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

by Deborah Garner

  Both Mist and Betty jumped at the sound of Clive’s voice. Looking over their shoulders, they saw he had come up behind them without making a sound.

  “Hush,” Betty whispered.

  “It was just a date,” Lydia said. “A trick to play on someone.”

  “Just a date?” Deirdre’s voice rose.

  “Here we go...” Helen murmured.

  “You married him!” Deirdre exclaimed.

  “Yikes!” Clive raised his hands and backed away. “This has ‘catfight’ written all over it. I think I’ll just grab a dinner plate and take cover in the kitchen before the fur flies.” His retreat was unnecessary, as the front door swung open with the arrival of the first dinner customers.

  “Excuse me, ladies, I’m just gonna step around you and find some of Mist’s good grub.” William Guthrie’s entrance broke up the heated discussion. Though he always skipped breakfast at the hotel in order to run his greasy spoon, Wild Bill’s, down the road, he rarely missed dinner.

  “I’ll be in my room,” Deirdre said, exiting the foyer.

  “Suit yourself.” Lydia huffed. “I’m ready for a hot meal.”

  “Every year...” Helen sighed as she followed Lydia into the dining area.

  Mist checked over the buffet one more time before heading to the kitchen. As was her habit, the meal that night was simple, both in terms of preparation and cleanup. The following evening would be another story altogether. Half of Timberton was expected to show up for Christmas Eve dinner, as well as the hotel guests. Time always seemed to fast-forward at this point. After tonight’s meal, Mist would help Betty clean up, then retire to her room to paint. She’d make it an early night, anticipating a busy morning. Between Betty’s cookie exchange in the early afternoon and the upscale dinner that evening, her hands would be full. Not to mention the next day, with Christmas-morning celebrations. It was her habit to give a small gift to each guest, as well as to set out a buffet luncheon. Christmas Day always boasted festive yet casual gatherings at the hotel.

  At the sound of Michael and Clara’s voices, Mist stepped back into the dining room to greet them, filling their water glasses and offering wine from the beverage table.

  “A lovely buffet, as always,” Clara said. “I don’t know how you do it, Mist. Everything is always so perfect.”

  Michael followed Clara’s declaration with a smile and a subtle wink, which caused Mist to be grateful the soft restaurant lighting hid the blush she felt creep up her neck. “You’re both so kind,” she said. “But I think perfection is in the eye of the beholder.”

  “Isn’t that beauty?” Lydia said, leaning in from the next table. “Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.” Helen, seated across from her, nodded.

  “It’s both, isn’t it?” Michael raised a glass of merlot, taking a sip after speaking. His eyes locked with Mist’s, and just as she had the year before, she felt an inexplicable connection, something beyond words.

  “Yes, I believe Michael is right, it is both,” Mist said as she refilled water glasses at both tables. “There is beauty in everything, just as there is perfection. We have only to see it.”

  “Well, not everything is beautiful or perfect,” William Guthrie said, jumping into the discussion. “For example, a pipe broke in my kitchen this morning, and I had to whip up a batch of coffee from that bottled stuff. You know, spring water or something like that.”

  “Might help your breakfast business some, Bill,” a local resident called out, bringing a round of laughter.

  “You heard her: perfection in everything,” another local said. “That’s not the same thing as everything being perfect.”

  “Yeah, I know, I know,” Bill said. “Not everything’s perfect.” He took a bite of the sweet corn pudding and closed his eyes. “Then again some things are!”

  Mist smiled and turned to Lydia and Helen. “Will your sister be joining you tonight?” she asked casually.

  “Deirdre will probably be down later,” Lydia said, earning a resigned glance from Helen. “She’s a little moody today.”

  “I see,” Mist said. “Well, we’ll have plenty left over, if she gets hungry later.” She finished filling water glasses and slipped back into the kitchen, where she joined Betty, who had already started the process of cleaning up. Working together, the dishes were done and the remaining food put away—leaving aside a plate for Deirdre, who had yet to resurface—within a mere fifteen minutes after the last guest had finished.

  “Did Cathy ever come down to dinner? And Simon?” Betty asked, sitting down at the center table as Mist prepared to retire for an evening of quiet time and painting.

  “Not tonight,” Mist said. “I sent dinner up to their rooms. But I have a feeling they’ll join us for Christmas Eve. I have some ideas to run by Cathy in the morning regarding the paintings we discussed, so we’ll have a chance to talk.”

  “The Callahans went to Clayton’s, of course,” Betty said. “But they’ll be here tomorrow. How are Maisie’s nerves holding up?”

  Mist couldn’t help but smile. “She’s fine now. It was just a shock finding out the woman who charged through her flower shop was Clayton’s mother. She didn’t expect her to arrive until the following day.”

  Betty laughed. “I think Mrs. Callahan was just as surprised. Maybe it was Maisie’s green hair that did her in.”

  “Could be,” Mist said, pausing briefly in the doorway on her way out. “We’ll see how she reacts when it’s violet.”

  She didn’t need to see Betty’s expression to know what it was.

  CHAPTER TEN

  A landscape of color stretched before Mist: crimson, chestnut, sage, mauve, taupe, indigo and more. This was her element, a realm of comfort and creative spirit. The world seemed endless with brushes, tubes, and canvas before her. In addition, her texture box sat nearby, an old cigar box she’d once found at a garage sale. Over the years, she’d filled the box with anything that might provide inspiration: a tiny feather, a scrap of sandpaper, a bottle cap with ridged edges, a smooth piece of glass from a Northern California beach.

  These were the magic hours, after hungry stomachs had been traded for weary bodies, seeking slumber. In these late night moments, it didn’t matter how many guests were staying overnight at the hotel. Once Mist retired to her room, she stepped into a different world, one that consumed her.

  Now she looked over the art supplies and noticed the different thicknesses of the brushes and tints in the paints. From these, she would begin to design Cathy’s “everything.” Images had already come to her since meeting at the gallery—clouds in the sky as she walked back to the hotel, a sprig of rosemary as she’d prepared dinner, steam rising from a ceramic mug as she’d refilled a guest’s coffee.

  What did “everything” mean? From a creative viewpoint? Infinity. From a celebrity’s viewpoint? Endless freedom. Gathering brushes into her hands, Mist closed her eyes and let the bristles take flight in her imagination. Like feathers, they floated with the wind, across land, across seas, skimming the top of the Eiffel Tower, tickling the cheek of a young child playing ball in Sicily, brushing an elephant’s tusk in Kenya, circling a palm tree with tagua nuts in Ecuador, and drifting over cardamom in a Mumbai spice market, until they gathered above the earth in a whirlwind and returned to Mist’s lap.

  Yes, Mist thought. There would be endless possibilities for the arrangement of paintings Cathy desired for her wall. Or was that for their wall? The casual question posed by Cathy at Clive’s gallery had hinted at something more.

  A more pressing project called to her this evening though, and the quiet hotel provided the perfect ambiance. She clamped a miniature canvas on the side of her easel and began the first of a dozen small gifts to give out to guests on Christmas morning.

  * * *

  Freshly-ground French roast brewing, Mist raised both arms above her head and stretched. Anticipation of the events of the day had made it easy to rise early, in spite of painting well into the night. She’d planned a si
mple breakfast, just something to tide people over until the feast that evening: an egg-cheese-and-mushroom casserole, served with cantaloupe slices and croissants. A quick cleanup would allow the room to be readied easily for Betty’s cookie exchange.

  “Coffee ready yet?” Clive leaned in the doorway of the kitchen.

  Mist smiled. It was a well-known fact that Clive popped in early to fill his coffee mug before returning to the gallery. Indeed, the hotel felt like home to him, especially now that his relationship with Betty was growing daily. Mist wondered at times if wedding bells might even be in the future for the senior couple. What a delight it would be to decorate and cook for that event. And it would definitely shorten Clive’s stroll for his morning beverage.

  “Mist?” Clive cleared his throat. “Coffee?”

  “Oh, yes, it’s almost ready.” Mist said, realizing she hadn’t answered. “I was just daydreaming about... the future.”

  “Well, if the future includes coffee, then I’m all for it.”

  “Yes, I imagine it does.” Mist laughed.

  “I’ll make you a deal, Clive,” Betty said, entering the kitchen in a floral bathrobe that signified early morning yet was nice enough for a potential run-in with guests. “If you fill the thermal carafes and put them out in the front entryway, we’ll let you have the first cup.”

  “Sounds fair to me,” Clive said. “I’m happy to oblige, ma’am.”

  Mist caught the smile on Betty’s face at Clive’s teasing use of the word “ma’am.” His ability to make any formal statement sound country casual was one of his charms.

  “Breakfast ready to go?” Betty asked, looking around the kitchen.

  “All set up. Everything’s out already except the casserole, which I’ll pull out when the first guests arrive. We won’t have many today.”

  “I’m sure you’re right,” Betty said. “Not with tonight’s big feast. People will be saving their appetites for that.”

  “Or for your cookie exchange,” Clive said, returning with a mug of coffee. “That’s what’s for lunch, right?”

  “Only if you bring something to share, you know,” Betty teased.

  “You’re not fooling anyone, Betty.” Mist laughed. “You know Clive will be swiping cookies later from our hotel stash.”

  “Ah, Mist, I can’t pull anything over on you, can I? Or you, Betty,” Clive said with mock dismay. “And... I think I hear the first guests on the staircase. And the front door.” He backed away from the kitchen door, knowing Mist would be heading through it with the hot casserole dish any minute.

  “That’ll be Clayton coming in to meet his parents for breakfast,” Betty said.

  “Ah, Clayton at the front door and the parents on the staircase, I guess,” Clive said.

  As expected, Mist pulled the casserole from the oven with two quilted mitts and whisked it out to the dining room. A knock on the back door of the kitchen accompanied her return.

  “That will be Maisie,” Mist said, taking off the mitts and setting them down on the table.

  “You asked her to come help this morning?” Betty raised her eyebrows. “She hasn’t been by the past couple of days.”

  “I suggested it might be nice to have help since we need to also prepare for the cookie gathering.” Mist tried to hold back a grin, knowing Betty would see right through her plan.

  “Does she know Clayton and his parents will be here this morning?”

  Mist laughed. “I’m not about to ambush the poor girl. She knows the Callahans are meeting here.” Mist turned her comment toward Maisie as she stepped into the kitchen and closed the door. “Don’t you?”

  “Of course I do,” Maisie quipped. “You don’t really need help, do you?” Her expression gave away the fact she already knew the answer.

  “Hmm... no... it suddenly seems everything’s under control,” Mist said, looking around innocently. “Maybe you’d like to serve some coffee and then join Clayton and his parents for breakfast?”

  “Exactly what I planned from the moment you tried to trick me into coming by.” Maisie shed her winter coat, red woolen mittens and matching hat and set them on a stool at the center table. “Besides, I had dinner with them last night. Clayton fixed the meal... nothing like what you fix here,” she added, lowering her voice. “But we all got along fine. Mrs. Callahan even said she thought my green hair was unique, not to mention appropriate for the season.”

  “How fun,” Betty said. “You may just have to dye it red for Valentine’s Day and orange for Halloween.”

  “Now you’re talking.” Maisie laughed as she left the kitchen for the dining area.

  * * *

  Millie, the town librarian, was the first to arrive for the cookie exchange, walking in a full ten minutes early with a tray of chocolate-chip-cherry-oatmeal cookies, still warm from the oven. “A new recipe from my cousin Sue—delicious, I might add!” She spouted off a list of ingredients.

  “Good heavens, Millie,” Betty said. “Is there anything that’s not in those?”

  “Walnuts, but you could add them.” Millie laughed. “Or pecans. And Sue sometimes substitutes cinnamon for orange zest. It’s fine to be creative, especially when it comes to holiday baking.”

  “I’m glad to hear that,” Marge said, following right behind Millie. “You told us we could bend the rules this year, so I made divinity puffs. And it is divine, indeed!”

  Betty took the platter of candy from Marge and set it on the buffet next to Millie’s tray. “Grab some coffee or tea, ladies. We may have to test the goods while waiting for others to arrive.”

  Clive’s voice echoed from the front hallway. “Hey, I thought I was the official tester.”

  “No sir,” Marge said before Betty even had a chance to say the exact same thing. “If you’re nice, maybe we’ll share a few afterward.”

  “I’m kidding you all. Just came in for coffee, but I’m going back to the gallery for last-minute customers.” The door closed as Clive exited but soon reopened as townsfolk began arriving with plates of delicious holiday treats. Maisie showed up with her snickerdoodles, Sally brought chocolate-chunk cookies, and Mrs. Callahan surprised everyone with candy cane brownies that she’d baked over at Clayton’s house.

  “I didn’t know you were bringing anything,” Betty exclaimed as she pointed the way to the buffet table, which was rapidly filling with tempting options.

  “Clayton said it’s the highlight event of Timberton’s holiday season. I didn’t want to miss out. Though I admit he may have had an ulterior motive for telling me that. I noticed several empty spaces on the cooling racks!”

  “Yes.” Sally laughed, adding a basket of cranberry-orange cookies to the array. “That seems to happen whenever my son comes to visit too.”

  Mist entered the room, checked the coffee and tea supply, and approached Betty. “Did Clara come downstairs yet? I know she wanted to put out those snowball cookies she made.”

  “I haven’t seen her,” Betty said, looking toward the front entry. “Oh, wait, here she comes now.”

  Clara entered the room wearing a light blue sweater with a snowflake pattern, and a smile on her face. Mist felt her heart warm at the sight of a cheerful Ms. Winslow. She ushered her into the kitchen and handed her a silver tray, her cookies arranged neatly on white doilies.

  “How beautiful, Mist!” Clara exclaimed. “I have some lovely family trays at home, but I don’t seem to have any in my suitcase.”

  “This is your Christmas home, Clara,” Mist said.

  “I know, dear,” Clara said. “You and Betty do make it feel like home. I look forward to this trip all year.”

  As Clara took her tray out to join the others, chatter and laughter echoed back as the kitchen door opened and closed. Mist fixed a cup of peppermint tea and sat down, enjoying the sounds of sharing and friendship floating in from the gathering. Christmas Eve was a magical day at the Timberton Hotel. And with the evening still ahead, there was more holiday cheer to come.

  Wit
h apple-walnut stuffing and a large green salad ready in the refrigerator, and zucchini spice bread in the oven, Mist set a timer and retreated to her room. Later she would prepare the pork roast and ready the snap peas and sweet potatoes, but she still had work to do to prepare for Christmas morning. Attaching one miniature canvas at a time to her easel, she sat quietly, contemplating each guest staying with them this year. Each Christmas was different for the hotel, just as it was for each person. Life was ever changing. Michael Blanton, Clara Winslow, Cathy and Simon, the three sisters, Lydia, Helen and Deirdre, and the Callahans had all seen change during the past year, even during their stay in Timberton. As she pondered each guest’s journey, she let her brushes and paints respond. By the time the zucchini spice bread finished baking, two miniature paintings were finished. When the roast came out of the oven later, the rest would be done.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Mist lit the candles on each table in the dining room, turning Moonglow into an otherworldly vision of holiday festivity. Each flame cast light on the enchanting textures and colors of the arranged roses, hydrangea, lilies, mums and cymbidiums, as well as the copper, gold, and silver metal accents. She nudged one centerpiece lightly, hearing the intended result: the soft tinkling of silver bells. White linen tablecloths covered the oak tables, and each place setting featured a bright red linen napkin with fresh holly napkin holders, as well as a petite wooden cup, hand-painted with a pinecone design and filled with mints.

  Standing alone in the room, Mist could hear the cheerful voices in the front parlor as guests and townsfolk gathered. Instrumental versions of “The Little Drummer Boy” and “O Tannenbaum” serenaded those who awaited the feast as they sipped wine or sparkling water with strawberries and lime.

  “Everything’s ready,” Maisie whispered.

  Turning toward the kitchen door, Mist took in Maisie’s ivory dress and headband of holly and red berries, a distinctly softer look than the T-shirts and flower-shop overalls Maisie usually wore. Ah, the ways of the heart, Mist thought, knowing Clayton and his parents would be arriving soon.