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

  Mist nodded. “Yes, the suite is already set up with fresh linens and towels. I won’t have flowers in there until tomorrow. But I can slip some chocolate mints in right now.”

  “Thank you, Mist. I’ll have them fill out the registration card while you do that. Clive is helping bring in their bags right now.”

  Mist started to close the door as Betty turned away, but stopped as Betty paused.

  “We’ll need to be very gentle with Mrs. Morrison.”

  “Of course,” Mist said. “I understand she’s upset.”

  “No, not just because of tonight. She’s had a very hard year. The whole family has.” Betty paused, hearing Clive’s voice up front. “Oh, he must have the bags in already.”

  Mist nodded. “I’ll go upstairs to check the suite quickly.” She closed the door after Betty left, put away her sketch pad and pastel box, and slipped on a pair of ballet flats. She fastened her hair at the nape of her neck with a seashell clip and left her room, heading to a supply closet in a side hallway.

  Betty had always kept individual chocolates on hand for guests. It was a long-standing tradition to place a chocolate on each guest’s pillow, a practice Mist continued when she started helping out. But the closet also held other items now, things that she’d collected slowly during the time she’d been at the hotel. Some she’d picked up on supply runs for groceries. Others she’d ordered in, the packages looking no different from incoming art supplies. To anyone else, it might look like an odd assortment of this and that, random items with no connection to the everyday running of the hotel. But to Mist, it was a first aid kit for life.

  As Mist pulled chocolate mints from the closet, she could hear Betty reassuring the guests that their early arrival was not a problem – in fact, it was a delightful surprise. Mist smiled as she heard Clive echo Betty’s sentiments. They made a good team.

  Slipping up a back staircase, Mist entered the Morrisons’ accommodations, a suite with two connecting rooms, a king bed in one, a twin in the other. Mist had left the connecting door open when she cleaned the rooms and changed the linens, so that one space flowed freely into the other. Now she made a quick sweep of the suite, turning on miniature Tiffany lamps and placing a chocolate mint on each pillow and a wooden puzzle on the twin bed.

  Satisfied the room was ready, she went down the stairs toward the kitchen. She could hear Clive starting up the front steps with the Morrisons’ bags.

  “Chocolates all set?” Betty was sitting at the kitchen’s center table, looking over the registration book and marking the change in arrival date.

  “Yes, and I turned lights on for them. Just the small table lamps, so the room wouldn't be dark when they entered.”

  “You think of everything, my dear.”

  “If that were true, there would have been flowers in the rooms a day early,” Mist laughed.

  “Well, I didn't say you were clairvoyant, though at times I’ve wondered.”

  Mist smiled, but didn't reply. She’d been told before that she had some type of magic surrounding her. That’s what the fortuneteller had said, years ago, when she was barely a teen. It had been entertaining to others at that particular event, a birthday party for a neighborhood schoolmate. A few people had even grown quiet, nodding in agreement. But she knew it was only a matter of how she perceived the world. Heart wide open. Eyes and ears tuned in.

  “Tomorrow morning right after breakfast, I’m picking up the holiday flowers we ordered,” Mist said.

  “Did someone say ‘breakfast?” As always, Clive managed to materialize at the mention of food.

  “Now, Clive, we have extra guests,” Betty noted. “You might need to make yourself some toast at that gem gallery of yours. Or, better yet, head on down to Wild Bill’s.”

  Mist almost laughed at the disheartened look on Clive’s face, a result of either the anticipated drudgery of dropping bread into a toaster himself or sheer panic at the prospect of breakfast at Wild Bill’s.

  “Do I have another option?”

  “Yes, you do,” Mist said. “You can come right over in the morning and have cheddar-herb frittata and fresh banana nut bread. Coffee’s ready in the lobby by 6:30, but you know that already, don’t you?” She sent Clive a conspiratorial look. It hadn't escaped her attention that the coffee pot was always two inches lower by 6:45, even if no one in the hotel was awake yet. Mist had a back-up coffee pot in the kitchen while she prepared breakfast, so she never touched the one in the lobby.

  “Any chance of testing that banana nut bread now?”

  “Only if you want raw batter,” Mist quipped. “It goes in the oven at 5:45 tomorrow morning.”

  “I think I can wait.”

  “I had a feeling you’d say that,” Betty laughed.

  Mist took the opportunity to excuse herself and retreat to her room. Her sketchpad called. As did the next day.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The whir of the juicer wasn't enough to drown out the commotion in the lobby. Mist turned off the machine and glanced at the time: 6:45 am. The loaves of banana nut bread cooled on wire racks, the frittata baked in the oven and, as far as she knew, everyone was still asleep. Well, obviously not everyone. She wiped orange pulp off her hands with a kitchen towel and headed for the lobby where she found a young boy sitting in the middle of the floor. His tear-stained cheeks indicated his day was not off to a perfect start. Pieces of the wooden puzzle lay scattered across the lobby floor.

  “Hello.” A one-word greeting seemed enough, in view of the unknown situation. “I’m Mist,” she added.

  After a pause, the child looked up and frowned. “So?” He flopped back from a sitting position to lying flat on his back.

  Mist smiled, quickly forcing herself to appear serious. After all, it was a serious question he had posed. She sat down on the floor a few feet away and then lay down and stretched out, mimicking his position. Without looking over, she could feel him glance at her curiously.

  Fortunately, the frittata had another ten minutes to go, plus she had set the timer. She could afford a few minutes of patience. She closed her eyes and waited. It paid off.

  “I’m Robert.”

  “Hello, Robert.” Another minute passed.

  “I hate this puzzle. I hate everything.”

  “Gosh,” Mist said. “That must feel awful.”

  “And everyone.”

  “Ew, really awful.” Another minute passed.

  “I’m five years old.”

  “I’m twenty-eight.”

  “You’re old.”

  “I suppose so.”

  A deeper voice cut in. “What do we have here?” Mist looked up to see Clive standing over them both, coffee cup in hand. He wore faded overalls, a flannel shirt and a perplexed look on his face,

  “That’s Robert.”

  “That’s Mist.”

  “She’s old.”

  “He hates everything.”

  “I see,” Clive said.

  The conversation was short-circuited by a sharp ringing sound from the kitchen. Mist raised herself up to a sitting position and then stood. “Well, Robert, eggs are calling me. It was very nice meeting you.” She headed for the kitchen, aware of small footsteps right behind her.

  “Eggs don’t talk.”

  Mist turned the timer off and smiled. “You’re right, they don’t. But they can burn, so stand back.” She waited for Robert to move away, then pulled the pans from the oven, setting them on top of the stove.

  “Those eggs smell like bananas.”

  Clive grinned. “I believe the young man has a good nose.” He glanced around the kitchen, his eyes landing on the wire racks. “And I’m thinking we’d better investigate his theory, to see if we can find out why.”

  “In that case, both of you vamoose.” Betty shooed them with her hands as she entered the room. “You two can do your investigating in the breakfast room, like everyone else.” She paused, taking a closer look at the young boy. “Well, hello, Bobby. My, you’ve grown.”<
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  Robert frowned. “Why do grown-ups always say that?”

  Betty looked at Clive, who simply said, “He has some valid points this morning.”

  “You’re lucky,” Mist said. “I haven’t grown at all.” She crossed the kitchen, lifted a loaf of banana nut bread off a wire rack and placed it on a wooden board, carved in the shape of a sleigh.

  “No, she hasn't.” Betty looked at Mist’s slender figure with envy.

  Clive laughed, patting his stomach. “Well, I think I have, thanks to Mist. Or no thanks, as the case may be.”

  “I need a helper,” Mist said, facing the group. She cast an innocent look around the kitchen, avoiding eye contact with any one person. “I don’t think I can put this on the table in the other room and still finish all my work.”

  “I’ll do it,” an eager voice responded. “My kindergarten teacher says I’m a good helper.”

  “Oh, thank you so much.” Mist exhaled a dramatic sigh of relief as she handed the wooden board to Robert. “I guess maybe you don’t hate everything if you like being a helper.”

  “I guess not,” Robert said. He shrugged his shoulders. “I only hate some things.”

  “You had to be there,” Clive explained, noticing Betty’s confused look.

  Mist pulled a large dish of sliced strawberries from the refrigerator, garnishing the edge of the bowl with a sprig of mint. Pouring whipping cream in another bowl, she added a touch of sugar and set about beating it while Betty took the berries to the buffet table, then added a pan of the cheddar-herb frittata. Mist followed a few minutes later, setting the bowl of whipped cream next to the fruit.

  Just past 7 a.m., the front door began to open and close as townsfolk sauntered in. Each stopped to drop money into a container near the buffet. Some contributed more, some less. Mist had set a precedent of refusing to price meals. Leave what your heart tells you, the sign on the container read. By some mysterious phenomenon, the total always seemed to cover the cost of the food.

  Clayton and the fire crew – all two of them – were the first to arrive, as always. Stomping snow off their boots at the door, they hung their jackets in the hall and were hunched over full plates in minutes. Betty made the rounds with coffee, stopping to pour the fresh-brewed roast into pottery mugs of mixed sizes and shapes, made by a local artist who was local only during summer months, when tourists flocked to the small town in search of Old West history and sapphires, a unique feature of the area.

  Others arrived, some lingering in conversation, others grabbing something light before heading back out. Maisie stopped in briefly for a glass of orange juice. She waved to Mist and gestured in the direction of her flower shop, quickly exiting with a slice of banana nut bread in her mouth.

  “I take it this is the breakfast room now.” Sally Morrison stood in the arched doorway from the lobby, husband right behind her. Both surveyed the room, their raised eyebrows and smiles indicating they were impressed.

  Betty greeted them, making sure they bypassed the payment container. The room rates covered the morning meal.

  “Good morning! Yes, we’ve made some improvements this year.” Betty extended her arm, showing off the room with pride. “Actually, we have a guest chef in residence. That’s probably the easiest way to explain our new café. And she paints. You’ll see some of her work on the walls.”

  “And in my gallery,” Clive added, beaming a natural salesman’s smile. “She’s a mighty fine artist. I can barely keep her miniature paintings in stock. Must have sold two dozen of them just this past week. C’mon over after breakfast and take a look around.” He indicated two open seats at the table he and Robert shared.

  “Bobby, I told you to stay in your room until we all came down together.” Sally Morrison looked at her son and frowned.

  “My name is Robert.” Without looking up, the boy picked up a slice of strawberry from his plate, dipped it in whipped cream, and popped it into his mouth.

  “You must be the Morrisons. Would you care for some Java Love?” Mist stood beside the table with a carafe of coffee in one hand. She had approached so quietly that she startled Sally. Mist’s unconventional name for coffee undoubtedly threw her, too.

  “Don’t let her scare you,” Clive laughed. “Mist has a way of appearing without warning. Trust me, it’s nothing to be afraid of. She just seems to glide when she walks, even with those confounded army boots she wears. Quiet as a church mouse – I think that’s the expression.”

  “Cool,” Robert said, looking down and noticing Mist’s boots for the first time. “I want some like that.”

  “You don’t need boots, Bobby,” his mother said. She nodded to Mist, who filled her coffee mug.

  Robert slumped down and kicked the chair legs with his heels.

  “Stop that, Bobby,” Sally Morrison said, but without much energy. She thanked Mist for the coffee while Robert sat back up.

  Clive lifted his coffee mug with a pleading expression. Mist rounded the table and filled mugs for both Clive and Mr. Morrison. “Call me Bob,” the father said as Mist greeted him formally.

  Mist indicated the buffet table. “Help yourself. I’ll be in the kitchen. Just let me know if you need anything.”

  “You should let me finish up with breakfast,” Betty said. “I know you’re just itching to get those flowers and start arranging.”

  Betty was right, of course. Mist had dreamed of flower arranging the night before, hardly able to wait for morning. Although she regularly put petite vases of flowers in guest rooms and a medium-sized display on the registration counter, she had a bigger flower budget than usual for the Christmas holiday, which allowed for more lavish designs.

  “If you really don’t mind.”

  “Not at all,” Betty said. “Besides, better to get it done before the later check-ins start arriving.”

  “That’s right,” Mist said. “Mr. Blanton and Mrs. Winslow.”

  “Exactly. Now, you run along and take care of whatever you need to get done before tomorrow.” Betty said. “I’ll finish up here. Then I’ll take a stroll down to Marge’s place while you work on the flower arrangements.”

  Mist smiled. Betty’s daily stroll to the candy store provided not only a chance to visit with her longtime friend, but also the opportunity to restock caramels, her favorite addiction.

  “Thank you so much,” Mist said. She was eager to get her hands into decorating. With that in mind, she traded her apron for a ragged sweatshirt with a UC Santa Cruz logo on it, covered that with a pea coat from the local thrift store, and headed out.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Maisie’s Daisies only opened two days a week during the summer and once a week during the winter, when the shop owner brought fresh flowers down from Helena. This schedule only differed once each year, when Maisie brought an extra batch into town just before Christmas, an ideal setup, as far as Mist was concerned. She’d been able to do light touches several days earlier, but would have fresh flowers and greenery for Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. She’d planned ahead for the floral arrangements, making sure to cover the buffet, the centerpieces on the dining tables, the main lobby and the guest rooms.

  “How did you do, Maisie?” Mist entered the small shop with the enthusiasm of a child going toy shopping. “Were you able to get any of the special requests?”

  “Most of them, you’ll be glad to hear.” The petite, plump woman grinned. Her spiked green hair blended in seamlessly with a bucket of ferns and holly right behind her.

  Mist looked over the selection, pleased to see large, white spider mums, in addition to branches of eucalyptus, two items she’d been counting on. She set two large bundles of each aside and debated the various red options. Roses were usually too traditional for her taste, but she could use some to add elegance to the buffet. Carnations could serve for volume on the centerpieces, but she combined them with a heavy purchase of red berries, clustered on branches.

  “More greenery?” Maisie stood back, as if already knowing what Mist
would pick.

  “Absolutely,” Mist answered. “Just give me a mixture, every type of green you have. Like the floor of a forest after a heavy wind. A mosaic of nature.”

  “A mosaic of nature.” Maisie repeated Mist’s words, not to mock, but to contemplate. Mist knew she was used to her unusual orders from other occasions. Like the time just weeks before when she’d asked for a forest fire palate, with the beauty still left in. The Thanksgiving arrangement of burnt orange lilies and dried branches had been exquisite with touches of yellow aster and yarrow.

  “Any mistletoe?”

  “Sold out, I’m afraid. But maybe you could use something here?” Maisie reached under the counter and pulled out a flat tray, placing it on the counter. Mist’s eyes lit up at the sight of tiny pinecones and sticks of cotton, full and fluffy, but still on the branches. The tray also held flat stones, bark, twine and other miscellaneous items.

  “These are truly treasures, Maisie. I’ll never be able to decide.”

  “You don’t have to,” Maisie said. “The tray is for you. I don’t sell this type of stuff. I just collected it, thinking – no, make that knowing – that you’d want to do something unusual.”

  “Unusual is good. It opens up our minds. It’s like life, full of unexpected discoveries.” Mist rummaged through the tray’s contents like another person might explore a jewelry box.

  Maisie transferred the rustic treasures into a handled bag, so Mist could easily carry it. “I’ll invoice the hotel for the flowers. I’ve been jotting down the selections as you picked them. Many guests coming this year?”

  Mist headed for the exit, her arms filled with a festive display of nature. “Seven hotel guests, but I imagine we’ll have a good crowd for dinner.”

  “Well, I’ll be there. And I hope your first Christmas in Timberton will be one of many to come,” Maisie said. “You’ve lifted the town spirits, made people’s lives a little better. I suppose that’s the reason you’re here, if you believe in that kind of thing.” She stepped around the counter to hold the shop door open.