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

by Deborah Garner

  “What?” Maisie said, suppressing a giggle.

  “You look beautiful,” Mist said.

  “I’m not the only one who dressed up for Christmas Eve,” Maisie pointed out.

  Mist smiled. She’d had fun sprucing up the flowing green silk dress that Sally had set aside for her when it came into the thrift shop. Mist had cut and sewn the hemline into scalloped edges before attaching iridescent beads at random intervals, with additional beads scattered around the neckline and sleeves. With the extra fabric from the hem, she’d fashioned a narrow scarf that now flowed through her hair like a ribbon in the wind, sweeping most of her hair up while still allowing a single tendril to trail along the curve of her neck.

  “Then I say let’s open the doors,” Mist said. “People await food for the stomach, heart, and soul. I believe we have all of it here within this room.” She crossed to the front entryway, pausing only to flick a switch that illuminated hundreds of sparkling white lights across the ceiling before opening the doors. “Christmas Eve dinner is served,” she said, the simple statement bringing cheers from the hungry crowd.

  Christopher and Michelle Callahan were among the first to enter, choosing a large table that allowed Clayton and several others to join them. Two of the members of Clayton’s fire crew found their way to two of the chairs, with William “Wild Bill” Guthrie and Ernie from Pops Parlor taking up two other chairs. One chair was saved for Maisie, who alternately sat down to enjoy the meal and excused herself to help refill the buffet as the meal went on.

  Lydia, Helen, and Deirdre arrived together, dressed in different outfits, yet all wearing old-fashioned pins, identical except for a stone: one red, one blue, and one green. “A gift long ago, from our grandmother,” Helen said. “We wear them every Christmas.”

  Mist suggested a table near the buffet, pleased to see the sisters together. Though disappointments from the past didn’t always go away, they could be set aside on occasion. Over time, those occasions would hopefully multiply for the Anders sisters.

  As Mist carried baskets of fresh zucchini spice bread from table to table, Michael Blanton and Clara Winslow walked in, Cathy and Simon just behind them. Though a slight hush passed over the room at the sight of Cathy, it quickly settled back into casual conversation, thanks to some slight prepping by Betty, who’d explained to locals that a gift of an everyday holiday would be the best present they could offer the celebrity. The four sat together, Clara remarking that the centerpiece looked like a fantasy explosion of cheer and goodwill.

  One by one, the tables filled with hotel guests and townsfolk alike. Some chose to fill plates at the buffet and take them to the front parlor, where they could sit by the fire or at one of several tables that had been set up for the expected overflow crowd.

  “I say cinnamon,” Millie whispered to Marge as they attempted to analyze the apple-walnut stuffing inside the roast.

  “Hmm. I say nutmeg,” Marge countered after taking another bite. Sally, sitting with the other two, nodded in agreement and added cloves to the growing list.

  “You’re all correct,” Mist said, lowering her voice as she passed by the table. “And celery. Always remember celery.”

  “In stuffing?” The three women paused, their forks hovering in the air while waiting for Mist’s answer.

  “In almost everything,” Mist whispered. “But don’t tell William Guthrie. He’s bound to add it to that coffee he serves.”

  “I heard that.” Bill Guthrie laughed from a nearby table. “You folks ever plan to stop giving me a bad time about my coffee?”

  “Not likely,” Clayton said, eliciting laughs from other locals.

  After offering bread to several other tables, Mist felt a light touch on one arm. She turned to see Michael indicate a chair beside him. Clara, Cathy, and Simon were engrossed in a discussion on the other side of the table. Betty conveniently swept by at the same moment, borrowing the basket of bread to continue the rounds.

  “Sit and enjoy, Mist,” Michael said, standing to gently guide Mist into the empty seat. “I’ll make up a plate for you.”

  Mist accepted the seat, cautioning Michael to stick to small portions. “I had to test everything earlier, you know.” She laughed.

  Michael pushed her chair in and then leaned down. “You look beautiful,” he whispered.

  “Thank you,” Mist said, the compliment both unexpected and enchanting. She took a sip of wine, obviously poured ahead with the intention of encouraging her to sit down and enjoy the meal with everyone else. Michael soon returned and sat back down. Mist thanked him again as he placed her dinner on the table in front of her.

  “You’re from New Orleans, I believe,” Mist said, recalling past comments from Betty, as well as the contact information in the registration files.

  “Yes,” Michael said. “Just north of there now, actually, but my P.O. Box is New Orleans. I teach literature at LSU.”

  “Ah, I didn’t know that, but it makes sense.”

  “Why is that?”

  “It explains your love of reading and your knowledge of books.”

  Michael nodded, pensive while taking a bite of sweet potato. “I’ve loved to read since I was very young. I went into teaching because of that, hoping to inspire others to read.”

  “A noble pursuit.” Mist acknowledged. “I also learned to read at an early age. It’s a way to travel without traveling, to meet people without meeting them.”

  “Exactly,” Michael said. “You understand that, but many people have yet to discover the joys of reading. We have a local literacy program that I’m involved in too.”

  “That must be so rewarding,” Mist said. “Not only to be able to delve into the concepts and themes of books with your students but to open up whole worlds of possibility to others.” She reached for a pitcher of water and proceeded to refill Michael’s glass, then her own and those of others at the table.

  “You’re supposed to be relaxing right now, not working,” Michael chided, though smiling. “You do so much to care for others here. You need to let others care for you too.”

  “But they do, every day. When someone laughs, it nourishes my soul. When someone’s hunger is relieved, my mind rests.”

  “Then I can see why you’re so calm all the time,” Michael said. “There’s no hunger in this town with your wonderful café here, so your mind must always be at rest. I also know through Betty that you feed the town’s one homeless resident.”

  “You’re talking about Hollister,” Mist said. “He has a room here unofficially, an extra hotel room we don’t use. He can come and go as he wishes. Easily, since that room has a back door. It also happens to have a refrigerator, and he knows he’s welcome to help himself.”

  Michael smiled. “How nice that you just happen to have a refrigerator in that room.”

  “We need a second refrigerator to store extra supplies,” Mist said simply. “That room is a convenient place to keep it.”

  “Of course.”

  Feeling a tap on her shoulder, Mist turned to see Betty leaning down. “Some guests are almost ready for dessert.” Mist started to stand, but Betty shook her head. “No, Clive knows what to do; your instructions were very clear. And we have additional help too. You just keep enjoying your meal and visit with Michael here. Maisie’s clearing some plates now. We’ll bring the desserts out individually as people finish their meals.”

  “If you insist,” Mist said. “Dare I ask who you have for extra help in there?”

  “Someone who has plenty of practice burning food,” Betty whispered.

  Mist set her fork down. “You’re letting William Guthrie loose in the kitchen with a blowtorch?”

  “It’s fine.” Clayton chuckled as he looked at the other members of his fire crew. “We’re here, right, boys?” Pausing, he added, “You are kidding, aren’t you, Betty?”

  “Don’t worry, Clive is there to supervise. And we have a bucket of water nearby, just in case.” Betty laughed.

  “All ri
ght.” Mist sighed, hoping not to regret the wave of trust that washed over her. “But don’t forget the fresh mint—one sprig on each and the berries.”

  “Sounds intriguing,” Michael said to Mist as Betty turned away. “What should I expect to see coming from the kitchen, aside from flames?”

  “Something simple this year.”

  “Which would not be a fire...” Clayton noted.

  “Probably not simple, coming from you. But simply delicious, I imagine,” Michael said.

  “I hope so.”

  Minutes later, Betty emerged from the kitchen with a dessert in each hand, Maisie right behind her with two more. Mist smiled with approval as they passed by, her fear of disaster replaced by the sight of perfectly caramelized sugar.

  “Crème brûlée?” Cathy said from across the table. “I recognize the fluted ramekins.”

  Mist nodded. “Excellent guess. I decided an orange-vanilla bean crème brûlée would be a light finishing touch to the meal this year.”

  “With a sprig of mint,” Michael added.

  “Yes, and candied cranberries,” Mist said, “for a touch of holiday color.”

  “Speaking of color, I love all the decorations, Mist,” Clara said. “The table centerpieces, the Christmas tree, the poinsettias along the staircase—everything is so welcoming and comforting.”

  “I agree completely,” Cathy said. “Warm and cozy, in the most wonderful way. I haven’t had a Christmas this enjoyable in ages. I feel more at home here than I do... well, at home.”

  “We especially love the wreath of bells on the front door.” Deirdre added, leaning over from another table. Both Lydia and Helen nodded in agreement.

  Betty and Maisie made repeat trips to and from the kitchen, empty plates heading one direction, individual crème brûlée servings returning to take their places. One by one, guests finished dessert and retired to the front parlor, drawn by strains of Bing Crosby’s “Do You Hear What I Hear?”

  Sparkling lights from the hotel’s Christmas tree formed a glowing background to old-fashioned ornaments: a pair of hand-knit red mittens, a clip-on glass bird with feathers, a blue-rimmed tin drum, and a miniature wooden nutcracker. Along with those, Clive’s new addition nestled in the rear of the tree, undetected. As Betty brought fresh coffee out from the kitchen, Clive steered her toward the tree and lifted a silver ornament from between the branches. Betty gasped in delight at the sight of two silver bells dangling from a red ribbon.

  “Needle and thread, anyone?” Mist indicated a basket of supplies and two bowls.

  “Popcorn and cranberry garlands!” Lydia exclaimed. “We always made those when we were growing up. Remember?” She directed her question at both sisters, whose eyes lit up at the childhood memory.

  “I’ll join in,” Clara said, taking a chair nearby.

  “You could always make one to take home with you, Clara. You know, with that plate of cookies from the exchange,” Mist suggested, earning a shy smile in return. A second smile came from Michael, who’d settled into his usual chair by the fireplace. In fact, not a face in the crowd was without a glow as Mist surveyed the relaxed, festive group.

  “What an exquisite piano,” Simon said, noticing an upright piano in the corner, halfway between the Christmas tree and fireplace.

  “It was my father’s,” Betty said. “I don’t play, but I keep it tuned for guests. The piano tuner who comes down from Helena always seems impressed with it.”

  “As well he should be,” Simon said. “Most people are familiar with Steinway and Sons, but these Knabes are fine instruments, with a unique tonal quality that is hard to match.” His eyes traveled to Cathy, who had joined the garland activity. He raised his eyebrows and then nodded, turning back to Betty. “May I?” He indicated the piano bench.

  “Of course,” Betty said quickly.

  “One moment.” Mist crossed the room and opened a small closet, turning the recorded music off. When she turned back, Simon was seated at the piano, Cathy standing beside him. A hush fell across the room as Simon ran deft fingers over the keys, periodically resting on a chord.

  “I can’t tell you how happy I am to not have fifty thousand people in this room tonight,” Cathy said, earning a laugh all around. She paused as Simon worked up a short intro to “O Holy Night” and then began to sing, her voice strong and emotional, crystal clear and sweeter than sugar on crème brûlée. By the time she’d finished, there wasn’t a dry eye in the room. Begged for an encore, she insisted she’d only sing if others joined in. At first hesitant, the holiday spirit came alive as hotel guests and townsfolk alike joined in as Simon led everyone through a musical set of sing-along Christmas classics ranging from “Frosty the Snowman” to “Santa Claus is Coming to Town.” When he wrapped up the set with “The Twelve Days of Christmas,” he sped the tempo up as the song progressed until not only were the participants unable to keep up with which day it was, but they could barely sing for laughing so hard.

  The evening continued in the same spirit. Others took turns at the piano. No one matched Simon’s expertise, but each had just as great a time playing. Clayton and Maisie bundled up and went for a walk, snow flurries setting a romantic backdrop. Mist settled beside the fire with Michael, engrossed in a discussion of symbolism and imagery in American literature. Cathy struck a deal with one of the fire crew to sign an autograph for him only if he signed one for her. This triggered a hysterical exchange between others, with Timberton’s own next-door neighbors signing autographs for each other before even realizing that’s what they were doing. Many would later blame that on eggnog and rum.

  Eventually the gathering quieted down, with townsfolk taking their leave and guests retiring to their rooms, until only Betty and Mist remained.

  “A lovely Christmas Eve, Mist,” Betty said. “Very cheerful.”

  “I do believe you’re right.” Mist surveyed the empty room, pleased. “With more cheer to come tomorrow.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Not yet dawn, Mist slipped down the hallway and turned on the Christmas tree lights. She moved to the fireplace and struck a match, grateful Clive had prepared a fire the night before, long after the evening’s camaraderie had ended. Tiptoeing to the kitchen, she set the coffee to brew, slipped a tray of currant scones in the oven, and returned to watch the fire grow. Barefoot, hair loose, she sat in front of the tree, her eggshell-white rayon gown softly folding on the floor around her. In the silent room, with only the sparkling lights and glow of the fire for company, she thought over the past few days. This year’s guests had presented no unusual challenges or drama, yet each had an ongoing story. It was as if a film had paused midway through, or a resting place had appeared along a path. Was this what the visit felt like to each guest? She hoped so.

  Reaching forward, she adjusted the angle of one of many packages she’d placed under the tree shortly after midnight. It had taken only an hour or so after the hotel had settled for the night to finish the miniature paintings she’d started soon after the guests first arrived. Now each gift waited, wrapped in fabric swatches and raffia, to be claimed.

  She closed her eyes and let herself be lulled by the warmth of the fire. A soft wind whistled outside. There would be new snowfall when the sun began its Christmas Day ascent into the Montana sky. Flurries had already started by the time townsfolk headed home the night before.

  Sensing a presence behind her, Mist opened her eyes but didn’t turn her head. She didn’t need to in order to know who was there.

  “Like an angel.” The soft words almost blended in with the wind.

  “An angel, you say? Like the one at the top of the tree?” Mist looked up. “I’ve always loved that one, with her faded voile wings and slender candle in her hands.”

  “No,” Michael said. “Like the one in front of the tree.”

  Mist wondered momentarily if it was possible to blush in the dark. Or if, instead, it was like the proverbial tree falling in the forest; was there sound if no one could hear? Was the
re color if no one could see?

  The sound of the front door opening saved Mist from contemplating sound and sight. She stood up, turned, and met Michael’s eyes. “That will be Clive, sneaking in for the first cup of coffee. Would you like a cup too?”

  “Coffee sounds wonderful,” Michael said. He stepped aside as Clive entered, stomping his feet on the way in to shake off a layer of snow.

  “I’m not the first one in line for coffee this morning, I see,” Clive said. He glanced around the room, took in the sparkling Christmas tree, cozy fire, and first rays of light filtering in through the front window, and nodded with approval.

  “Nor the last,” Betty chimed in from the kitchen. “We have a full pot coming right up.” She appeared a minute later, a large thermal carafe in each hand and a Santa hat on her head with “Betty” embroidered across the white fur brim. She set the carafes down and executed a dramatic curtsey to show off her Christmas-morning outfit.

  “Well, aren’t you just the picture of a perfect Mrs. Claus,” Clive said, clearly delighted.

  “I’m so glad you said so,” Betty chirped, pulling out a matching hat from behind the registration counter. She placed it on Clive’s head, adjusting it to best display his own embroidered name.

  Mist took advantage of Betty and Clive’s banter to set soft Christmas music and then slip back to her room. Other guests would soon hear the early morning sounds of the hotel stirring and join in to fill their own coffee cups and exchange Christmas greetings. She reemerged in a soft red sweater, patchwork skirt, and trademark work boots, her hair swept back and clipped up above her neck. A sprig of holly peeked out of a silver barrette. Passing through the kitchen, she pulled the double trays of scones from the oven, let them cool a few minutes, and returned to the front parlor, setting the warm baked goods beside the coffee service, as well as a bowl of fresh-cut melon and berries. The simple morning fare would leave room for a heartier brunch later on.

  Michael refilled his coffee as Mist tended the casual breakfast buffet. “Bach’s Christmas Oratorio,” he said.