Nutcracker Sweets at Moonglow Page 2

  “A welcome trade for the roll-away,” Clive laughed.

  Marge’s candy store was conveniently located half-way back to the hotel. Mist’s decorating endeavors didn’t often include goods from Marge’s shop. Aside from the previous year, when a gingerbread house needed to be decorated, a running supply of Betty’s favorite caramels was the usual purchase. However, in view of the additional guests, Mist had decided to give into a whim and alter her plans for the café’s buffet and table decorations. The greenery from Maisie’s Daisies would make a perfect base. But her vision of the final arrangements required a hearty dose of sugar.

  “Ah, there you are.” Marge, a pleasant-looking woman of plump build and senior age, looked up from behind a tray of fudge as Mist entered. “I’ve got your order ready to go.” She pulled a large bag down from a back shelf and placed it on the front counter. “I see your arms are full, though.”

  Mist set the bundle of greenery down on an ice-cream-parlor-style table, one of several available for customers. “Yes, but ...” She smiled as she removed her backpack and unzipped it, revealing an empty interior. “I just dropped off a few more paintings at Clive’s gallery, so we can use this space.”

  Marge’s face brightened. “I’ve been meaning to tell you how much I love your miniatures. Would you be interested in doing a custom order, some type of candy design?”

  “A lovely idea,” Mist said. “I’d be happy to. It’s turning out to be a very sweet season. Then again, it’s always a sweet season in here.” She glanced around the interior of the shop. Large wooden barrels held salt water taffy, jelly beans, licorice ropes, and jaw breakers. Counter displays added chocolate truffles, nut clusters, and fudge squares to the mix.

  Marge laughed. “Yes, you have a point there.” She reached into the bag she’d packaged for Mist and removed several smaller packages, setting them on the counter. Mist’s eyes lit up with delight.

  “Wonderful,” Mist said, picking up the first selection. “You found the old-fashioned ribbon candy.”

  “Yes,” Marge said. “I was thrilled to get that in. It reminds me of my childhood. We always had a bowl of those on our living room table.”

  “Memories are part of the magic of the holidays,” Mist said as she carefully placed the ribbon candy in her backpack. “They meander back and forth throughout our lives, at any time of the year. But they do seem to whisper a little louder at Christmas.”

  “Back and forth,” Marge repeated. “Like the ribbon candy …”

  “Exactly.”

  “And these,” Marge said, “I simply had to taste test. I’m sure you understand.” She handed Mist a second package.

  “Well, I can see why,” Mist said. “We wouldn’t want red raspberry filled hard candy that wasn’t just right. You provided something very valuable, Marge: quality control.”

  “Happy to be of service,” Marge said. An impish expression spread across her face. “The other hard candy flavors were delicious, too.”

  “I’m delighted to hear that,” Mist said. “Thank you for helping with the last-minute order. Just put it on the hotel bill.”

  “No problem,” Marge said. “Take a few of Betty’s favorites to her, too.” She slipped a few caramels into a bag and added them to the others.

  One by one, Mist set the other packages – peppermint candies, honeycombed peanuts, thin mint wafers, chocolate-filled straws, and more – in her backpack, taking care to avoid breakage. As delicious as each variety sounded, her plans called for them to look as tantalizing as they tasted. Securing the sweet treasures on her back, she picked up the greenery, and returned to the hotel.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Mist stood in the doorway of the cafe, looking at the supplies she’d gathered. The greenery from Maisie’s Daisies spread across the surface of an oak table like an elevated forest floor, rich in color and texture. Open packages of candy nearby sweetened the air with the aroma of sugar. A collection of antique mason jars stretched across the hotel’s buffet table, reflecting beams of afternoon sunlight from the café windows.

  “I can’t imagine what you’re going to create with from all that.” Betty’s voice floated out from the kitchen, behind Mist. “Not that I doubt you’ll pull something fabulous together. You always do.” A light clatter of dishes accompanied the comments. Mist had accepted Betty’s offer to pull out dishes for the simple evening meal that would be served later on.

  “It will create itself,” Mist said softly. “I’m just waiting.” It always worked that way. In time, the ideas formed, much the way a light breeze might begin on a late afternoon – unexpected, unannounced.

  Approaching the buffet table, Mist picked up one of the mason jars and held it lightly, as if weighing it, and then lifted it, twisting it from side to side. She repeated the motion with several additional jars, all slightly different shapes and sizes, as if letting each one speak to her. She’d collected them for years, never with any particular intention, but knowing they’d be of use some day. The jars had fascinated her since she was a young girl, watching her grandmother prepare to can peaches. They represented endless possibilities - empty, yet inviting; limitless, though confined.

  Now, Mist brought several jars to a table, and set the packages of candy from Marge’s store alongside. She took a piece of red ribbon candy and set it in the bottom of one jar. Tilting her head, she looked at it from the side and adjusted the angle, so the curves of the sugary confection meandered in a way that pleased her. Nodding with approval, she chose another ribbon, a different color. Piece by piece, she filled the jar, creating a patchwork of colors and shapes that struck her as whimsical, yet soothing.

  Peppermint sticks followed in another jar, and then chocolate-filled straws in yet another. Although some jars found themselves filled with assortments, many featured just one type of sweet. Many of the treats represented traditional Christmas colors, but not all. Just as the world was filled with contrast, Mist mused, so should art be. And décor was art, after all. Everything was art in one form or another.

  In the end, a row of filled jars lined the buffet table from end to end, lids carefully screwed on. Mist examined the lengthy display, standing still a good five minutes. She then retreated to a storage closet, brought out two empty cartons, and loaded the jars inside.

  “And … where are those going?” Betty, now finished in the kitchen, had been watching as Mist packed the newly-filled jars away.

  “In my room,” Mist said calmly. She left with one box, returned for the other, removed it from the room, and returned again empty-handed.

  “OK,” Betty said. “And the greenery?” Her eyes glanced toward the table covered with holly branches, eucalyptus, and assorted evergreen boughs.

  Again Mist disappeared, returning with a large bucket. She gently placed the assorted greenery inside the container and set it in a far corner of the café.

  “OK,” Betty repeated. Her expression grew more confused by the minute, especially when Mist came to stand by her side, looked around the room, and brushed her hands together as if everything were complete.

  “And ...” Betty said.

  Mist seemed not to hear at first, but then turned toward Betty. “And what?”

  “And what will you be putting on the buffet and tables?”

  “Do you mean tonight?” Mist asked.

  Betty paused. “Yes, tonight.”

  Mist shrugged her shoulders. “Air,” she said as she left the room.

  * * *

  The cafe in The Timberton Hotel was more or less the only place local townsfolk could get a decent meal. More specifically, there really was no place in town to get a “decent” meal. Residents of the town, as well as guests, could only choose one extreme or another. They could find a less-than-decent meal at Wild Bill’s, down the road - where now, to everyone’s relief, including his own, William Guthrie only served breakfast - or have an extraordinary meal at the Moonglow Café. Anything in-between would simply have to be fixed at home. And so, Mist�
��s “simple” dinner for this particular evening consisted of a serve-yourself buffet of artisan breads and imported cheeses, pear and pomegranate salad, gnocchi with sage-butter sauce, pot roast with baby carrots and shallots, and Belgian chocolate gelato, kept cold atop a copper tub of ice. A small pitcher of caramel sauce sat beside the dessert service, for those who cared to spruce things up. The comparable translation for a “simple meal” was clearly “serve yourself.”

  The townsfolk who dined regularly at the café showed up in predictable order. Clayton arrived first with a couple of his fire crew. William “Wild Bill” Guthrie showed up a few minutes later. Millie, the town librarian, brought a visiting niece, settling in as the men in the café were midway through hearty portions from the buffet. Clive, as expected, rolled in just minutes after closing his gallery, spare bed in tow. Clayton took a break from eating to help Clive carry the roll-away upstairs to the appropriate room. When the two returned a few minutes later, Clive filled an overflowing plate and joined the firemen’s table.

  As per Mist’s standard, but highly unusual, policy, the meal came without a set price, which always surprised newcomers. A small sign accompanied a pottery container near the café door, its elegant calligraphy simply stating “Pay what your heart tells you.” Amazingly, the amount collected at the end of each day was more than enough to pay for preparing the next day’s fare. Whether this was a result of small town generosity, appreciation of Mist’s remarkable culinary skills, or relief over the now-defunct option of supper at Wild Bill’s, no one knew. Rumor had it that William Guthrie often overpaid out of sheer gratitude at not having to eat his own cooking. Whatever the reason, it worked. Timberton locals remained well-fed, and visitors rejoiced in finding a culinary fantasyland.

  “The Riveras called from Bozeman to say they’d be here in about an hour,” Betty said as she put away the last of the dinner dishes.

  “Perfect.” Mist placed a cover on one of several leftover containers. “I just have a few final touches to add to the rooms. Otherwise, all the accommodations are ready, including those for tomorrow’s arrivals.”

  “I’m not the least bit surprised,” Betty said. “I’ll refill the dish in the front hall while you do that. That dish seems to empty faster and faster every year!” Picking up the canister of glazed cinnamon nuts that she prepared each holiday season, she left the kitchen.

  Mist stacked the leftover containers and took them to the spare refrigerator in Room 7, where Hollister would have easy access to them. Although he had become more comfortable in the presence of others, he still didn’t come to the café for meals.

  With the food safely tucked away, Mist moved to a closet in the downstairs hallway, and opened the door. Each shelf held various trinkets that she collected throughout the year. Often she had specific reasons for what she placed in each guest room. This year she’d decided to keep the small offerings random. Like life itself, she thought, unpredictable. Perhaps each item would be something that suited a particular guest’s personality. Or perhaps it would strike a contrast in a unique way, reviving a long-forgotten memory, or planting the seed of a creative process.

  Cradling a woven basket in one arm, Mist closed her eyes and reached onto shelves and into buckets and bins, grabbing whatever her fingers touched first. When the basket was filled, she closed the closet and moved from room to room, leaving an item – or two or three – on a dresser or nightstand. Taking care not to analyze the choices she pulled from the basket, she simply picked up whatever struck her fancy and left it behind as she traveled from one accommodation to the next. Once finished, she returned the basket to the closet, fixed herself a cup of herbal tea, and waited for the first guest to arrive.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Olga Savinova was not exactly what Mist had expected, which struck her as odd, since she hadn’t really had any expectations at all. In other words, the reality of the guest’s presence in the hotel’s doorway was different than a notion that she hadn’t even had to begin with. At least that’s the way she would have described the sensation, had she been asked. Those familiar with Mist’s unusual way of thinking might have nodded quietly at this explanation, whether understanding it or not.

  “Welcome to the Timberton Hotel, Ms. Savinova.” Mist ushered the seventy-something woman in, and offered to take her coat, hat, gloves, and triple layers of scarves, each of which the guest peeled off slowly, while leaning on an exquisitely carved wooden cane. Her hand covered the curved portion of the crutch, obscuring its design.

  “Thank you, dear,” the heavy-set woman said, once relieved of the exterior trappings. Standing primly, grey hair fastened securely behind her neck, sapphire wool dress matching the color of her eyes, Olga Savinova looked nothing less than regal. She wore not a spot of make-up, as far as Mist could tell. A tiny brooch shaped like a swan adorned one shoulder.

  “You must be tired from traveling,” Mist said. “Would you like me to show you to your room? You can sign the registration card at your leisure.”

  “How kind of you,” Olga said. “Yes, I do think I’d like to settle in.”

  “Right this way.” Mist extended one arm toward the downstairs hallway, picked up the small suitcase, and then led the way. The woman followed behind, her cane tapping against the floor. Reaching the room, Mist escorted her inside, and indicated light switches, heater controls, and a door on a side wall. “This door goes to the next room, but is locked from both sides, so you’ll have privacy, even though we have a full house. May I get something to drink? Tea, coffee, or maybe some hot apple cider?”

  Olga shook her head. “No thank you. It’s kind of you to ask, but I’d just like to rest now.”

  “Of course,” Mist said as she stepped back into the hallway. “Just let me know if you need anything.”

  Mist had barely returned to the front lobby when the front door opened, and the Rivera family entered. The daughter, Maria, looked like an angel - petite, almost frail, with long, golden hair cascading forward over her shoulders. Her father held the handles of her wheelchair as he rolled her in. Her mother followed, stepping up to stand beside her once inside the entryway.

  “Welcome to The Timberton Hotel,” Mist said. “How was your trip here, Mr. and Mrs. Rivera, and … Maria, isn’t it?” She leaned forward slightly to give the girl her own personal greeting. The young girl nodded and replied. “Yes, Maria.”

  “The trip was fine, but hectic,” Mrs. Rivera said. “Airports are so crowded this time of year. And please call me Luisa. And this is Rafael.” She turned and smiled at her husband.

  “Do you need help with bags?” Clive asked as he stepped through the front door.

  Rafael shook his head. “No, I can get them after we get situated. But thank you so much for the ramp.”

  “Yes,” Luisa said. “Thank you. We knew there wasn’t one here when we made the reservation, and we were fine with the front steps. You didn’t need to do that.”

  “Nonsense,” Clive said. “We like to do everything we can to make a visit comfortable for guests. Besides, what good are tools if they aren’t used to build something now and then?”

  “Absolutely,” Betty said entering from the kitchen. “And tasks like that keep him out of trouble, too.” She patted Clive affectionately on his shoulder.

  Rafael laughed. “I believe I’ve heard similar comments around our house, as well.” Luisa nodded her head while filling out the hotel registration card.

  “Your room is ready for you,” Mist said. “I could bring you coffee, tea, or other beverages, or you’re welcome to help yourself anytime here in the lobby. The front parlor is open for relaxing, reading, or visiting with other guests.”

  “That sounds lovely,” Luisa said. “I admit coffee sounds great about now. It’s a little chilly here compared to our weather in Florida. We’ll put our things away and come back out.”

  “Sounds like a task has been assigned,” Rafael said to Clive. Both men picked up luggage and headed down the hall, Betty leading
the way to the appropriate room.

  “Do you have herbal tea?” Maria looked at Mist with a hopeful expression that seemed not only sweet, but angelic. “I especially love peppermint.”

  “It just so happens we have that,” Mist said. “Sometimes it even comes with a stick of peppermint candy in it – on special occasions.” She glanced at Laura for approval and was pleased when Maria’s mother smiled and nodded. “And I think your arrival is a special occasion.” Maria clapped her hands, delighted.

  “Why don’t we go get settled in,” Luisa said. She set the completed registration card aside and stepped behind Maria’s wheelchair.

  “I can do it, Mom,” Maria said. She placed her hands on the wheels with an attitude of independence that Mist found admirable.

  “I’ll show you the way,” Mist said, beckoning the mother and daughter to follow her. Once inside the room, Mist pointed out the amenities, starting with the radiator. “This will keep you warm. It’s not Florida, but it can be just as warm if the heat is high.”

  “Even better,” Luisa said. “No humidity.”

  Mist smiled as a short conversation about muggy southern weather followed, but it wasn’t the subject matter that caused the smile. New voices floating down the hall told her that two of her favorite guests had arrived. She excused herself politely and walked back to the front entryway. As she suspected, Michael Blanton and Nigel Hennessy stood near the registration counter. She reached out to shake Professor Hennessy’s hand, and then extended the same gesture to Michael Blanton, causing all three to laugh.

  “I dare say you can do better than that, my dear,” the professor said, chuckling. “Your fondness for each other is not exactly a secret, you know.” His charming British accent made his mock scolding even more amusing than the statement itself.

  “I agree,” Michael said. He took Mist’s hand and pulled her gently toward him, bestowing a sweet kiss on her forehead, followed by a warm hug.