Mistletoe At Moonglow (The Moonglow Christmas Series Book 1) Read online

  MISTLETOE

  AT

  MOONGLOW

  A Christmas Novella

  Deborah Garner

  Cranberry Cove Press

  Mistletoe at Moonglow

  by Deborah Garner

  Copyright © 2015 Deborah Garner

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  First Printing – November 2015

  ISBN: 978-0-9960449-4-3

  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

  Silver Bells at Moonglow

  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

  Betty’s Cookie Exchange Recipes

  For my mother,

  who always made holidays special for us.

  CHAPTER ONE

  A whisper of snowflakes brushed against Mist’s face as she stood in the doorway of the Timberton Hotel. It was a night like many other winter nights, the brisk air invigorating, a thin layer of snow coating the empty street, soft under the dim lights. The magical feeling of these evening reflections always warmed her heart. It was as if a Christmas card had come to life and she’d stepped into a peaceful scene that had been only paper a moment before.

  Behind her, the glow of the hotel’s fireplace mixed with the aroma of nuts cooking in a cinnamon glaze. Although it was Mist’s first Christmas at the hotel, she knew Betty made cinnamon glazed walnuts every holiday season to keep in a bowl in the parlor. Townsfolk were reputed to stop by frequently, resulting in a slightly lower number of nuts in the candy dish each time.

  That was just how Betty was, always doing something to please others. She treated everyone like family, always welcoming them into the hotel for a cup of fresh-brewed coffee or a slice of apple strudel. If not for Betty’s generosity, Mist might have been homeless after losing her business, Moonglow Café. Or she might have returned to California, where she lived before arriving in the small town of Timberton, Montana. Instead, Betty had offered her a place to stay, as well as work. And it made sense. The hotel needed her and she needed the hotel.

  Mist closed the door, not wanting to let in too much of the cold night. It would be a quiet evening, the last until after the holidays. Since guests wouldn’t arrive until the next day, Mist had a chance to put the final decorating touches around the hotel’s common rooms, as well as to deliver a surprise of some sort to each guest room. This was one of the benefits of living and working in the hotel. Betty had given her free reign to use her artistic talent to spruce up the lodging any way she desired. One whim at a time, Mist surprised guests and townsfolk alike with floral arrangements, unexpected trays of culinary treats, or her favorite: miniature paintings.

  Art had been Mist’s first passion, long before her love for cuisine took flight. She still thought fondly of evenings in front of her easel, the Pacific Ocean’s surf in the background, the glow of the moon across its surface. Those enchanted times, after hours working on the deck of an ocean side restaurant, had formed the bridge between her love of painting and her love of cooking. She would blend mustard and grape seed oil during the afternoon and mustard-hued oil paint at night, satisfied at the end of the day with the balance the two art forms created in her life.

  “Mist, dear, are you out there?”

  Mist followed the voice, moving into the kitchen, where she found Betty sliding a spatula between a sheet of wax paper and several rows of glazed nuts.

  “These are cool enough now. Let’s refill the dish on the registration counter again.”

  Mist smiled. “You know those neighborhood boys are just tiptoeing in to swipe them when you aren't looking.”

  “Of course I know that,” Betty laughed. “And why shouldn't they? Everyone needs a treat now and then.” She set the spatula down and ran her hands over her apron, an old-fashioned style with a mixed print of holly and candy canes.

  “You are a treat, Betty.” Mist touched the hotelkeeper’s shoulder before retrieving the crystal bowl from the front hall. Returning to the kitchen, she filled the dish to the brim, the crystallized glaze catching the light from the overhead lamps.

  “That she is!” Both women looked up to see Betty’s beau in the doorway.

  “Now, Clive, you hush up,” Betty chirped. “What brings you out on this snowy night, anyway?”

  “I’d say the rumbling sensation in my stomach has something to do with it. Though it’s always nice to run into a couple of pretty girls.” Clive reached around Betty and grabbed a walnut before she could swat his hand away from the glazed nuts. Clive sat on a kitchen stool.

  Mist watched the two senior lovebirds and smiled. The hotelkeeper and gem gallery owner had only recently admitted their feelings for each other after decades of misunderstanding. This was just one of many small miracles Mist had witnessed since arriving in Timberton a few months before.

  “I’ll whip something up for you,” Mist said, heading for the refrigerator.

  “I don’t think there’s such a thing as you just ‘whipping something up,’” Clive said. “What you do with food is pure magic.”

  “Isn’t that the truth,” Betty added. “Speaking of which, you should see what Mist has planned for Christmas meals this year. Our guests have no idea what’s in store. They’re used to my turkey, mashed potatoes and dinner rolls.”

  “Which has always been a fine meal,” Clive said.

  “That’s kind of you to say, Clive.” Betty rolled another glazed walnut in Clive’s direction, to thank him for the compliment.

  “There’s nothing wrong with a great, basic meal,” Mist said. “Especially when it’s served with affection and kindness, the way you do. I’ve heard the townsfolk talk about it. They always love coming to the Timberton Hotel for their holiday meals.”

  “Well, now they love coming to every meal,” Betty said. “Having you set up Moonglow in the front parlor is one of the best things that has ever happened to this hotel, Mist. The guests love it, and the whole town appreciates the luxury of fine dining right here in Timberton.”

  “And they really appreciate not having to go to Wild Bill’s.” Clive couldn't help but laugh at his own comment.

  “Now, Clive, you know William Guthrie still gets his regular morning crowd,” Betty said. “Some people just need their greasy eggs and burnt toast. It’s their habit.”

  “You’re not about to break into the Cheers theme song, are you?” Clive rubbed his hands together as Mist set a plate in front of him. He looked at the meal and then looked up. “How do you do this? Pull something together this fast? You didn't even know I was coming over.”

  Betty and Mist exchanged lo
oks.

  “OK,” Clive admitted. “So you knew I’d show up when I got hungry enough. But, still.”

  “We had the main course in the oven on ‘warm’ and the rest in the refrigerator. Clayton and the guys from the fire department came over for dinner. Besides, Betty and I have to eat, too, you know.” Mist turned away, as if serving boeuf bourguignon and chilled pear halves with a cranberry-pecan garnish was an everyday occurrence. In fact, it was exactly what could be expected at Moonglow.

  “Well, I thank you,” Clive said. “We’re certainly spoiled.”

  “Good that you know it, Clive,” Betty said.

  Mist sat at the table, a mug of green tea in one hand, the hotel’s registration book in the other. She set the mug down and browsed through upcoming reservations. “We have three check-ins tomorrow.”

  “Yes, all return guests.” Betty covered a bowl of extra walnuts with plastic wrap and set it aside. “Clara Winslow will be here for the first time without her husband, who passed away this year.”

  “This will be a difficult time for her,” Mist said. “We’ll try to make it special somehow, in spite of her loss. What about Michael Blanton?”

  “Very quiet man, mid-thirties, I’d say. He’ll sit by the fire and read most of the time. He’s been coming here for the holidays for a good ten years.”

  “And the Morrisons? The notes show they’re a party of three.”

  “Yes, they’ll have a child with them, a boy,” Betty said. “Our only guests with children this year. Nice family. Stayed here two years ago, but missed last year.”

  Mist turned the page to the list of arrivals for the following day. Her earrings, dangling trails of beads and feathers, swayed as her head moved. “Just two arrivals the next day.”

  “That’s right,” Betty said. “It’ll be a small crowd this year, but an interesting one. Neither guest coming in that day has been here before. I believe one is a professor from England who’s a visiting lecturer up at the University of Montana. He’d planned to go back to London for the Christmas break, but time and airfares made it unreasonable. The other is a woman from Arizona. I don’t know anything about her, though she originally made a reservation for two, and she changed it to one. I do know she’s never seen snow before. She sounded excited about that.”

  “This is great,” Clive said, the first time he’d spoken since the discussion about incoming guests started.

  “Yes, wonderful,” Mist agreed. “Such interesting people coming together for the holidays, some knowing nothing about the others, some meeting up again.”

  “He means the food,” Betty laughed. “He wouldn't be getting sentimental about people meeting for the holidays.”

  “Not true,” Clive protested. “I’m plenty sentimental about spending the holidays with you two lovely ladies. But I confess, I was talking about Mist’s cooking.”

  “See? I told you.” Betty looked pleased with herself. “We’ll have to watch out during the cookie exchange, to make sure he doesn't hover too close and gobble up the goods.”

  “That’s right,” Clive said. “That’s tomorrow, isn’t it? When you women folk gather here to trade cookies and gossip?”

  “It’s not restricted to women, Clive,” Betty corrected. “Anyone in Timberton is welcome to bring a plate of cookies to exchange. We can’t help it if you men don’t participate.”

  “But we do!” Clive protested. “I participate every single year.”

  “Exactly how do you figure that?” Betty laughed, already knowing what his answer would be.

  “Well, now,” Clive said, “I consider taste testing to be serious business. And you know you can depend on me for that. You might think of me as your quality control specialist.”

  “I’ll admit you’re onto something there, Clive.” Betty grinned. “No use baking cookies every year without someone to confirm the cookies meet our long-established standards.”

  “There you go.” Clive nodded, satisfied he’d made his point. “But I do know I’m a little spoiled when it comes to food around here. So, thank you.”

  “You’re very welcome, Clive,” Mist said. “It’s a pleasure to prepare food for you. I always know you’ll eat every last bite.”

  “I’m surprised he doesn't lick the plate.” Betty laughed as she crumpled a wax paper sheet and tossed it in the trash. While her back was turned, Clive mimed licking his plate. Mist smiled and shook her head, beads and feathers swaying again.

  “So we’ll have seven hotel guests for Christmas Eve dinner and Christmas brunch,” Mist clarified. “And how many from the town?”

  “You can count on another thousand from here,” Clive said, barely suppressing a grin.

  “Clive, stop that. Don’t scare the girl on her first Christmas here,” Betty scolded. “You know Timberton doesn’t have that kind of population, especially in the winter. There can’t be more than fifty people in town right now, and some of them will leave to visit family.”

  “I’m figuring thirty total, plus hotel guests,” Mist said. “Based on what people have told me over the last couple weeks.”

  “You might count on a few more,” Betty cautioned. “We’ve had some calls from out of the immediate area. The word is getting around about Moonglow.”

  “She’s right, Mist,” Clive agreed. “You’ve put Timberton on the map.”

  “I’ll make sure there’ll be enough food to go around, don’t worry.” Mist stood, straightening her dark blue rayon skirt, which fell mid-calf, just above her work boots.

  “What’s on the menu?” Clive pushed his empty plate away and rubbed his stomach, as if ready to eat his Christmas meals right then.

  “You’ll just have to wait and see, Clive.” Mist paused in the kitchen doorway. “You know there are always surprises in store at Moonglow.” Smiling, she slipped out the door.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Mist lit the kerosene lantern and placed it on the table next to her bed. Though a flip of a switch would have let the marvels of modern electricity light the room, the softer glow of the lantern always fit her evening mood.

  Sketchpad in her lap, she curled up on the bed and stared at the blank page, envisioning the scenes that would unfold over the next few days as the guests arrived. A widow, revisiting a favorite lodging, without the husband who’d always been with her. A child, the only one in a hotel full of adults. Two single men, both scholarly, she imagined, based on one’s profession and the other’s reading habits. And a woman from Arizona, who had never seen snow. Each person would bring varied energy to the mix.

  Of course, there were the townspeople, as well. She had already expected a larger crowd than Betty and Clive predicted. There weren't any other options for dining, other than staying home. And a few might do that. But more would show up, not just to be fed, but for the camaraderie. Clayton, the fire chief, and his crew, were always guaranteed to be there. The same was true of Marge, who ran the local candy shop, plus a few other regular Timberton folks.

  And then there was Hollister, the town’s one homeless person. Mist had kept watch over him since she first arrived in Timberton. He might not sit at a table with others, his reaction to social situations still unpredictable. But she knew he would eat whatever she fixed for him, just as she knew he would be grateful.

  She picked up a charcoal pencil, closed her eyes and opened them again, transferring the images of Christmas Eve dinner and Christmas brunch from her imagination to paper. She could see it clearly when she planned a meal – not just the menu or food, but the table setting, the decorations, the contrast of colors and shapes on each plate, artistic arrangements of outstanding cuisine. Every aspect of a meal was part of a whole, not merely an individual component. It all started in her imagination as one picture, later separated into pieces and recreated amidst participants.

  …cinnamon…ginger…slivered almonds…

  She could taste each ingredient as she planned its role.

  …holly…carnations…baby’s breath…eucalyptus…<
br />
  She could see the colors and textures combining as they came together.

  …joy…heartbreak…love…compassion…

  She could feel the emotions hovering in the room.

  Sometimes she wondered if she thrived on the anticipation of an event as much as the event itself. She loved weaving the empathic aspects of each occasion, the tender piecing together of carefully selected ingredients – culinary, visual, and spatial – into a tapestry of sensations. An apple was not merely an apple. It was fresh air and crisp autumn leaves, a rich sunset, and a child’s hand reaching for a cinnamon stick. A ribbon of pasta was wheat in the late afternoon light. It was the tie that bound a family together in joy and grief.

  She pulled out a metal container of pastels, dented from years of use. How many shades of red were there in a Christmas memory? How many variations of green in the foliage of faith? Of ivory in a gift’s bow? Of blue in the sky of a new year’s first day?

  A tap on the door brought Mist out of her contemplation. She set her sketching aside and stood, crossed the room and opened the door, surprised to find Betty in the hallway, a worried look on her face.

  “The Morrisons are here.”

  “Now?” Mist’s tone was more pensive and curious than it was confused or anxious.

  “Yes, now,” Betty said. “A day early. Mrs. Morrison apologized profusely. Said she was sure she booked it for tonight.”

  “She may have,” Mist said. “I might have made a mistake when I took her reservation. She only called a few weeks ago. I had just started helping at the hotel.”

  “No, dear, it wasn't your mistake. She pulled out her confirmation sheet, and it has tomorrow’s date. The poor woman feels terrible. Of course, we do have rooms open.”