Snowfall At Moonglow (The Moonglow Christmas Series Book 5)

by Deborah Garner

  “There you go, Bill,” Clive said. “Mist’s famous cinnamon raisin rice pudding, just in case that mountain of a burrito doesn’t fill you up.”

  “I just might make myself another one and still have that rice pudding,” Bill boasted. “This here is the dang finest burrito I ever had.” Murmurs around the room showed others agreed with him.

  “Arroz con leche,” Mist clarified, giving the dessert a proper name for the theme of the meal. “It will be a sweet contrast to the bolder flavors of your dinner.”

  Maisie circled the room, offering dessert to those who wanted it, which turned out to be everyone. Clive waited until Mist turned away and then took two while holding a “don’t tell” finger in front of his mouth, much to Maisie’s amusement.

  “I won’t tell,” Maisie whispered.

  “I will,” Bill said, causing Maisie to laugh out loud before he took a second ramekin himself.

  “There’s plenty to go around,” Mist said, having slyly watched the whole scene play out. “We’re a small group tonight.”

  “When do your guests arrive?” Clive asked as Betty entered from the kitchen. A spoonful of rice pudding hovered before Clive’s mouth.

  “Several arrive tomorrow,” Betty said. “And the rest the next day.” She glanced at Mist. “Do I have that right?”

  Mist nodded. “Yes, exactly. Two days of arrivals, two days of holiday celebration, and two days releasing everyone back into the wild.”

  Bill chuckled. “You make it sound like you’ll have a flock of geese here.”

  “Give ’em enough eggnog on Christmas Eve and it just might sound like it,” Clive said, causing Bill to slap his leg and chuckle even louder. Clive joined in, as did Clayton, and soon the three men were guffawing it up together.

  Betty and Maisie exchanged smirks, and Mist smiled as she headed back into the kitchen. The other two women followed closely behind.

  “Men.” Betty sighed, shaking her head. “Gotta love ’em.”

  “And love them we do,” Maisie said. She set the empty dessert tray down on the center island and picked Clay Jr. up, cradling him against her hip. “Isn’t that right? We love Daddy, don’t we?” The toddler responded enthusiastically by jerking his head up and down.

  “Speaking of men…” Betty hinted.

  Maisie picked up on Betty’s thoughts immediately and turned toward Mist. “Yes, when will Michael be here?”

  “Tomorrow,” Mist said. “He’s at a faculty event tonight up in Missoula.”

  “A Christmas party, I bet,” Maisie said. “How fun.” She shuffled Clay Jr.’s position as he reached up and pulled a strand of purple hair, tugging it downward.

  “A lecture, actually,” Mist said. “Or perhaps it would be called a speech.” She paused as if to consider the difference between the two descriptions. “Or a talk, I suppose,” she added. “He’s moderating a discussion of Charles Dickens’ book A Christmas Carol.”

  “Oh, I haven’t read that in many years,” Betty said. “You should have gone, Mist. I would have been happy to serve dinner tonight.”

  “Thank you, Betty.” Mist sent a look of gratitude to the innkeeper. “But there’s still more to do to prepare for the guests. For one thing, I need to make sure Maisie’s Daisies has our flower order ready.” She attempted an expression of mock concern but ended up smiling instead. She knew perfectly well that Maisie always managed to find exactly what she needed for her holiday decorations.

  Maisie looked up at the ceiling and tapped her hand against her cheek as if considering whether or not her flower shop had remembered Mist’s order. Clay Jr., mimicked the gesture by poking his mother’s other cheek with a chubby finger.

  “I also still need to add personal touches to the guest rooms.”

  “From your mystery closet,” Betty noted.

  “You have a mystery closet?” Maisie asked. “I didn’t know that. It sounds, well, mysterious.”

  “Oh, it is,” Betty said. “And she’s been stashing new items in it this year. I peek in it now and then. You never know what you might find.”

  Mist looked at Betty and smiled, well aware that the hotelkeeper looked at her collection of random trinkets and treasures periodically. It pleased her to know her ever-changing assortment drew Betty’s curiosity.

  “Great dinner,” Clive said as he entered the kitchen. “Almost like one of your art projects, Mist, getting to pick and choose what to put in those burritos.” He sauntered over to Betty and gave her a peck on the cheek.

  “Thank you, Clive,” Mist said. “Very kind of you to say.”

  Betty laughed as she put an arm around Clive’s waist. “Every now and then his manners slip out.”

  “In spite of myself,” Clive added, going along with Betty’s gentle teasing. “As a matter of fact, I feel so well-mannered tonight that I just might help with the dishes.”

  “And you’ll even use soap?” Betty quipped.

  “Sure thing. I’ll go grab a bar from the shower.” He winked at Mist and then headed for the sink where a stack of plates demanded attention. To no one’s surprise, he picked up the liquid dish detergent, turned on the water, and started in.

  “I’d better get this little ragamuffin home to bed,” Maisie said. She bid the group good night and left, Clay Jr. still in her arms.

  “I’ll help Clive,” Betty said, directing her statement to Mist. “You go ahead and relax. Or use the time for your projects.”

  “Like more of your miniature paintings for the gallery?” Clive hinted. “The ones with the winterberries have been in particular demand this year. And those snowmen. Come to think of it, a few more of the pine trees would be good too.”

  “Clive!” Betty exclaimed. “Mist has guests arriving tomorrow.”

  Mist smiled. “It’s just fine, Betty. I have an assortment prepared and set aside.” She shifted her comments to Clive, a sly grin on her face. “After several years making the paintings for the gallery, I’m familiar with your sweetheart’s advance ordering system. I’ll drop them off tomorrow.”

  “Is that actual sarcasm I’m hearing from Mist?” Clive said.

  “And well deserved,” Betty quipped as she nudged Clive gently with her elbow.

  Mist returned to the café room and brought the leftovers from the buffet back into the kitchen. She filled an individual reusable container with an assortment of burrito makings and wrapped several tortillas to go with it. The rest she placed in the kitchen’s oversized refrigerator before turning to Betty and Clive, who were joking and laughing while washing dishes.

  “You two look like you have things under control. I’m going to drop this off and then ponder a few details for our incoming guests.”

  Betty glanced at the container in Mist’s hands and smiled. “You take good care of him,” she said, referring to Hollister. The town’s formerly homeless man kept to himself but now lived downstairs in Room 7.

  “She takes good care of us all,” Clive added.

  “We take care of each other,” Mist said. “As it should be.” With that, she slipped out of the kitchen silently, content in the knowledge that some of her favorite projects lay ahead.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Morning dawned bright and sunny without a hint of snow in the air. Beams of light flowed into the café as a dozen or so townsfolk enjoyed an herbed frittata with potato pancakes and fresh berries. As always, java love, Mist’s personal name for coffee, filled mugs. A woven basket rested on a table near the door with the words Pay what your heart tells you in rustically artistic calligraphy. This, the only price given for any meal at the Moonglow Café, always managed to cover the cost of feeding everyone.

  “Still hoping for snow,” Betty mused. She looked out the kitchen window as she dried dishes from the breakfast meal.

  “The snow will come,” Mist said, just as she’d said before.

  “Somehow I believe you,” Betty said.

  “Believing is a good thing,” Mist said. “And right now I believe I need
to go add a few finishing touches to the rooms.”

  “Ah, your closet,” Betty said.

  “The realm of the unknown,” Mist quipped, impishly imitating herself. She left Betty to finish up the last of the dishes and glided down the hallway behind the kitchen until she arrived at the closet. Before opening the door, she ran her hand over the surface, admiring the grain of the wood in the same way a reader might caress the cover of a just-finished book. Pleased with the smooth texture, she opened the door.

  Mist gathered the rayon folds of her midcalf-length skirt together and lowered herself to the closet floor, settling into a comfortable position. Looking around at the baskets, boxes, and shelves, she felt certain she could personalize each guest room with odds and ends she’d collected during the past year. In fact, not all the closet’s contents were items she’d collected on her own. By now, others knew of her eclectic collection kept in the not-so-secret-anymore hideaway. Millie, the town librarian, dropped off books now and then. Sally, owner of the local thrift shop, Second Hand Sally’s, had adopted a habit of setting aside unique donations for Mist to see before putting them out to sell. And former guests had even taken to sending an oddity on occasion, having been charmed by whatever they’d found in their room on a particular holiday stay.

  In spite of preferring a somewhat haphazard splash of items, Mist had organized the closet over the past few months. A two-drawer oak file cabinet that she’d found at a yard sale held folders of cards, photographs, poems, and printed articles. This prevented damage by clunky objects—an antique toy fire truck, for example—that might land on something more delicate—say, an onionskin love letter mailed from Paris during WWII.

  A compartmentalized acrylic box held dollhouse miniatures she’d gathered over the years, tiny furniture, appliances, and décor. She’d made an exceptionally exciting find only recently: a full set of English holiday china and silverware, no single piece too large to balance on the tip of her finger. It had taken four of the twenty-four compartments just to hold the set.

  A weekend trip to an antique store in Helena had led to the old trunk against the back side of the closet, which held fabric, yarn, and miscellaneous sewing knickknacks. Even with the current mitten project going on, Mist had managed to hide away a skein of heather-gray merino wool as well as one in a deep raspberry shade with mixed alpaca and silk fibers. Without looking inside the trunk, she knew the two skeins rested comfortably on a pile of Battenberg lace doilies, bundles of fabric remnants piled on either side.

  Mist shifted her weight, tucked her legs to one side, and leaned against a stuffed llama that greeted her each time she opened the closet door. She’d adopted the fluffy camel cousin on a trip to Missoula earlier in the fall when she’d found him smiling at her from a garage sale driveway. For the modest fee of fifty cents, she’d gathered him into her arms, named him Soft—not Softy or Softly or Soft Stuff, just Soft—and driven him safely to his new home in Timberton.

  “What do you suggest, Soft?” Mist asked. Not expecting an answer, she paused anyway, listening to the silence offer possibilities. “Yes, books, of course… and toys… memory prompts. Bright colors, subdued shapes—fine ideas.” She patted Soft’s chest appreciatively. “I agree.” She stood and gathered specific items as metal hinges creaked.

  “Are you talking to Soft again?” Betty’s voice was both kind and teasing as she peeked around the edge of the closet door.

  “Yes, but not too softly,” Mist quipped, tossing back the newly formed banter she and Betty had developed after adding Soft to the household.

  “Any answers?”

  “A few,” Mist said as she pulled a pink satin ribbon from a square wicker basket, draped it over one shoulder, and stood up. “It’s often possible to find answers in silence.” As if cued by her own words, she gathered additional chosen items into her arms and stepped out into the hallway. She closed the door with one tap of a ballet-shoed foot, smiled as Betty returned to the kitchen, and began the ritual of distributing the odds and ends.

  Just after finishing with the last upstairs room and returning downstairs, the chime of bells from the front door signaled the arrival of the first guests. Mist crossed the hotel lobby, wondering if she was about to greet Max Hartman, but found Allison and Kinsley Elliott on the front porch instead. To both her relief and concern, she felt herself relax. It was unlike her to feel apprehensive about a guest’s arrival, but she hadn’t been able to shake the disturbing feeling she’d had when Mr. Hartman had first called.

  “Welcome to the Timberton Hotel,” Mist said as she ushered the mother and daughter inside. She stepped aside so the two willowy figures could pass by. Each wore similar styles of coats, almost identical in color, and their scarves and hats were the same. Although their heights were different—Allison, the mother, standing a full foot taller than her daughter—they looked almost like twins. Both sported brown hair pulled back into a braid, and they wore matching silver hoop earrings. Kinsley looked to be in tween years but not by much. Perhaps ten, Mist mused. The young girl had an appearance that might indicate an age anywhere from eight to twelve. Both faces were scrubbed clean and makeup-free.

  “Let me take your coats,” Mist offered. She hung them on a coatrack in the corner of the entryway and turned back to the new arrivals, ready to get them situated. Before she could offer them anything, the front door opened. A loud male voice accompanied the sound of footsteps scraping the doormat outside as cold air blew in.

  “Sell forty shares of it and buy the other.” A fifty-something man stepped inside, cell phone in hand. He switched the phone from one ear to the other as he shook off his jacket. Before Mist could offer to take it, he stepped between her and the other arrivals and hung it up himself. “Absolutely not,” he said, continuing his conversation without so much as a nod of greeting to anyone. “Yes, immediately, and tell Peterson to get cracking on the Murray investment. Today, not tomorrow or next week or next year. Report back.” He ended the call and immediately made another. “Thompson, run that transfer through that we talked about…” He moved into the front parlor and took a seat.

  Mist turned her attention back to Allison and Kinsley. “I have a registration card for you to fill out, but perhaps you’d like some hot cocoa, coffee, or tea first? You’ve traveled a long way.”

  Kinsley’s eyes brightened. She opened her mouth to answer, but her mother spoke first. “Maybe later. We’d like to get settled in first.”

  “Of course.” Mist smiled, shifting her attention from mother to daughter and then back to the mother. She led them to the registration desk, let them fill out and sign the card, and then escorted them to their room upstairs. Allison and Kinsley each carried a suitcase. “This is one room, but it’s actually a suite,” Mist pointed out upon arriving at the accommodation. “There’s a door against the far wall that I’ve left unlocked. No one is booked for the second room, so you’re welcome to use it. Perhaps Kinsley would like her own room, since it’s connected to yours.”

  “There are two beds in this one,” Allison said. “This will be fine for both of us.”

  Mist felt certain she saw a brief expression of longing cross the daughter’s face, which disappeared just as quickly. “I’ll let you two relax,” Mist said. She pointed out amenities around the room and repeated the offer of drinks, as well as Betty’s glazed cinnamon nuts. Every Christmas, a crystal bowl of the sweet treats sat on the registration desk at all times.

  Returning downstairs, Mist glanced in the front parlor, hoping to be able to greet the other new arrival, clearly Max Hartman. Both the man’s voice and countenance were recognizable from his initial phone call to make the reservation. She’d been placed on hold at least five times during that call. Finding him engrossed in another long-distance conversation, she headed for the kitchen instead, where she found Betty spooning cookie dough onto a greased cookie sheet.

  “I thought I’d get these cinnamon cookies done before you need the kitchen again.” Betty scooped the last
round of dough onto the sheet and slipped the cookies into the oven. Others already sat cooling on a wire rack.

  “Preparing for the big event?” Mist knew the answer. Betty’s annual cookie exchange was one of the highlights of the season, along with Mist’s much-loved Christmas Eve dinner.

  “Yes,” Betty said. “I can hardly wait to see what kind of cookies and goodies the others bring. Needless to say, neither can Clive.”

  Both Mist and Betty laughed, knowing Clive would be the first to sneak around. He prided himself with being an official taste-tester.

  “I believe Marge is bringing fudge,” Mist said.

  “Yes.” Betty nodded. “She was whipping up a batch when I stopped by the candy store yesterday afternoon.”

  “Let me guess,” Mist said, smiling. “You just happened to drop in for some caramels?” The question was meant in jest. Betty’s addiction to caramels was legendary.

  “And Millie is bringing peanut butter cookies,” Betty said. “It’s her cousin Petrenia’s recipe.”

  “I’m sure we’ll have a good variety, as always. I might even whip something up to contribute.”

  “You already made papier mâché baskets for us.” Betty pointed out a collection on the end of the main kitchen counter. “The pine cone and evergreen designs you painted on them are wonderful.”

  “Thank you, Betty,” Mist said. “That’s nice of you to say so. But you know that kind of project is fun for me. Your cookie exchange just gave me a good excuse to make them.”

  Betty nodded in the direction of the front parlor. “I take it that loud voice is associated with the frown I saw on your face when reading the guest list to me.”

  Mist sighed and remained quiet.

  “That tough?” Betty quirked an eyebrow.

  “Only to find words to match my thoughts,” Mist said.

  “Do you think we’re going to have a problem with this guest?” Betty tapped her fingers on the kitchen countertop.