Mistletoe At Moonglow (The Moonglow Christmas Series Book 1)

by Deborah Garner

  “Then like mistletoe, I imagine.” A faint smile crossed the guest’s face.

  “I suppose so,” Mist said. “At least at this time of year.”

  “Come to think of it, I haven’t seen any mistletoe among all these beautiful decorations.”

  “Our flower shop sold out, unfortunately,” Mist said. “I’m hoping she’ll get more in tomorrow, but I doubt it. They’ll close early, since it’s Christmas Eve. And they’ll be closed Christmas Day, of course.”

  “This is your first Christmas here,” Michael pointed out. “It’s a beautiful place to spend the holidays. I come here every year, and it feels like home.”

  “I imagine it does,” Mist replied. “Especially since you’ve made Timberton your seasonal destination for so long. This clearly is your Christmas home. And where is home the rest of the year?”

  “New Orleans,” Michael said. “Though I’ve moved around a lot this year.”

  Mist didn't press the issue, remembering the post office box Betty had said he used for his registration card.

  Clive interrupted the conversation as he hustled through the front door, his hat and shoulders covered with snow.

  “Tell Betty the bartender said the bus wasn’t coming in tonight. Some kind of mechanical problem. He called the depot and they said some passengers rented cars to get wherever they were headed.”

  “So you think Ms. Greeley is on her way here by car?” Betty had stepped out of the kitchen at the sound of Clive’s voice.

  “That’s my guess,” Clive said. “And the streets are getting bad. I’m going to head up the road and see if I can find her. If she has any kind of car problems, she’ll be in trouble.”

  “And there’s no cell access on a long stretch of that highway,” Betty said.

  “Don’t you worry now, Betty,” Clive said. “It’s a straight shot from town. Pretty hard to get lost. I’m just worried about the weather, plus the fact it’s so isolated.”

  “You be careful, you understand?” Most of Betty’s words fell against the inside of a closed front door. Clive had hurried off after his last statement.

  “He’ll be fine, Betty.” Mist’s voice was strong and calm. “Clive’s old truck is sturdy and dependable. And he knows that road inside out.” She turned her attention back to Michael, who’d been listening to the discussion.

  “A guest?”

  Mist nodded. “Yes, the last guest of the evening. She should have been here already. She was booked for tomorrow, but was trying to get in a day early, to avoid the storm.”

  “Well, I hope she makes it,” Michael said. “This hotel is the perfect place to hide out during a storm. Being here almost makes it seem like there’s no storm at all.”

  “There are often storms inside, as well as outside,” Mist said.

  Michael’s expression didn't change at Mist’s declaration. Instead, he agreed. “Yes, you’re right.”

  Robert appeared in the doorway, followed by Clara Winslow, who was dressed in a pale yellow house gown with matching slippers. Robert held a deck of cards. For years, Betty had made a practice of keeping a deck of cards in each room.

  “Over here,” Robert said, pointing at a square table in the corner.

  Clara followed, smiling at Mist and apologizing for her casual dress. “I was just about to go to sleep when this young man knocked on my door and invited me to play a game of…I believe he called it ‘Stupid Fish.’” She winked, which struck Mist as incredibly cute coming from an elderly woman.

  “Are any of the fish smart, Robert?” Mist asked.

  “Maybe,” Robert said, climbing into the chair knees first, an awkward technique typical for his age. Clara slid delicately into the opposite chair, readying herself for the game.

  “Tea for anyone? I was about to boil some water. There’s decaf coffee on the buffet, if anyone cares for some.”

  “And cookies!” Robert added. Mist noticed a smidgen of chocolate just to the side of the boy’s mouth.

  “Yes, you’re right, Robert,” Mist said. “Do you know how many different kinds?”

  “Lots and lots,” Robert said.

  Michael stood up. “Well, in that case, I think I need to go investigate.” He headed for the buffet table.

  When Mist turned, she was surprised to see Professor Hennessy standing at the bottom of the stairs holding the tray Mist had left at his door earlier. The tray was empty even of the English biscuit tin. This is exactly what she’d intended, that he keep the tin in his room.

  “Professor Hennessy,” Mist said. “I’m about to boil some water for tea. Would you like some?”

  The man nodded, far calmer than earlier. “That would be brilliant.”

  Mist headed to the kitchen, to find Betty already putting the water on the stove.

  “I overheard you talking about tea. Thought I’d get a head start on it.”

  “Thanks,” Mist said, “I’m going to reheat what’s left over from dinner, too. Ms. Greeley is bound to arrive hungry.”

  “I don’t think Professor Hennessy or Sally Morrison came down to dinner, either,” Betty added.

  Mist smiled. “I think the professor will eat something now.”

  Ten minutes later, tea and coffee graced the buffet area in the café, an assortment of dishes from dinner nearby. Before long, the professor had served himself a plate of food. At Mist’s suggestion, Robert took a plate up to his mother’s room. He returned quickly, not about to pass up the chance for a second meal. Clara sat at the table with both of them; Robert had grabbed her hand and dragged her into the café at the announcement of more food. She sipped a cup of tea, making one additional trip to the buffet and back for sugar, which she promptly handed to the professor.

  Now it was just a matter of waiting for Clive to return with the last guest.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  An hour passed before Clive returned. He appeared tired, but still proud to escort an exhausted looking woman inside. Everyone waiting in the parlor began to applaud the surprised guest as if she were a celebrity. Clive promptly helped remove her coat, then took off his own, hanging them both on the lobby coat rack.

  Ms. Greeley was of medium height and weight, with a chin-length mop of brown curls and not a speck of makeup. She wore lightweight tan slacks and a pair of boots not quite fit for snow. A chunky necklace of turquoise beads flopped over the neckline of a black sweater.

  “Thank heavens you made it here, dear,” Betty said, rushing out from the kitchen. “This is no night to be stuck anywhere.”

  “I’m glad to be here,” the guest said, looking visibly relieved. “I tried to call, but there was no cell service.”

  “Blowout,” Clive explained. “About twenty miles north of here.”

  “Were you able to change the tire? Oh, my!” The thought of Clive having to work out in such weather hit Betty.

  “No, there was no point,” Clive said. “The blowout sent Ms. Greeley’s car into a ditch. She’s lucky it didn't roll. The rental company is sending a tow truck to pick it up.”

  “Oh, my!” Betty repeated. “Should we try to get Doc over here?”

  “No, there’s no need,” Ms. Greeley said. “I’m not hurt. Just a bit shaken up. I’m not used to traveling alone; in fact, I’m used to someone else doing the driving.”

  “You were lucky,” Clive said. “A blowout is dangerous in any weather. But out here, on a night like this…well, I’m just glad I found you. I knew when that bus didn't come in that something was wrong.”

  “There were only a handful of us who’d planned to take it. A few stayed in town and others rented cars, anxious to get where they were going. I just wanted to be done traveling.”

  “We’re glad you made it, Ms. Greeley,” Mist said. “Why don’t you have a seat in the café? Have some hot coffee or tea while I get your registration card from the desk. Help yourself to some food, too, if you haven’t eaten.”

  “It’s Ellen, please, and I haven’t had a bite to eat since this morning. I�
��ll take you up on that offer right now.”

  Mist grabbed the card from the front desk while Ellen Greeley headed into the café, filled a plate from the buffet and took a seat. Mist set the card beside the guest, with a pen. “Please take your time. Food is more important than paperwork.”

  Ellen nodded, a forkful of salad halfway to her mouth. “This salad is exceptional. What is in it, besides pears, which I can taste right away? Oh, and walnuts.”

  “Not much more,” Mist said. “Just an assortment of greens, including arugula, and some sliced beets. The dressing is a white balsamic vinaigrette, a recipe from a restaurant where I worked when I lived in Santa Cruz.”

  “Well, it’s delicious. Not quite like any dressing I’ve ever tasted.”

  “It’s the thyme,” Mist offered.

  “What time?”

  “No,” Mist smiled. “Not time, but thyme, the spice. Just a touch of it makes a big difference.”

  “Is this a secret recipe?”

  “There are no secrets in my kitchen,” Mist said. “I believe in sharing food, including recipes, so everyone can enjoy it. What good would it do to keep someone from recreating those same tastes in the future?” She smiled. “I’ll let you enjoy your meal. I’ll be in the other room when you’re ready for your room key.” Leaving Ms. Greeley to her food, Mist returned to the kitchen, where Betty and Clive were deep in discussion.

  “She could have been killed,” Clive said, shaking his head. “When I saw that car in the ditch, I was terrified. It must have been at a forty-five degree angle.”

  “It’s amazing she wasn't hurt,” Betty said. “I bet she’ll be plenty bruised tomorrow.”

  “I think you’re right,” Mist said. “I’ll move her to Room 23. She was penciled in for 14, but 23 has that claw foot tub. She’ll be able to soak. It’ll help her muscles and calm her nerves. I’m sure she’s still rattled from the blowout.”

  Mist stopped by the hallway closet and then slipped up the back staircase, placing a basket of bath oils and fresh lavender next to the tub in Room 23. She fluffed the pillows and added extras, in case Ms. Greeley felt a need to prop up her feet. Moving a vase of holly and white mums from Room 14 to 23, she retraced her steps, arriving in the front hall just as Ellen Greeley placed her registration card on the counter.

  “Don’t let me leave here without that dressing recipe.”

  “I won’t,” Mist promised. “You’re here three nights now, right?” Mist looked over the guest book.

  “Yes, thank you for letting me add tonight to my stay,” Ellen said.

  “I’m glad we did,” Mist replied. “This storm is pretty fierce now that it’s here. Let me show you to your room.” She handed a key to Ellen and led her up the stairs. By the time she had the guest situated and had returned downstairs, she felt her own fatigue setting in. She poked her head in the kitchen and told Betty and Clive she was going to bed. The next two days would be busy. Tonight she would rest.

  * * *

  Mist rolled over onto her side, the cool cotton of her pillow soothing her skin. Half awake, half asleep, she thought at first she heard the soft cooing of doves outside, mixing with the wind. Rising and looking out her window, though, she saw nothing but snow tumbling down, silent. Yet the sound continued from somewhere inside the hotel. She wrapped a tattered silk kimono around her, a favorite she’d received long ago from an exchange student at the university. Barefoot, she slipped out of her room and followed the sound. As she got closer, she could hear tearful, whispered words.

  “I wish you were here, Carl. All those years we spent together, we never went anywhere without each other. It’s odd, I feel guilty being here without you, yet I couldn't bear the thought of sitting at home. This was always our holiday treat.”

  Mist stayed back; she didn’t need to enter the front parlor to know Clara Winslow was sitting in front of the tree. The lights of the hotel Christmas tree were left on at night, in case guests wandered downstairs for a cookie, or sought quiet time in front of the sparkling lights and old-fashioned ornaments.

  After a few muffled sniffles, Clara continued. “Bob and Sally are back this year, without Joshua. You remember they lost him last year. They’re changed, hardly the same family. Little Robert has grown, but is angry. Sally barely comes out of her room. And Michael is here, but...oh, Carl, he’s had such a tough year. There are new guests, too, people we never met, but they must have stories, too. I wish…well, I just wish, that’s all.”

  Mist tiptoed back to her room, already feeling uneasy that she’d heard as much as she had. Her first instinct had been to approach Clara to comfort her. But it was evident that the private conversation the widow was having would be a greater comfort. She also knew that sometimes, alone in the middle of the night, came the greatest clarity.

  The storm had become more intense. Looking outside her room’s window, she saw the wind blow snowflakes sideways, weighing branches down unevenly and building drifts against the outer walls of the building. It was good that Ellen Greeley had arrived a day early, good that everyone now rested safely in the hotel.

  With Christmas Eve’s dawn only a few hours away, Mist lit the kerosene lantern and sat in front of her easel. Using a clamp system that Clive had designed for her miniature paintings, she placed a tiny, framed canvas inside, securing it. Arranging her brushes and varied supplies beside her, she began to paint.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Mist’s painting had eased her into the day, so she was awake early and had plenty of time to put out breakfast before the guests began to come downstairs. She’d done much of the food prep during the previous few days. Now, she only needed to piece everything together – that, and accept help. She’d been delighted when Clive offered to flip pancakes on the griddle. She prepared the batter – a combination of gingerbread, pecans and currants – and he did the labor. Betty took each platter into the café as he stacked it full of the light, fluffy cakes.

  Aside from the hot pancakes, the breakfast buffet for the morning of Christmas Eve was simple. A mixture of raspberries, blueberries and strawberries filled one tray, and a chafing dish held scrambled eggs with fresh herbs. The usual assortment of juices, coffee and tea completed the selection. It was enough to start the day and to hold everyone over until the evening meal. No lunch would be served, so hotel staff encouraged guests and townsfolk to eat heartily and to take a muffin or two on their way out. After breakfast, Mist would close the doors to the cafe to decorate and arrange everything for the more extravagant evening meal.

  “Here, Mom, sit here! We’re having pancakes!” Mist peeked out from the kitchen at the sound of Robert’s voice. She was delighted to see his mother joining the family for breakfast. Clara and Ellen Greeley also sat at the Morrison’s table.

  Professor Hennessy fixed a plate and took it to his room. Mist followed with a tray of tea, leaving it outside his door and tapping lightly before walking away. She made sure to use the same cup and saucer that had soothed him the day before.

  Michael Blanton also filled a plate and chose to eat in the front parlor in what was clearly his favorite chair. The Dylan Thomas book that Mist had left in his room replaced his Dickens book from the night before.

  Mist cleared the buffet after the breakfast crowd dwindled away. Betty and Clive insisted on doing the dishes, pushing Mist out of the kitchen for a short break before she had to start cooking and decorating. Resigned to being banned from work temporarily, she found herself in the doorway to the front parlor, taking in the scene.

  The hotel’s Christmas tree sat in front of a large window that faced the street where both guests inside and people passing by outside could enjoy the seasonal cheer of the evergreen. She’d always marveled at what people thought made Christmas trees beautiful, whether the trees were formal with simple colored glass balls or overwhelmed with clumps of tinsel and heavy ornaments that pulled branches toward the floor.

  In contrast, as far as Mist was concerned, the Timberton Hotel’s tree was per
fect. The white lights sparkled just enough to create an air of fantasy, as if the tree itself might work holiday miracles, each tiny light a spark of imagination. Old-fashioned ornaments ranged from wooden toy carvings to crystal angels to handmade creations by the town’s schoolchildren, many made at a holiday art workshop that Mist had held earlier in the month. A few were heirlooms going back to Betty’s childhood. And Clive had designed a small silver tree that dangled from a higher branch, topped with one of the area’s well-known Yogo sapphires. Clive had slipped it on the tree one evening when Betty was out of the room, and she hadn’t yet noticed it.

  Outside, snow outlined the windowpanes, creating a perfect backdrop for the tree. That evening, Mist would set out bowls of popcorn and fresh cranberries on a nearby table for those who chose to sit around the fireplace and string garlands.

  Below the lowest branches, a handmade tree skirt circled the floor, sewn from velvet remnants Mist had found at the thrift store. Wrapped packages in festive holiday colors covered the varied shades of green fabric.

  “It’s a beautiful tree.”

  Mist stepped all the way into the room to join Michael, who still sat in that favorite chair.

  “Thank you,” Mist said. “It’s a reflection of the town. Everyone chipped in somehow, whether they provided an ornament or were just present while we decorated.”

  “You have a wonderful community here.”

  “We really do,” Mist agreed. She wandered across the room toward Michael. “Do you need anything? A refill of Java Love? I’m planning to fix some hot cider for later, but I could do that for you now.”

  He shook his head. “I’m fine, thank you. There’s nothing more relaxing than sitting in a comfortable chair, with a good book. Don’t you agree?”

  “Absolutely,” Mist said, without hesitation. “Though I would have to add painting up there, too. When I paint, the world disappears; it’s as if I’ve stepped into the painting itself. It’s almost like magic.”

  Michael laughed. “Well, now that’s something we certainly don’t have in common. I tried to paint when I was young, and it was nothing less than a disaster. I remember wanting desperately to paint a rocking horse with a red scarf around its neck. Yet, by the time I added what I thought was a tail, a mane and runners, it looked just like an octopus with ketchup on its head.”