Gingerbread At Moonglow (The Moonglow Christmas Series Book 3)

by Deborah Garner

  Mist closed the book and returned it to the front desk. She checked the gingerbread sheets in the oven and, finding them ready, pulled them out and turned the oven off. Setting the coffee to brew in the morning, she turned out the kitchen lights and retired to her room. There was only one more thing to do at this point: get a decent night’s rest to prepare for the busy day ahead.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  A wisp of sunlight filtered through the window of Mist’s room as she exchanged her nightshirt for drawstring pants and a long-sleeved layer of lightweight fleece. It was nearly one in the morning before she went to bed, but she felt fresh and energetic. She wound her hair up on her head and wove a paintbrush through it to hold it in a bun, a trick a teacher had taught her, but with a pencil, instead.

  Slipping her feet into ballet flats, she headed for the kitchen, where she flipped on both coffee makers — one would move to the front hallway at six-thirty — and turned the oven on to preheat. Although Moonglow’s breakfast customers would find a granola, fruit, yogurt and pastry bar on the buffet, they would smell gingerbread throughout the meal. Clive would be there at seven o’clock to scramble eggs and potatoes for those looking for heavier fare. Mist smiled, thinking of how gallantly he’d offered to come over early to do this, when she knew full well he tiptoed into the front hallway at six thirty-one each morning for coffee, anyway.

  Three hours later, the townsfolk had eaten; breakfast clean-up was complete; and the last of four gingerbread sheets sat cooling on the counter. Mist turned her attention to the guest rooms.

  Choosing items to individualize each room proved relatively easy. With Clara and Andrew’s rooms already set, she moved on to the others. The Webers were first-timers, and the phone conversation when they made their reservation hadn’t revealed anything personal beyond the recent adoption. She’d have to use her instincts to individualize the room. Ultimately, she decided on a basket of varied yarn skeins and knitting needles, which she placed unobtrusively on a cedar chest in a corner of their room. The collection of bright colors made the room brighter. Leaving a leather bag of marbles on a side table where she’d placed one of the unique doilies, she moved on to the next room.

  When it came to the professor and his family, Mist had a bit more insight. The professor had visited two years before. He’d been cold and aloof until the end of his stay, when he softened and became quite friendly with the other guests. He had a favorite tea cup, which she now placed on a tray with similar cups for his family, along with assorted PG Tips tea bags and packages of McVities Shortbread and Milk Chocolate Digestives. It would require only regular replenishment of hot water and biscuits to keep the professor and family warm and cozy when in their suite.

  This left Michael Blanton’s room, which posed no challenge at all. A main thread in their growing friendship was the love of reading. They’d had many discussions revolving around literature, and she’d gathered a substantial collection for his room’s bookcase over the last few months. Their emails had swayed in the same direction over the past year, skirting more personal exchanges, a fact that had planted the notion in Mist’s mind that perhaps she’d misinterpreted Michael’s feelings toward her the previous Christmas.

  Recalling a copy of Dickens’ A Tale of Two Cities that Michael had been reading the first time she met him, she placed Great Expectations and Oliver Twist on the bookshelf, along with Faulkner’s Light in August, Doctorow’s Ragtime, Steinbeck’s East of Eden, and Cather’s Death Comes for the Archbishop. Although she knew he was a fan of classics, she added a few more recent favorites of her own: Jamie Ford’s The Hotel on the Corner of Bitter and Sweet, Tracy Chevalier’s Girl with a Pearl Earring and Sara Gruen’s Water for Elephants. As a final touch, she filled a pottery tray with artsy bookmarks she’d found at a craft fair the past spring – some crafted of thin etched metal, some beaded and dangling, and some simply rice paper edged with gold ink.

  Checking each accommodation a final time, Mist returned to her room, changed to a mid-calf-length skirt of dark sage and a soft ivory tunic. She added a strand of mixed green aventurine and jasper beads, brushed her hair and secured it back with a brass barrette, and followed a commotion of shuffling and grunting to the front of the hotel, where she found Clive and Clayton busy in the main room, attaching the baked gingerbread to the plywood walls of the framed house.

  Reminding the men not to worry if a few slabs broke in two, since decorations could cover any cracks, Mist moved on to the registration desk. She knew all the guests were scheduled to arrive that day, but was unsure in what order. She sorted the registration cards first alphabetically, but then rearranged them specifically to be in no order at all – not by name, not by anticipated timing, not by anything but an abstract scattering of the cards across the counter in a way that visually pleased her.

  “Everything ready?” Betty asked, emerging from the kitchen. The fragrance of cinnamon followed her. “Ah,” Betty added. “What a gracious outfit for greeting the guests. You always look beautiful in green.”

  Mist inhaled, exhaled and smiled. “Thank you. Yes, everything is perfectly ready. I take it the hotel’s traditional glazed cinnamon nuts are in the making. The guests will be pleased.”

  “Of course,” Betty said. “It wouldn’t be Christmas without a bowl of those nuts out here. They’re just cooling now.” She eyed the registration counter, silently choosing a location for the sweet treats.

  “Even if just so the neighborhood children can sneak in and swipe some now and then?” Mist said. She and Betty both knew not all the candied treats would make it into guests’ hands.

  “Especially for that reason,” Betty said. She grinned and returned to the kitchen.

  Mist glanced over the registration cards again, set out a couple pens and checked on the progress in the main room. The front and sides of the gingerbread house were already covered. Clive and Clayton were starting on the back when Mist heard the front door open and turned to face the first incoming guests.

  “Mist!” Clara Winslow rushed across the entryway and embraced Mist eagerly. “I’ve been so excited about this visit! I could hardly wait to get here. You look wonderful, as always. I feel calm and peaceful, just seeing you.”

  Mist returned Clara’s embrace and smiled. “And seeing you makes me happy,” Mist said.

  “Let me introduce you,” Clara said. She stepped back and took the hand of her companion, a slight, silver-haired gentleman of medium height. “This is Andrew.”

  “Glad to meet you, Andrew,” Mist said as she shook his hand. “Welcome to the Timberton Hotel. We’re so pleased you could join us this year.”

  “As am I,” Andrew said. “Clara has spoken so highly of you all. I just had to come meet you myself.”

  “Don’t let him fool you.” Clara whispered to Mist. “He’s just after the cookies from Betty’s annual cookie exchange.”

  Andrew let out a warm, hearty laugh, and Mist instantly approved. “I admit the cookies were a draw, but that’s not the only reason I’m here. I look forward to spending this lovely holiday with the equally lovely Clara.” He beamed at Clara affectionately.

  “Did I hear Clara Winslow’s voice?” Betty emerged from the kitchen with a crystal bowl full of nuts, which she set on the front counter. She hugged Clara, shook hands with Andrew and then hugged him, too. “We’re so happy to have you both here.”

  “Your rooms are ready,” Mist said, motioning toward the registration desk. “Let me get you settled in. I’m sure you’re tired from traveling.”

  “Indeed, Mist is right,” Betty said. “We’ll have plenty of time to visit. Let me help with your bags.” She headed for the luggage, but Clive interrupted her.

  “Oh, no you don’t.” When Clive stepped into the lobby, he was covered with crumbs of gingerbread and clumps of royal frosting. “I’ll get those bags in a minute.” He greeted Clara and Andrew enthusiastically from a short distance, and then excused himself to wash the sweet, sticky building materials off his hand
s. As he left the room, the front door opened again.

  “Professor Hennessy,” Mist said, warmly welcoming the man who entered.

  “Just Nigel this year, please,” the professor said. Snow fell from a brimmed hat as he tipped it in greeting. “Please meet my wife, Chloe, and my daughter, Poppy.”

  “We’re delighted to have you here for the holidays,” Mist said.

  “We are!” Betty said.

  “I’m so glad you returned, Nigel. We missed you last year. ” Clara said. “This is my friend Andrew. He’s a newcomer.”

  One of the best qualities of the Timberton Hotel’s Christmas season was that many guests returned. This imbued the holiday with the atmosphere of a family reunion.

  “We’re busy!” Betty whispered to Clive as he returned to grab Clara and Andrew’s bags.

  “And getting busier,” Clive said, nodding toward a window beside the doorway. Four more guests approached, carefully navigating the icy walkway.

  “This will be the Weber party,” Betty said to Mist. “Why don’t I greet them while you show Professor Hennessy and his family to their suite?”

  “That’s an excellent idea,” Mist said, realizing the entryway was quickly becoming crowded. Counting the current guests, herself, Betty, Clive and Clayton, who had joined in to help with luggage, nine people now occupied the foyer, and it was about to become thirteen. She and Betty had both hoped the guest arrivals would be spread out, but that was never entirely predictable in the hotel business. The wise move now would be to help the guests to their rooms, so they could return downstairs to the larger front room once settled.

  “Professor…” Mist turned to the Hennessy group. “May I show you all to your suite?”

  “A spectacular idea,” the professor said. He turned to his wife and daughter. “What do you think, ladies?”

  “Brilliant,” Chloe said with a polite, yet reserved smile.

  Poppy nodded, stifling a yawn at the same time, which reminded Mist that international travel was lengthy and tiring.

  “And remember to call me ‘Nigel,’ my dear,” the professor said kindly.

  “I’ll try,” Mist said, but to her he would always be the professor

  Mist led the Hennessys to their suite and ushered them inside.

  “It’s lovely!” Chloe exclaimed, taking in the antique furnishings and elegant linens. “And the tea tray looks heavenly. I don’t know if I’ve ever yearned for a cup of tea quite as much as I do this very minute.”

  “And she drinks a lot of tea,” Poppy added. The first spoken words from the preteen brought a smile to Mist’s face. The girl’s voice was sweet and clear, almost angelic.

  “You’ll see you have two rooms, plus a sitting area,” Mist said. “Relax and make yourselves at home. I’ll bring up a pot of hot water in a few minutes.”

  She left the suite and took the back hallway to the kitchen, where she put a kettle of water on the stove to boil. Friendly chatter floated back from the front entryway as Betty and the Weber family finished up with greetings and registration. She could hear that Clive and Clayton had luggage delivery under control.

  Mist poured herself a glass of cold water and sat down, taking advantage of the time it took the kettle to boil for tea. Betty had cleaned up after finishing the glazed nuts, and the kitchen sat ready for dinner preparation later on. She’d planned an easy meal, anyway, knowing that guest arrivals would take priority. And, after all, Christmas Eve dinner, the holiday highlight at the Moonglow Café, was only two days away.

  Mist caught the kettle before its sharp whistle could interfere with the greetings in the lobby. She poured a full pot and took it upstairs to the suite, and then returned to the front entryway. Clive had just escorted the Weber family up the stairs, luggage in tow. Betty remained alone at the desk, putting the registration cards in order. Mist noted no more cards remained on the counter.

  “We still have one more arrival, don’t we?” Mist asked. She knew her casual tone didn’t fool Betty, who was well aware how much Mist looked forward to seeing Michael Blanton.

  “Actually, we don’t,” Betty said, quickly adding, “but don’t worry. He’s already here.”

  “He is?” Mist knew both her surprise and relief were evident. For a brief second, she’d thought Betty was going to say he had cancelled.

  “Yes, he arrived right behind the Webers, but asked to fill out the registration card later. I gave him the key to his room, so he could rest.”

  Mist paused. “How did he seem?” she finally asked.

  Betty remained quiet before answering. “Tired. He seemed tired, but glad to be here.” She reached over and rubbed Mist’s hand in a motherly fashion. “Don’t worry, Mist. He’ll be down later, I’m sure. You’ll find him in front of the fireplace.”

  “Reading, in his favorite chair,” Mist added. “Yes, I know you’re right.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The meal Mist served that evening was another simple one, this time “deli sandwiches for dinner.” The local residents who’d dined at the café the previous night didn’t mind the casual cuisine. What they found was a collection of sandwich makings, with just a few added features: fresh-baked artisan breads, seven types of mustards, an olive bar with a dozen Greek, Italian and French varieties, and a massive dessert tray of miniature orange meringue tarts, chocolate mint truffles and petite squares of cinnamon-walnut baklava.

  “Best ‘deli’ I’ve ever been to,” Clayton said, setting his loaded plate on a café table and sitting down, wide-eyed. Others at his table, mouths already full, nodded.

  “Maisie, wouldn’t it feel wonderful to sit down?” Mist said as she replenished bowls of Kalamata and Picholine olives. “Go enjoy a meal with your husband. Everything is under control.” She nodded toward a stack of plates at the end of the buffet. Maisie, who had insisted on helping Mist set up the dinner offerings, didn’t argue. She thanked Mist, selected a modest assortment of items from the buffet, and took a seat beside Clayton.

  Mist retrieved a large pitcher of water from the beverage table and began to make the rounds, visiting with each table.

  “A wonderful meal,” Clara said as Mist topped off everyone’s water glasses. Greta and Rolf Weber had joined Clara and Andrew for dinner. The four seemed to be hitting it off as if they’d known each other for years. Despite the age difference between the two couples – a good thirty years, Mist estimated – conversation flowed easily.

  “I’ve read online reviews about the food here,” Greta said. “Now I understand.” A smile spread across Greta’s round face, and the café lights glimmered in the woman’s blue-grey eyes. Noticing the guest’s tall, slender stature and whitish-blond hair, Mist felt certain she’d guessed Greta’s heritage correctly: Swedish.

  The professor, seated at a nearby table with his wife, joined the conversation. “Just you wait,” he said. “The Christmas Eve meal here is exquisite. I’m planning to wear my best silk bowtie for the occasion.”

  “Outstanding,” Rolf Weber said. “I love a good holiday meal, great food, great company. Don’t you agree, girls?” He directed his question to a table some might call “the kids’ table,” though it wasn’t so by official designation. The two Weber children had asked to sit with the professor’s daughter. Hanna and Poppy were both preteens, Jo was just a few years younger. The adults agreed without hesitation, glad to contain the children’s banter to a different table, thus allowing themselves ample freedom of conversation. Townsfolk spread around the room here and there. A few tables remained empty, while others had an unoccupied seat or two.

  Mist set a pitcher of raspberry lemonade in the center of the unofficial “kids’ table,” and looked around. There was still no sign of Michael Blanton, though it appeared the professor and his wife had a place saved for him. Mist chided herself for feeling a twinge of disappointment. Surely he was just tired from his journey.

  The buffet was dwindling, and Mist headed for the kitchen to restock the spread. Full platters created
a more appetizing display, so she always prepared more food than needed. She could always do something with the leftovers. She usually stashed them in Room Seven’s refrigerator, the room set aside for Timberton’s unofficial homeless person, Hollister, who had become a frequent overnight visitor during the past year, as opposed to sporadic stays before. This pleased Mist immensely, as she’d tried hard to make the man feel welcome, to think of the hotel as his home, rather than the cubbyhole under the local railroad trestle, where he had lived for many years.

  Several quick trips to the kitchen allowed Mist to reload the buffet for guests and townsfolk who had yet to arrive. As she topped off the olive bar, from the corner of her eye, she saw Michael stroll into the room quietly. Their eyes caught for a second as he sat in the chair the professor had saved for him. Mist headed back to the kitchen, pondering something she might have observed. Had he been limping when he came in? No, she told herself, she must have imagined it. If he’d had a relapse, surely he would have told her in one of his emails.

  “Why don’t you sit down and have something to eat?” Betty suggested. She and Clive were seated at the kitchen’s center island, Clive on his second plateful of food, Betty enjoying a miniature tart.

  “You both know I test everything as I prepare it,” Mist said. “I suspect I often have a full meal before the food even leaves the kitchen.”

  Betty dabbed a bit of meringue off her lip with a napkin. “True. I’ve seen you do that.”

  “A job I would be happy to volunteer for,” Clive said cheerfully before taking a bite of his sandwich.

  “I’m sure you would.” Mist laughed. “I may take you up on that sometime. That is, if you’re not already in here swiping nibbles, anyway.”

  “Which you often are,” Betty said. She elbowed Clive teasingly and then turned back to Mist. “Go sit down and have a cup of tea and dessert, then. I know there’s an open seat at the professor’s table.”