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

by Deborah Garner

  “Yes.” Mist smiled, not at all surprised to find he recognized the traditional classical piece. “Just the first two parts, with Handel’s Messiah to follow next.”

  “Perhaps Liszt’s Christmas Tree Suite after that?”

  Mist shook her head. “An excellent suggestion, but I believe Bach and Handel are opening acts for Frank Sinatra, Andy Williams, and Johnny Mathis.”

  “Ah, Johnny Mathis,” Michael said. “‘Silver Bells.’”

  “Right again.” Mist smiled as she turned to greet Clara, who descended the staircase in a green velour pantsuit with a festive vest of sequined reindeer and candy canes.

  “Let me guess,” Clara said. “You made that skirt in keeping with your creative spirit.”

  “She’s guilty as charged,” Sally said, arriving with Marge and Millie right behind her. “She collects bits and pieces of fabric whenever I get them in.” The three women all took scones and either coffee or tea and settled down at a table toward the back of the front parlor. Though they knew townsfolk were always welcome at the hotel, they respected the overnight guests and wanted to allow them prime seating near the fireplace.

  A few at a time, guests emerged from their rooms, helped themselves to hot beverages, fruit and baked goods, and settled in the front parlor. Cathy’s entrance attracted notice, not so much for her well-known status, but for the simple elegance of her ivory turtleneck, emerald earrings, and casual ponytail of curls pulled back with a red silk ribbon. Even paired with basic jeans and simple flats, the look was stunning on her.

  By the time the Callahans and Clayton joined in, the hotel guests had gathered around the tree. Frank Sinatra’s voice in the background offered wishes for all to have “a merry little Christmas.” Mist reached under the tree and pulled out the first item. “I have something for each of you, as a thank-you for spending your holiday here at the Timberton Hotel. You enrich our lives here in this small town with your visits.” She looked around the room, her gaze resting first on Clara. Reaching out, she handed her the fabric-covered gift, which Clara opened.

  “How clever and sweet!” Clara exclaimed, holding the miniature painting up for all to see. “Now that’s a trail I’d definitely follow,” she said, pointing to a rustic sign with a simple arrow and a plate of assorted cookies. The path beyond it was light, with a few unexpected turns. Mist was actually delighted that Clara failed to notice one of the cookies was heart-shaped. She had a feeling Clara would discover it later, when she looked more closely.

  “Now those,” Maisie whispered, pointing at a pair of gifts on a low branch.

  “Yes, good idea.” Mist agreed, taking the presents and handing them to the Callahans. “I felt unsure of what to paint for the two of you since you’ve been here to visit with Clayton and we haven’t seen as much of you as other guests. Fortunately Maisie came to my rescue with some inspiration. One of these is for you, Clayton, the other for your parents.” Clayton and his mother opened the gifts and held the paintings up for others to see.

  “Flowers,” Lydia said, “and gorgeous ones at that.”

  “Absolutely beautiful,” Michelle Callahan agreed. “And unless I’m imagining it, all the flowers in these paintings are varieties I picked up in your store, Maisie.”

  “Very true,” Maisie said. “You loved them so much. I always wish flowers would last longer, especially for those who appreciate them. This way you can have them year-round.”

  “So thoughtful,” Michelle said, giving Maisie a hug. “And beautiful artwork, Mist. Thank you.”

  Mist reached under the tree and lifted up three packages, identical at first glance, but tied with raffia in different colors. She handed one to each of the three sisters, who opened them and held them up.

  “The silver bell wreath from the front door,” Lydia said, delighted. “I adore that wreath.”

  “Yes,” Helen agreed. “It’s so welcoming. And the soft echo of bells each time the door opens and closes is enchanting.”

  Deirdre nodded in agreement. “And look, mine has a blue ribbon, how delightful.” Lydia and Helen checked their wreath paintings, noting the red and green ribbons on each.

  “Very clever, Mist,” Betty said, watching from the side of the room. “Identical wreaths with individually colored ribbons. Like those lovely pins you all wore at dinner last night.”

  “That’s partially true, but not entirely,” Mist said. She picked up three magnifying glasses from the fireplace mantel and handed one to each sister. “Look at the wreaths in detail.”

  Lydia, Helen, and Deirdre inspected the paintings more closely with the magnifying glasses, trading them back and forth.

  “They look the same,” Deirdre began, “but... wait, that’s not entirely true. Helen, does yours have a green tint to one of the silver bells at the bottom?”

  Helen shook her head. “No, definitely nothing green. Does yours have a yellow flower on a bell to the right?”

  “Where do you see that?” Deirdre asked.

  Helen pointed to her painting and then looked at Deirdre’s. “No, you don’t.”

  “I don’t have one either,” Lydia said. “But there’s a sliver of gold running through mine, just a trace, like the ribbons that run through the centerpieces in the dining room.”

  Each sister alternated discoveries.

  “A tiny candy cane!”

  “Light blue stripes.”

  “A crescent moon.”

  “They’re not at all the same when we look closely,” Lydia said. “How very clever.” She paused, thinking. “I still want the one with the red bow though.”

  All three sisters traded again, ending with the color they’d originally opened.

  Mist reached into the tree again, first pulling out a single package, then putting it back. She pulled two others out, instead, and handed them to Cathy and Simon.

  “Open yours first,” Cathy said, nudging Simon’s arm. He removed the raffia and fabric, looked at the painting, and grinned.

  “Thank you, Mist. When on earth did you paint this? You must have done this late last night,” Simon added, answering his own question. He turned the painting toward the rest of the group, exhibiting a striking image of the piano he had just played the night before. “It’s wonderful, the painting, the piano itself... oh, that tone!” He turned to Cathy. “Your turn.”

  Mist could sense the expectant current running through the room. What would one give someone who had everything? Who could purchase anything? The sense of anticipation grew even stronger when Cathy opened the package and simply smiled, even wiped a tear from her eye. The anticipation turned to confusion when she turned the canvas around.

  “It’s blank,” Clive said, scratching his chin.

  “Yes, it is,” Cathy said, her smile stretching from one dazzling earring to the other.

  “How wonderful,” Michael said, meeting Mist’s eyes.

  “I must be missing something,” Clayton said, precipitating a few similar murmurs.

  “No, you’re not,” Mist said. “But Cathy is, and I believe it’s this.” She reached above the fireplace mantel again, this time lifting a slender paintbrush, which she handed to Cathy. A red ribbon trailed beyond the length of the brush, giving it the illusion of a magic wand.

  “I used to paint,” Cathy explained to the mystified room. “But with my schedule... I just put it aside. Mist knows I’ve missed it.” She set the canvas in her lap, the brush on top of it. “This may be the most beautiful gift I’ve ever received. Thank you, Mist.”

  The sound of a man clearing his throat nearby caused Cathy to look at Simon and then quickly raise a hand to one ear. “Oh, yes, of course! The earrings aren’t too shabby either.”

  The guests clapped at Cathy’s quick response. While the room buzzed with the sudden inside knowledge that the relationship between Cathy and Simon was more than just celebrity and bodyguard, Mist took the last package from the tree and handed it to Michael, who untied the raffia and slid the canvas out.

&nbs
p; “Remarkable,” Michael said. “With every detail, you’ve captured the essence of this wonderful old hotel. It couldn’t be any clearer if I stood on the sidewalk and looked at the front of the building myself.”

  “Where’s the snow, Mist?” Clive asked, taking a look. “The paintings you send home with guests always represent something to remind them of their stay here, right?”

  “Look closely, Clive.” Betty pointed to the lower half of the painting. “The garden is filled with columbine, iris, and hollyhock. Look at the tulips along the front walk and the clematis on the trellis.”

  “You’re telling me there’s no snow because it’s not winter,” Clive said.

  “Now you’re catching on, Clive.” Betty laughed. “Took you long enough, considering you’ve seen the hotel look like this from April through August for years. How about another cup of coffee? I have a fresh pot brewing.”

  “So this is what the Timberton Hotel looks like in the spring,” Michael said after Betty led Clive away by the elbow. “It’s wonderful, just as you’ve described it—such an explosion of color where now there’s only white.” He held the painting at arm’s length as if imagining the view from the street. “How should I interpret this painting?”

  “Interpretation is in the mind of the beholder,” Mist said.

  “Like beauty, like perfection.”

  “Exactly.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  “A lovely Christmas,” Betty said as she and Mist dried and put away breakfast dishes. The day after Christmas was calm compared to the previous day. Timberton residents and guests had continued to celebrate throughout the day, enjoying meals at either the hotel or their own homes. They listened to music, exchanged gifts, and even bundled up for winter walks when the snowfall paused in the afternoon and the sun appeared.

  “I’m sure the guests will treasure the paintings you gave them,” Betty continued. “It’s wonderful that you send them home with memories of their holiday vacation. Or thoughts of the future,” she added, a twinkle in her eye.

  “Memories can be from the past, present, or future,” Mist said.

  “Of course,” Betty said. She smiled at Clive, who sat at the center island, shaking his head. Though Betty was growing used to Mist’s perception of the world, Clive had a ways to go.

  “I saw that, you two.” Mist laughed.

  “Come on,” Betty said. “You can’t blame us for sharing a grin. We’re fond of you and always intrigued with the way you view the world. Speaking of ‘memories of the future,’ it’s clear that Michael Blanton is quite smitten with you.”

  “It’s possible,” Mist said.

  “Ha!” Clive laughed. “We saw you take that long afternoon walk when the sun came out. You must have had time to talk. You can’t blame us for being curious.”

  “OK, you’re right,” Mist said. “We did get a chance to talk.”

  “I knew it.” Betty hustled over to a stool beside Clive and took a seat. “Spill it. What did you talk about?”

  “Hmm... well, let’s see,” Mist said. “Since you’re both so curious...”

  “Ah, there you go.” Clive circled one hand in a forward motion, encouraging Mist to continue.

  “First...” Mist paused, just for the pleasure of suspense. “First we discussed one of Immanuel Kant’s concepts: that forms of consciousness require prior conditions that enable possibility.”

  “Oh,” Betty and Clive both said, their expressions blank. “Then what?”

  Mist poured a mug of peppermint tea and sat down across from them, hands wrapped around the ceramic surface.

  “Well, Michael recently attended a performance of Bach’s Goldberg Variations when the New York Philharmonic performed in New Orleans. I think it’s fascinating how a piece written for harpsichord can carry forward to modern piano. He thinks it’s a natural progression, but I’m not so sure.”

  “I see,” Clive said. “Maybe Simon would have an opinion about that.”

  “You may be onto something there, Clive,” Mist said.

  “Mist, you’re making us crazy here,” Betty said. “What else?”

  Mist took a sip of tea and lowered her cup. “Sustainability issues in tourism. Machu Picchu, for example.”

  “I understand that one,” Clive said proudly.

  “You do?” Betty raised one eyebrow.

  “Of course,” Clive said. “It means when too many people go to the same place, it can get mighty messed up.”

  “Exactly,” Mist said. “And ‘mighty messed up’ is a good way to put it, Clive.”

  “Is that all?” Betty said. “Nothing more interesting? Hmm?”

  “Let’s see... his nephew has a turtle named Aloysius.”

  “Would not have guessed that one,” Clive murmured.

  “Really,” Mist continued. “There’s nothing exciting to report from the walk. You two matchmakers may now return to your regularly scheduled programming.”

  “But he’s obviously smitten,” Betty said, leading the discussion right back to where it started.

  “It’s possible,” Mist said.

  * * *

  “Thank you for another wonderful Christmas.” Clara gave Betty and Mist each a warm embrace.

  “I hope your new gentleman friend enjoys the container of cookies,” Betty said. “We came up with a good variety at this year’s cookie exchange.”

  “I’m sure he will,” Clara said. “He’s such a nice man. You would both like him.”

  “Maybe we’ll get to meet him someday,” Betty said.

  “Who knows?” Clara laughed.

  “Life is full of unexpected adventures, isn’t it?” Mist gave Clara another hug. Clive, who had been standing nearby, picked up Clara’s suitcase and walked her out to her rental car.

  “That’s just about everyone,” Betty said as she waved to Clara and closed the front door. “The Callahans left this morning; Clayton and Maisie drove them to the airport. A driver picked Cathy and Simon up shortly after that. And the sisters took off about an hour ago.”

  “I guess that just leaves me.” The sound of Michael’s voice accompanied his footsteps on the stairs. He set his suitcase down. “Wonderful holiday as always, Betty.”

  “Thank you, Michael,” Betty said. “I’m so happy you came to spend Christmas at the Timberton Hotel as always. I look forward to seeing you every year.”

  “The feeling is mutual,” Michael said. He gave Betty a hug, watched her disappear into the kitchen, and then turned back to Mist. “How about seeing me out? Or better yet, just to the door. It’s cold outside and you don’t have a jacket on.”

  “I’d be delighted to escort you the entire twenty feet or so,” Mist said, laughing as she looked across to the front door.

  Michael picked up his suitcase and crossed the foyer, Mist just a few steps behind. She reached for the doorknob, hesitated briefly, and then opened it. A gust of cold air blew in, along with light flurries of new snowfall. Michael stepped out and turned around.

  “Thank you for a wonderful Christmas, Mist. Betty has always been the perfect host, but you make everything just a little more perfect.”

  “You are too kind, Michael. But you know, we all...”

  “Yes.” Michael laughed. “I already know what you’re going to say. We all make the holidays special for each other. I do believe I’m beginning to see the world through your eyes.”

  Mist smiled but remained quiet. He was right, he did see the world the way she did. A few seconds passed in silence. Another gust of wind brought a new wave of snow flurries onto the porch. Michael glanced up, and Mist followed his gaze, which rested on a red ribbon dangling from a cluster of mistletoe pinned above the doorway.

  “That wasn’t there before.” Mist looked at the traditional Christmas symbol, certain she’d tied it to the staircase bannister when decorating the hotel.

  “I know,” Michael said.

  “Strange that it could move around on its own,” she murmured.

  “
Strange, indeed.” Michael set his suitcase down and rested one arm on the doorframe, sheltering Mist from the wind. “May I?” He searched her face and then slowly leaned forward and placed a light kiss on her forehead.

  “I’m supposed to say yes now, I think...”

  “It would be nice,” Michael said, amused.

  “Well, then... yes.”

  “That’s what I was hoping to hear.”

  Cool snowflakes mixed with the warmth of Michael’s gentle kiss, a gesture that spoke of kindness, passion, and promise in equal measure.

  “Merry Christmas, Mist.” He smiled, picked up his suitcase, and walked to his car. With a wave of his hand, he was off.

  Mist stepped back inside the hotel and closed the door, hearing the soft echo of the wreath’s bells. She raised her hand to her face, touched her lips with her fingertips, and then headed to the kitchen.

  “What?” Mist tried to contain a smile when she saw Betty leaning against the sink counter, an expectant look on her face, but she couldn’t.

  “Well, good.” Betty sighed. “That makes this easy.” She looked down at two envelopes, one in each hand, and held one up. “I was told to give you this one if you didn’t come back smiling.” She then held up the other. “And to give you this one if you were smiling, which you are.”

  Betty motioned to the center counter. “The notes go with this, at least one does.”

  Mist followed Betty’s arm gesture, finding a bouquet of flowers loosely arranged in a ceramic vase. “Why, they’re beautiful! So many colors: yellow, peach, blue, pale pink. How on earth?”

  “Maisie had to do some scrambling to pull this assortment together,” Betty said.

  Mist leaned over to breathe in the mixed fragrances of the blooms. “I think you’d better let me see that note. No, make that both notes.”

  “Both notes?” Betty stalled, debating. “Okay, here’s the first one—the one I was told to give you if you weren’t smiling when you came back in.” She handed the note over to Mist, who opened the sealed envelope, puzzled.

  Because you are special...

  “How sweet,” Mist said. “Strange that would be the note to give me if I hadn’t been smiling.”