Nutcracker Sweets at Moonglow

by Deborah Garner

  “I say it’s a wonderful plan,” Betty said.

  “I agree,” Mist said. “This will be such fun for the other guests, as well as a few townsfolk who might linger after dinner.”

  Matthew nodded. “Great. I’ll talk to Liam and we’ll work out a plan.”

  “Clive and Clayton could help with set-up, if needed,” Betty said She glanced at Michael. “And it appears we have a guest who might help, too.”

  “Gladly,” Michael said.

  “It’s settled, then,” Betty said. “It will be a special Christmas Eve indeed.”

  Mist smiled. “They are all special. And this will be no exception.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Mist sauntered through the café, checking on guests. The enthusiastic conversations at various tables pleased her. It was a smaller crowd than usual, in spite of the high hotel occupancy. Not surprisingly, many townsfolk had chosen to dine at home, saving the Moonglow Café for the now legendary Christmas Eve meal the following night.

  Most of the hotel guests had chosen to sit together at the largest table, their group sounding particularly lively. It seemed the idea of a Nutcracker mini-performance had kicked the already joyful holiday spirit up an extra notch.

  “This zucchini strata is splendid,” Nigel said as Mist passed by. “What is this great combination of cheeses?”

  “Provolone, white cheddar, feta and parmesan,” Mist said. “But it would not taste the same without garlic and parsley, to give credit where credit is due.”

  “Well, it’s truly fit for the mouse king!” The professor took another bite and rephrased. “Or perhaps I should say ‘der mausekonig.’”

  “Dare … mouse …cone … ick?” Maria, seated at the same table, tried to copy the professor’s pronunciation. Keira, seated beside her, attempted to do the same with equal difficulty.

  “Close, my dear children,” Nigel said. “’Nussknacker und Mausekonig’ is German for ‘The Nutcracker and the Mouse King.’ It was the original name of the story written by E.T.A. Hoffman that is now The Nutcracker.”

  Keira and Maria looked at each other, and then back at the professor, confused. “But I thought it was Russian,” Keira said. “The music is.”

  “Music is a language of its own,” Mist said.

  “I knew she was going to say that,” Clive said, seated at a table close enough to overhear. Betty, sitting next to Clive, tapped him on the arm playfully and told him to hush, although she was smiling as she did so. Clive’s teasing of Mist’s view of life had become almost as predictable as Mist’s statements themselves.

  “Yes,” Nigel said. “You are partially correct, Keira. The music was written by the Russian composer, Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky.”

  Maria spoke up in defense of her new friend. “Why is she only partially correct, Professor, if Tchaikovsky was Russian?”

  “Because the original story was German,” Keira said, understanding.

  This time Olga spoke up. “I can make that more complicated, if you’d like.”

  Nigel smiled. “I would be chuffed to hear it from you, Ms. Savinova.” Both girls snickered at the word “chuffed,” being unfamiliar with British English.

  “E.T.A. Hoffman’s story was not actually the one Tchaikovsky based his story on,” Olga said. “That version was French. It was called ‘Histoire d’un Casse Noisette’ and was written by Alexandre Dumas.”

  “An exceptional French author,” Michael said. “If you girls end up studying French literature later in your schooling, you’ll undoubtedly read some of his work.”

  “So they really all wrote the story together,” Maria said, trying to put the information together. German, French, Russian.”

  “In a way,” Nigel said. “But they all lived at different times. Hoffman wrote his story in the early 1816, and Dumas wrote his in 1844, quite a while after Hoffman passed away. So, although it was essentially the same story, they didn’t work together on it. Rather, Dumas wrote his own version.”

  “And then Tchaikovsky added the music,” Keira said.

  “Yes,” Liam said. “And fabulous music, at that.”

  “Absolutely,” Matthew agreed. “I never tire of it.”

  “The music was not added until 1892,” Olga said, “which is when Marius Petipa and Lev Ivanov added choreography, and it premiered in St. Petersburg at the Mariinsky Theatre.” Both girls looked at Olga, as did several other guests. Noting their attention, Olga added simply, “I’m from St. Petersburg originally. I know some of the history.” Satisfied with the explanation, the general conversation resumed.

  “Imagine seeing it for the very first time!” Maria exclaimed.

  “Yes!” Keira said. “The audience must have been so excited!”

  “I’m afraid not,” Olga said. “It was not well-received. The reviews were very mixed.”

  “But it’s so famous!” Maria said.

  “It is now,” Matthew pointed out. “But nothing is famous the first time. It is simply new.”

  “Many times art isn’t recognized until years after it is created,” Liam said “It can be decades or even centuries.”

  “That applies to many forms of art,” Michael added. “Not just dance, but writing, music, painting, and more.”

  Keira and Maria both fell silent. After a moment, Keira picked up her fork and stabbed a piece of zucchini. “That hardly seems fair,” she said. “Then artists don’t get to know if they create something famous.”

  Nigel nodded. “Indeed. But fair or not, that is how it is sometimes.”

  “That means the first girl who played Clara didn’t know how special it was,” Maria said, as if that idea alone topped everything.

  “Actually, the first Clara wasn’t named Clara,” Olga said, practically causing both girls to drop their forks. “The young girl in the original German story was named Marie, which is the name George Balanchine used for his ballet later on.”

  “I’ve heard of him,” Keira said nonchalantly.

  “I should hope so,” Olga said, fighting back a smile. “And some Russian productions called the character “Masha.”

  “Weird.” Both girls responded together.

  “However,” Olga said, directing her comment to Maria. “Would you like to know what the Bolshoi Ballet called that part?” Getting an affirmative nod, she added, “Maria.”

  “Really?” Maria said. “Well, I used to dream of being Clara. I guess I have been all along.” Pleased with that thought, she turned to Keira. “And now I get to watch you be me.”

  “Want to watch us rehearse tomorrow?” Keira asked. “I mean, if that’s okay.”

  Maria turned to her mother. “Mom?”

  Luisa and Rafael exchanged looks. Rafael nodded. “I don’t see why not,” Luisa said.

  “What’s for dessert?” Clive asked suddenly, as if food had been the subject of discussion all along.

  Betty stood up, laughing. “He’s incorrigible,” she said. “But I bet Mist and I can dig something up.” She picked up several finished dinner dishes and headed for the kitchen.

  “It’s possible,” Mist said. Excusing herself, she accompanied Betty.

  “Possible means probable,” Clive said.

  Minutes later, Mist and Betty reappeared with small glass bowls of mixed strawberries and apple slices accompanied by caramel and chocolate dipping sauces.

  “Mix and match as you please,” Mist said. “You’re welcome to take them in by the fireplace if you’d like. I’ll have espresso, decaf, and peppermint tea set out in a few minutes.” She smiled at Maria, whose face lit up at the mention of peppermint tea, and then turned back to the group. “You may want to enjoy the front parlor for this evening, as it will be off-limits most of the day tomorrow.”

  Some guests nodded with understanding, others simply to be polite.

  “Meanwhile,” Betty said, “if some of you are wondering where to go while waiting for Christmas Eve dinner tomorrow afternoon, you’re welcome to head to Clive’s place. He’ll be
having a reception at his gallery.”

  “I will?” Clive said, almost choking on a chocolate-covered strawberry. Catching the mischievous grins on both Betty and Mist’s faces, he swallowed and smiled. “I mean, yes, I will.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Heather and Luisa sat on the sofa near the fireplace, their desserts balanced on their laps. Matthew had enlisted Rafael’s help in bringing in firewood while Mist added the last available log inside to the fire.

  “It’s wonderful the way the girls have formed such a close friendship,” Heather said. She indicated a far corner of the room, where Keira and Maria sat huddled together. Olga sat on a chair beside the girls, listening and occasionally inserting comments into their discussion.

  “Yes, I’m pleased,” Luisa said. “Maria does not always make friends easily. Many of the other girls in her class are involved with soccer or other physical activities that she can’t do.”

  “That must be difficult for her - and for you,” Heather said.

  “It is at times,” Luisa admitted. “But she has such a positive attitude. She doesn’t let it get her down. And she does have other interests. She loves to read, for example. She’s insatiable when it comes to books.”

  “Keira, too,” Heather said. “If she’s not dancing, she’s reading. Sometimes she ever tries to read while dancing.”

  “I can barely walk and talk at the same time,” Matthew said as he and Rafael brought firewood in from outside. He handed one log to Mist, which she added to the fire. “It’s a good thing I went into dance instead of musical theatre.”

  “A good thing for all of us,” Liam added, drawing a laugh from the crowd.

  Satisfied the second log was properly settled in the fireplace, Mist turned toward the others. “We all have strengths and weaknesses,” Mist said.

  Michael, who had been reading in his favorite chair, set his book down. “I believe that is coming from someone who has no weaknesses,” he said.

  Mist, in a gesture very unusual for her, placed her hands on her hips. “That most certainly is not true.”

  “Then you keep them well hidden,” Heather said, ready to side with Michael. Luisa and Matthew nodded, as well.

  “That’s because you’ve never seen me try to hit a softball, or solve a chemistry problem, or ride a horse, or dozens of other things I’ve attempted unsuccessfully,” Mist said. Her voice softened. “I’m no different than anyone else.”

  “I’m not sure I’d go that far,” Michael said. “But I do see your point. I love to teach, for example. However, you wouldn’t want me on your basketball team, and if a button fell off my shirt, I’d be looking for help to sew it back on.” He winked at Mist.

  “I have no problem with sewing,” Mist said, smiling, “as long as I’m asked nicely.” She had barely uttered the words when Betty entered.

  “Glenda just dropped this off for you,” Betty said, handing Mist a bag with the thrift shop logo on it. “She said you’d know what it was for.”

  “Yes,” Mist said. “I spoke with her earlier today.” She glanced inside the bag, smiled, and looked back up at the guests. “Please excuse me while I attend to some preparations for tomorrow.”

  Leaving the others to enjoy the fire, Mist passed through the kitchen and down the back hall to her room. There, on her doorknob, she found a second bag she’d been expecting, just as Keira said it would be. She entered her room, closed the door quietly, and removed the contents from both bags.

  The layers of white satin and toile that tumbled from Keira’s bag were as beautiful as she had imagined. Her task, as Keira had described it, was to “make it sort of pink.” The additional direction, a little trickier, was that it would need to stay white in the end, after its temporary pink livelihood ended. The item from the thrift shop would only take a few minutes to fix up.

  Being a collector of knick knacks served Mist well for this particular challenge, especially her habit of picking up fabric remnants at the thrift shop. Heading down the hallway again, she rummaged through her closet of treasured items. She found a length of pink chiffon, a bag of lavender organza rosebuds, and a loose assortment of satin ribbons. Gathering it all together, she retreated to her room and set to work. Two hours later, she stood back and examined the result of her efforts, quite sure that Keira would be pleased. Maria, too, would likely be delighted.

  Mist returned to the front parlor, now empty other than Michael, who still sat by the fire, reading, as she knew he would be. This had always been his habit, long before Mist arrived in Timberton and established the café that was now housed in the hotel. And she understood it completely. The idea of having a few days to simply sit by a fire for hours and read sounded like a perfect vacation.

  “And she appears again,” Michael said, looking up from his book.

  “I promised Keira a favor earlier,” Mist said. “A couple favors, actually.”

  Michael nodded. “Something to do with the secrets the two girls seem to be constantly whispering to each other?”

  “Perhaps,” Mist said, purposely making her voice sound mysterious.

  “I suspect you have other tasks to attend to,” Michael said. “Please don’t feel you need to stay and visit. You have quite a full house this year.”

  “I only have one important task at the moment,” Mist said, sitting down on the sofa.

  “And what would that be?” Michael smiled, suspecting the answer already.

  “To sit here and enjoy your company, perhaps with some tea.” She started to rise, but Michael stood and gently encouraged her to sit back down.

  “I’ll get the tea,” Michael said. “It just so happens that this hotel has tea and coffee service all set up in the lobby. Did you know that?”

  “I’ve heard a rumor to that effect,” Mist said. She tilted her head to one side, then to the other, just to add a whimsical touch to her reply.

  “Betty even refilled the hot water just a short while ago,” Michael added. “You just rest.”

  Mist started to protest, but Michael’s determined expression stopped her. Giving in, she relaxed against the back of the sofa. A few minutes later, Michael set a cup of tea on the side table next to the sofa, where Mist could reach it. Sitting beside her, he placed his arm around her shoulders and eased her head over to rest against him. She closed her eyes, letting herself be lulled by the warmth of the fire on one side and the beating of Michael’s heart on the other.

  “There is an art exhibit at the university next month,” Michael said as he rubbed her arm affectionately. “I’m hoping you might come up to see it.”

  “That sounds delightful,” Mist said sleepily. “I’d love to.”

  “February might be a nice time for a visit, too,” Michael said.

  “I agree,” Mist murmured.

  “And March …”

  “Mmm …”

  After that, only the crackling of the fire remained, mixed with a very faint snoring, which, in view of it being Mist, was really just a soft purr.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  "It's fortunate we don't serve breakfast or lunch on Christmas Eve," Betty said. "Clayton and his fire crew are making quite the ruckus out there in the front parlor."

  Mist laughed. "We have too much to do just to get ready for dinner. Besides, they're having fun, I can tell."

  "What gave it away?” Betty asked. “The 'ninety-nine bottles of eggnog on the wall’ song they've improvised?”

  "That and the 'top secret - do not enter' sign they have on the door,” Mist said.

  "It looks like a boys' clubhouse." Betty shook her head.

  "All the more charming for that," Mist said as she arranged fresh cut vegetables, olives, marinated mushrooms, and petite gherkins on a large platter. “It was kind of Clayton to offer to set up for the presentation tonight.”

  “I had no idea he’d done lighting work for his college theatre productions,” Betty said. “He was excited about helping, said it brought back some good memories. Plus he has all those
tools and ladders and whatnot from the fire station.”

  “Yes, convenient to have all that on hand,” Mist said. She placed a china sleigh filled with toothpicks in the center of the platter and covered it. "There," she said. "All ready for the reception at Clive's place later this afternoon."

  "That was a clever last-minute way to get everyone out of the hotel this afternoon," Betty said. “And worth it just to see the shock on Clive’s face!”

  “A logical and pleasant solution,” Mist said. “With Clayton rearranging furniture and working on lighting in the front parlor, and the two of us preparing the café for tonight’s dinner, the guests needed a comfortable place to spend the afternoon.”

  "It's also good for Clive,” Betty said. “He'll get to show off his gallery.”

  “Yes,” Mist said. “He’s excited about it. I dare say he thinks it's like having his own cookie exchange."

  "Not a bad idea," Betty said. "Maybe he should do this every year, a Christmas Eve gallery reception."

  "That would be one way to keep him out of the kitchen, trying to steal bites of food before dinner is ready," Mist said. "Then again, it wouldn't be quite the same without him sneaking in."

  "True, and I bet he'd find ways to do it, anyway," Betty said.

  Mist laughed. "I'm sure he would.” She set the appetizer tray aside, knowing Maisie would pick it up later and take it over to Clive’s place.

  “What next?” Betty asked.

  “How about helping me with the table and buffet decorations for tonight? I could use an extra pair of hands.”

  “And here I thought you were going for a simple “air” theme,” Betty joked, remembering Mist’s decision to remove the candy-filled mason jars before.

  “Only temporarily.” Mist disappeared through the door to the back hallway and reappeared with a large carton. Betty followed her into the café and watched as Mist pulled the first jar.

  “Well, look at that!” Betty exclaimed. The formerly plain glass jar now boasted glitter that sparkled under the café lights, as well as a whimsical wire-rimmed bow on top, additional pieces of candy decorating the folds of ribbon.