helen interjected.

  “It was a terrible idea. If I hadn’t been feverish, I would have called it off,” Deirdre said.

  “Come on,” Lydia persisted. “We were all tempted. We hadn’t pulled anything off like that since we were kids.”

  “True...” Helen mused. “And we’re still hearing about it after all these decades...”

  Mist and Betty looked at each other and mouthed the word “decades,” before leaning forward again.

  “Anyone have popcorn?”