GINGERBREAD
AT
MOONGLOW
A Christmas Novella
Deborah Garner
Cranberry Cove Press
Gingerbread at Moonglow
by Deborah Garner
Copyright © 2017 Deborah Garner
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
First Printing – November 2017
ISBN: 978-0-9969960-3-7
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
EXCEPT FOR BRIEF TEXT QUOTED AND APPROPRIATELY CITED IN OTHER WORKS, NO PART OF THIS BOOK MAY BE REPRODUCED IN ANY FORM, BY PHOTOCOPYING OR BY ELECTRONIC OR MECHANICAL MEANS, INCLUDING INFORMATION STORAGE OR RETRIEVAL SYSTEMS, WITHOUT PERMISSION IN WRITING FROM THE COPYRIGHT OWNER/AUTHOR.
Printed in the U.S.A.
Also by Deborah Garner
Above the Bridge
The Moonglow Café
Three Silver Doves
Hutchins Creek Cache
Cranberry Bluff
A Flair for Chardonnay
A Flair for Drama
Mistletoe at Moonglow
Silver Bells at Moonglow
For my mother,
who always made holidays special for us.
And I had but one penny in the world,
thou shouldst have it to buy gingerbread.
William Shakespeare,
Love’s Labour’s Lost
Table of Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Betty’s Cookie Exchange Recipes
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
CHAPTER ONE
The enticing aromas of cinnamon, cloves and honey floated across the kitchen as Mist removed a pan from the oven. She placed the freshly baked loaf on the stovetop, leaned slightly forward and inhaled. Ah, yes, the touch of molasses she’d put into the batter made it more intense, just as she’d predicted. Experimenting with cooking was a major passion. Even a tiny substitution could change the overall experience of food.
Mist removed her oven mitts, handmade from scraps of favorite old clothes and padded with protective filling. She placed them on the kitchen counter and sat down to look over her notes. Not only had she written comments about each dish she’d tested over the last week, but she’d outlined the schedule for the next several days. Although it was her third year coordinating accommodations, meals and activities for Christmas guests of the Timberton Hotel, this year promised to be challenging. Fortunately, Mist loved a good challenge. Since the hotel always had return guests for the holidays, along with new ones, Mist had to call on her creativity to be sure everything was different from previous years. This included decorations, menus and tiny individual touches to the rooms. Mist had made plans months before, some even a year before, to accomplish this.
“Smells delicious!” Betty, the hotel innkeeper, entered the kitchen and made a beeline for the loaf now cooling on top of the stove. “What have you done with your culinary magic this time?” Betty breathed in the scent of spices.
“Better yet,” a second voice said, “when can we test it out?” Clive Barnes, owner of The Timberton Gem Gallery, and Betty’s beau, reached out to poke the loaf with his finger. Betty slapped his hand away while Mist watched the two with amusement.
“Clive,” Betty scolded, “it’s a well-known fact that you have appointed yourself the town’s primary taste tester. But that doesn’t mean you can go around poking every baked good as if it were the Pillsbury Doughboy. Your taste-tester role isn’t official, you know.”
Clive sat at the kitchen table, an island area where Mist, Betty and Clive often met. He sighed. “Fine, then how about telling me what it is, and I’ll try to wait patiently.” He looked at Mist with an eager smile.
“Give it about ten minutes,” Mist said as she transferred the loaf from the pan to a wire rack. “And it’s a honey cake, basically, though I substituted a touch of molasses, and added some lemon zest.”
“Well, count me in when it’s ready to be tested,” Clive said. “Meanwhile, what does a guy have to do to get a cup of coffee around this place?” He winked at Mist, though he directed the comment to Betty, who tapped her finger to her forehead before answering.
“Let’s see, Clive,” Betty said. “You could do plenty of things for a cup of coffee. I think the front of the hotel could use a coat of paint. In fact, maybe primer first, then paint. And the trim, let’s see, there’s that broken section on the west side …”
“OK, I deserved that.” Clive laughed. “I phrased my request poorly. I just may need a little caffeine to accomplish all that. Please.”
Betty filled two mugs with coffee, set one in front of Clive, and sat down beside him with the other. Mist sipped the peppermint tea she’d already poured while she waited for the honey cake to finish cooling.
“We have a hectic week coming up,” Betty said, looking at Mist almost apologetically. “We’ll have more overnight holiday guests than usual this year, plus extra community activities. I’ll help you as much as I can.”
Mist reached over and squeezed Betty’s hand. “Thanks, Betty. Your own workload is pretty heavy. I really think everything is under control, though. We’ve been organizing for months. Maisie and Marge are both planning to be here during the special events. Maisie, of course, is bringing in all the floral goods through Maisie’s Daisies. And Marge ordered plenty of candy through her candy store.”
“You’re certainly right about that,” Betty said. “I saw UPS deliver a second shipment yesterday. Looked like enough to keep the whole town on a six month sugar high.”
“It will help that they won’t be eating it all,” Mist said. She stood, checked the honey cake, cut a slice for Clive and placed it next to his coffee mug, much to his delight. Betty turned down a piece, citing she’d save it for dessert that night.
“Speaking of all that candy, Clive,” Mist said. “How’s the project coming along?”
“Delicious!” Clive said, taking a bite of the cake.
Mist tilted her head to the side, a dangling silver earring grazing her shoulder as she waited for a non-culinary answer.
“Oh, right, the project. It’s coming along fine,” Clive said. He eyed the cake with longing as if answering the question before taking another bite called on all his will-power. “I just need to add support beams for the roof, and it will be done. Clayton’s going to help me bring it over in the morning.”
“Well now, that’s nice of Clayton to help out,” Betty said. “He’s got plenty on his hands this year, what with the new baby coming and all.”
Mist smiled. She’d been thrilled when Clayton and Maisie had gotten married the previous spring, and equally thrilled when Maisie announced at Thanksgiving that they were expecting. She’d watched the romance develop between the town’s fire chief and the flower shop owner over the last couple of years. It warmed her heart to see two good people find each other.
“We’ll need to bring it over in two sections,” Clive said.
Betty looked back and forth between Mist and Clive, confused. “Why?”
“Well, Betty, it’s like this …” Clive trailed off mid-sentence.
“There was a slight misunderstanding,” Mist offered. “But it’s go
ing to be fine. Once I realized the mix-up, I knew it was meant to be.”
Betty drummed her fingers on the kitchen table. “We’re talking about the gingerbread house decorating event, right?”
“Right.” Mist and Clive both said.
“Clive has been helping with the model, to get the dimensions right before you bake?”
Mist and Clive nodded.
“So … why would you need to bring it over in two sections? Didn’t we decide on three by five? That’s not very big, just the size of an index card.”
“We ended up going with four by four,” Clive said evasively. “Seemed a square shape would be good,” He took another forkful of cake and popped it in his mouth as he and Mist exchanged looks.
“What am I missing here?” Betty said, clearly baffled. Mist knew she deserved an explanation. Or, perhaps better worded: a warning.
“I’ll take the blame for this change in plans, Betty,” Mist said. “I believe I didn’t explain the specifics adequately to Clive. We had different … visions, it turned out. I think that’s the best way to put it.” She turned to Clive. “Wouldn’t you agree?”
Clive swallowed, washed the bite of cake down with a sip of coffee, and looked up at Mist, grateful for her generous explanation. “Yes, different visions, a perfect way to put it.”
“Well, I think four by four is just as good as three by five,” Betty said. “I like the idea of square gingerbread houses. That might even be better for people working at tables. But I still don’t understand bringing the model over in two parts.”
“Because of the front door,” Clive said.
Mist held up her hand to Clive, to show she would explain the rest. “Betty, I neglected to specify inches when I gave him the measurements.” She waited while Betty processed the statement and watched as Betty’s eyes grew wider. “So Clive made us something very unique.”
“You can’t mean …” Betty set her coffee mug down on the table.
Mist nodded. “Yes, we have a four foot by four foot gingerbread house model.”
“Not four inches by four inches,” Betty said. Her statement sounded more like a question, as if she’d heard incorrectly.
“Right – feet, not inches,” Mist said. “I think it will be grand, really I do.” She paused, the odd thought striking her that she might sound a bit like Katherine Hepburn.
“But where will it go?” Betty now looked panic stricken. She rose and began to pace the kitchen.
“In the front parlor,” Mist said. “I have it figured out already.”
“The front parlor?” Betty’s concern was not abating. “That room isn’t very big.”
Betty had a good point, of course. When they’d added Mist’s restaurant, Moonglow Café, to the hotel two years before, they’d used the larger of the two hotel parlors for its location. The smaller parlor still offered a comfortable sitting area for guests to lounge. But Clive’s creation would certainly crowd it.
“I’ve measured the room carefully,” Mist said, hoping to reassure Betty. “By placing the gingerbread house off-center, we’ll still be able to keep the main couch area as it is. The Christmas tree will still be in the front window, the piano still in the front corner. We’ll just move some of the furniture aside for the actual decorating, and then move it back.”
Betty sighed, undoubtedly thinking of a different experience: cleaning up after what promised to be a chaotic series of events. It would help that the cookie exchange and the gingerbread house decorating would be at different times, and wouldn’t interfere with Christmas Eve dinner.
“Well, now that that’s settled, I’m heading back to the gallery to finish up.” Clive took his empty coffee mug and cake plate to the sink, kissed Mist’s cheek and then Betty’s as he said goodbye. He left through the kitchen’s side door.
“My, my, my,” Betty said to no one in particular. She absently touched her cheek where Clive had kissed her.
Mist reached over and patted Betty’s hand. “It will be fine, you’ll see. It will be a special Christmas.”
“I don’t doubt that in the least, Mist,” Betty said. “You have a way of making the holidays magical. And you’ll need a little magic to fit that gingerbread house in here with all the guests coming. Let me get the reservation book.” She left the room briefly, returning with a large binder. Setting it on the table, she sat down while Mist flipped pages to the next day’s date.
Normally, very little rattled Mist, but the timing of arrivals this year had her concerned. The first impression guests had of the hotel mattered, and she took pride in individualizing each person’s experience. She wanted new guests to feel instantly welcomed and returning guests to feel like family. Her ideal would be to space arrivals an hour apart, so that she could greet each person casually, make light conversation, escort guests to rooms, and find out if there was anything small she could offer to make them more comfortable. Rushed greetings felt impersonal.
“I don’t know how we managed to have all the guests arriving on the same day this year,” Betty said. “We’ve never had that happen before.”
“It will work out,” Mist said. “I just hope they spread out over a few hours.” She ran her fingertips down the list of names, overhead lights bouncing off a flat turquoise ring on her thumb, a recent local thrift store find.
“I think Clara and her ‘special friend,’ as she calls him, will be arriving first,” Betty said. “Their plane gets into Bozeman early in the morning. I suspect they’ll be here around noon.”
Mist nodded. “That’s what she said when I talked to her on the phone yesterday. She was worried it would be an inconvenience for us. Of course, I told her it wouldn’t.”
“She’s such a sweet lady,” Betty said. “I think she’s nervous. It’s a big step, bringing her new gentleman friend with her, after all those years coming here with Carl.”
“I’m excited for her,” Mist said. “She’s been a widow for more than two years now. She deserves to be happy again. She won’t be the only one bringing someone back with her, either. The English professor is bringing his family this year.”
Betty nodded. “It’s quite a transition for him, accepting a full-time job at the university where he guest lectured two years ago. They’ll be house hunting up in Missoula after the holidays. He sounded excited in his latest email.”
“I’m sure the Hennessys are nervous as well as excited,” Mist said. “We’ll need to make a point of easing their worries.” Her fingers continued down the list, checking names room by room. “The Webers won’t be here until later. That should be a lovely visit. They’re bringing their newly adopted daughters.”
“Oh, yes!” Betty exclaimed. I’m happy they’ve chosen the Timberton Hotel for their first Christmas together as an official family.” She paused, and then smiled wickedly. “But not everyone is bringing a companion. Isn’t there someone you haven’t mentioned yet, someone special?”
Despite her attempt to remain nonchalant, Mist blushed. Indeed one guest would be arriving alone. Knowing Betty’s question was rhetorical, she simply smiled. It would be the third Christmas Michael Blanton would be with them at the hotel since Mist had arrived, and an attraction had been growing between them. Although Michael hadn’t offered much of an explanation for why a proposed spring visit had fallen through, his emails had made it clear he was looking forward to seeing her. Mist trusted that their connection would remain strong even though she’d been disappointed.
“Well, then.” Mist closed the registration book and stood, her work boots tapping the kitchen floor lightly. “The guests certainly won’t all fit in that gingerbread house Clive is preparing for us. I’d better see to the rooms.” Leaving Betty with her coffee, Mist returned the book to the registration desk and set to work on the guest accommodations.
CHAPTER TWO
The back hallway closet door creaked as Mist opened it and looked inside. She needed to remind Clive to oil it, or she’d do it herself when she had time. Multiple shelves hel
d wooden bins, woven baskets and various other containers, all filled with trinkets she acquired throughout the year that she could use to individualize the guest rooms. The assortments were odds and ends that she picked up whenever they struck her fancy. She collected the objects from the town thrift shop, Secondhand Sally’s, as well as from local yard sales. She even made an occasional online discovery, though Mist rarely used a computer. She preferred to use her time painting or enjoying a cup of tea while she read.
Mist pulled a tin tub off one shelf and perused the contents: pewter jacks in a soft leather pouch, a miniature rocking horse, a cluster of skeleton keys, a terra cotta figurine of a pig and several skeins of variegated yarn. She adored one skein in particular, finding its blue, green and purple tones as soothing as the smooth texture of the yarn.
Replacing the tin tub, she lifted a wooden box off a different shelf and sat on the hallway floor, her soft rayon skirt folding around her in lavender ripples as she opened the lid. This had been one of her favorite discoveries at a recent craft fair in Helena. Not the box itself, though she was fond of that, as well. She’d found it on the side of a road one day and sanded it down to a smooth finish. But the doilies inside were the real treasure. As she pulled them out one by one now, she thought back to the day she’d bought them. She’d sat for more than an hour with the elderly woman who’d made them, listening to the stories behind the designs. Each crocheted piece reflected a section of the woman’s life – the birth of a child, the loss of a husband, a joyful reunion with a long-lost friend. The variety of shapes – round, square, oblong, haphazard – matched the mixed texture of life’s emotions. Mist had left feeling honored to be able to take the doilies with her, knowing they would wordlessly share the woman’s experiences with others.
A plastic case held another fortunate find at the same crafts fair. A young woman from Kalispell, in northern Montana, displayed a collection of handmade soaps with delightful, creative scents. Mist had fallen for the gentle, plant-based soaps on the spot, choosing several to bring back to the hotel: lemon chamomile, lavender oatmeal and cinnamon clove.
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