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  “Somewhat better, I suppose,” the professor said.

  Mist stepped back, assuming a proper hostess position, though with a soft blush on her face. “Your rooms are ready, of course, since Betty said you’d try to make it here tonight. And there’s a nice fire going in the front parlor fireplace. So if you’d like to relax, or read, or have one of your famous literary conversations, just make yourselves at home.” She handed both men keys to their rooms and indicated they could fill out registration forms at their convenience. As return guests, the hotel already had all their information.

  “Truly, a spot of tea may be enough for me tonight,” the professor said. “Grading papers is a weary task, and I’m quite ready for a good night’s sleep.”

  “I just happen to have your favorite PG Tips tea,” Mist said, knowing what the professor had enjoyed in the past. “I’ll bring some up to your room along with some McVitie’s digestives.”

  “Brilliant,” the professor said. He checked the room number on his key and headed up the stairs with his luggage.

  “Anything for you, Michael?” Mist said. “Tea? Coffee? Hot cocoa?”

  Michael stepped closer to Mist and gave her a less reserved kiss than the one he’d given in front of the professor. “How about some quiet time with you in front of the fire? I’ll get settled in my room and then come down to the front parlor.”

  “That sounds like a lovely plan,” Mist said, smiling.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Mist prepared the professor’s tea and digestives and delivered them to his room. Knowing the other guests had turned in for the night, she quietly hung small bags of homemade cookies on their doorknobs and slipped a note under each door to let them know of the waiting treats. She returned to the kitchen to check breakfast preparations. Reassured that the morning meal was ready to go, she poured a mug of decaf for Michael, turned off all but one kitchen light and headed to the front parlor. As expected, she found Michael in his favorite chair by the fireplace, a stack of books in his lap.

  “Quite the collection of Christmas books you have on display this year,” Michael said as he held up one hardback copy. “A Visit from Saint Nicholas,” he said. “Better known now as The Night before Christmas, of course. Did you know Clement Clark Moore originally published this anonymously in 1823? He didn’t let it be known he’d written it until 1837.”

  “I didn’t know that,” Mist said, as she took a seat in the chair next to Michael’s, a purple rayon skirt skimming the top of ballet flats. “That’s why it comes in so handy to have a professor of literature around.”

  “You have two, you know,” Michael pointed out. “Nigel is here, too.”

  “Perhaps we should hold a literature class while the two of you are both staying with us,” Mist said. “But then, every day is a class. Life itself is filled with constant instruction.”

  “So true, especially when described in your Mist-type manner.” Michael searched through other books in the pile. “I’m impressed. Harriet Beecher Stowe’s The First Christmas of New England, O. Henry’s The Gift of the Magi, Anthony Trollope’s Christmas at Thompson Hall, and even Rudyard Kipling’s Christmas in India.”

  “And don’t overlook The Grinch Who Stole Christmas,” Mist said. She lifted the popular Dr. Seuss book off a side table and added it to the rest of the stack.

  “Of course,” Michael said. “It wouldn’t be Christmas without a children’s tale.”

  “Children’s tales are tales for all ages, you know.” Mist said. “We’re all children at heart, even more so during this time of year.”

  Michael set the books aside and reached for Mist’s hand, folding it gently into his. “I’ve missed you. The Christmas holiday couldn’t get here quickly enough this year.”

  Mist smiled. “I’ve missed you, too, Michael. However, I believe Christmas comes at the same time each year. There is no difference from one year to the next.”

  “Technically you’re almost correct,” Michael said.

  “Almost?” Mist sat up in mock indignation.

  “There are leap years, my dear Mist.” Michael said. “Those add an extra day.”

  “Time is an ethereal concept to me.” Mist let her free hand float in the air, as if skimming across water. “It flows continuously, so the distance from one Christmas to another is the same. It is simply the space between the two holidays.” She rested her case by staring into Michael’s grey-green eyes, admiring the unique color she’d labeled ‘patina’ the first time they’d met.

  “There’s no use in debating your view of the universe.” Michael laughed. He kissed her hand and released it, as if admitting defeat. “Tell me about this year’s guests. Are there any that I’ll know, aside from Nigel? What about Clara Winslow and her gentleman friend?”

  Mist shook her head. “Not this year, though they hope to be here next year. But we’ll have a full house. Quite a few guests are here already – a nice family of three from Florida, and a woman from New York. They’ve turned in for the night already, after a long day of travel. Then we have you and the professor, of course. And others will be arriving tomorrow.”

  “Adults? Children?” Michael took a sip of decaf and waited politely for whatever information Mist felt proper to give.

  “Both. Quite an interesting group, I suspect, very last-minute bookings,” Mist explained. “A theatre not far from here burned down a few days ago. Several cast members could not get flights home after their show was cancelled, so they’ll be spending Christmas with us. A mother and daughter, plus two other cast members.”

  “You’ll have a full house, indeed,” Michael said. “Or a full hotel, I should say.”

  “A full home,” Mist whispered, as if telling a secret.

  “Yes, a good point,” Michael said. “The Timberton Hotel becomes home to anyone who steps inside, especially at Christmas.”

  “And that …” Mist said as she stood up, “is not entirely by chance. Which reminds me that I still have work to do.”

  “At night?” Michael tried unsuccessfully to hide his disappointment, though it was moderated with a grin.

  “Yes, even at night.” Mist stepped around behind his chair and placed both hands on his shoulders. She leaned forward just close enough to whisper in his ear. “Night is often when the magic begins.”

  Leaving Michael to enjoy the warmth of the fire, Mist fixed herself a cup of chamomile tea in the kitchen and slipped into the back hallway. Having her own accommodations at the end of the hall was convenient, as it gave her privacy, yet proximity to the kitchen, where she usually started and ended each day. Only Betty’s room was in the same hallway, which she found a relief. As she’d grown continually fonder of the hotelkeeper over the years, it eased her mind to know Betty could reach her easily, if needed.

  Setting her tea down on a crocheted doily by her bed, Mist moved to her easel, which was already set with small canvas squares. Having established a tradition of offering a miniature painting to each guest on Christmas morning, she sat back and contemplated the blank canvases. With so many new guests this year, the squares seemed emptier than usual. Shifting in her seat, she wondered how this could be. It was as if the squares were simply air, not even canvas. If she touched a brush to one of them, would it simply pass through the other side? It was the only image that came to mind. Other than with Michael and the professor, she had no frame of reference for any of this year’s guests.

  Preparing her paints, she arranged the colors in a row, from the most muted to the brightest. Selectively, she applied a base color to each small canvas until a quilt of varied colors filled her easel. Perhaps the colors and personalities would draw themselves together as the guests became more familiar to her and to each other. The whimsical thought even hit her that they might simply depart with a square of color. This sudden notion tickled her such that she laughed out loud, a bold exclamation uncharacteristic for her usual calm manner. Clasping a hand over her mouth, she stepped away from the easel, regained her composure
, and proceeded to put the paints away.

  Once settled in bed, she pulled a down comforter up under her chin and closed her eyes. Even as she drifted off to sleep, a faint smile crept across her face. A square of color, indeed!

  CHAPTER SIX

  As was her habit, Mist was awake by five-thirty in the morning, in plenty of time to stretch and do deep breathing exercises to ease into what would surely be a busy day. Dressing in soft layers of cotton, she arrived in the kitchen by six to pre-heat the oven for the lemon-poppy seed muffins she planned to serve for breakfast. She then ran fresh coffee beans through the grinder, fixed a small pot of coffee in the kitchen for Betty and herself, and set up a more expansive beverage service in the front lobby. Many guests and townsfolk wouldn’t stir until the café doors opened for breakfast at seven. But having coffee set out by six-thirty was important, if only so Clive could sneak in for a cup.

  “Good morning.” Betty’s voice surprised Mist, who wasn’t used to seeing her much before breakfast started.

  “You’re up early,” Mist said. “I hope you weren’t having trouble sleeping.” She smiled at the hotelkeeper’s morning appearance, which she found to be one of Betty’s most endearing looks. Her faded rose chenille bathrobe was a good thirty years old, but so soft and comfortable that Betty wouldn’t think of replacing it, much less her slippers from the same era. Above all, Mist loved the way Betty let her hair hang loose before dressing for the day. The kitchen lights always caught the silver strands in a manner Mist found enchanting.

  “Not at all,” Betty said as she poured a mug of coffee and took a seat at the center island. “I fell asleep early reading, so woke up early. I thought you might like extra help, between serving breakfast and greeting the remaining arrivals.”

  Mist placed the muffins in the oven, set a kitchen timer, and poured herself a mug of coffee, as well. “All will be fine. The rooms are ready, and breakfast will be simple today – an egg or tofu scramble with mushrooms and sun-dried tomatoes, served with fresh berries and lemon-poppy muffins. Maisie will drop by to help in case guests arrive before breakfast is over. Besides, you have the cookie exchange this afternoon. That will keep you busy enough.”

  Betty’s face brightened. “Yes, it’s my favorite event of the year. And some residents have gotten quite creative with recipes this time. I dare say we should call it an everything-sweet exchange.”

  Mist laughed. “It doesn’t have the same ring to it, I’m afraid.”

  “You’re right. We’ll stick with ‘cookie exchange,’ as is the tradition.” Betty took another sip of coffee and then set the mug down. “Speaking of which, I have molasses sugar cookies wrapped and ready to put out. Made them myself,” she added with a look of pride.

  “Yes, the delightful aroma floated throughout the hotel yesterday afternoon.” Mist closed her eyes and inhaled, as if enjoying the gingery smell that very moment. “It was exquisite.”

  “The cookies weren’t bad, either,” Betty said. An impish expression crossed on her face. “Of course I had to test a few.”

  “As did Clive, I imagine,” Mist said.

  “Naturally.” Betty chuckled. “He does consider himself the official taste-tester around here, after all.” She stood, finished her coffee, and put the empty mug in the sink. “I’d better go make myself presentable before guests arrive.” The statement brought a smile to Mist’s face, knowing Betty’s equal intention was to dress, pin her hair up, and dab on a bit of makeup before Clive showed up for breakfast. As it was, she’d barely left the room when Clive poked his head in the kitchen door.

  “Something smells good,” Clive said. He held a cup of coffee from the lobby, as Mist already knew he would.

  “Lemon-poppy seed muffins,” Mist said. “And not ready for testing yet, I’m afraid. Another five minutes should be about right.”

  “I am a patient man,” Clive said. “I can manage that.” He took a seat. “Anything I can help with today? The gallery doesn’t open until noon.”

  Mist brought the kitchen’s coffee pot over to Clive and topped off his cup. “I don’t think so. Maisie’s going to help with breakfast. A few more guests will be arriving, but their rooms are prepared. And Betty seems ready for the annual cookie exchange this afternoon. It should be a smooth day.”

  “A smooth day is a good day.” Clive nodded his head as if pondering a profound idea.

  Mist opened the oven door and checked the muffins, determining another minute of baking was needed. Moving to the refrigerator, she brought out the ingredients for the breakfast scrambles and set them alongside two large skillets on the stove. Sounds from the front hall indicated her timing was perfect. Guests were rising for the day and heading to the lobby for coffee and tea. Townsfolk wouldn’t be far behind.

  “Good morning,” Betty said, entering the kitchen with hair and makeup properly in place for the day. Her forest green pants and sweater, coupled with a Christmas-themed vest, gave her a festive seasonal look. Clive wasted no time greeting her with a kiss, though it didn’t escape his vision that Mist was taking the muffins out of the oven.

  “I believe I only have half your attention, Clive,” Betty teased. She patted his shoulder playfully. “I see you eyeing those muffins.”

  “It’s not my fault that Mist is such a good cook, you know,” Clive protested.

  “Well, now, you have a good point there,” Betty said.

  Mist felt a surge of happiness watching the two senior lovebirds banter back and forth. Leaving them to continue their morning chatter, she headed to the café to check the buffet and table settings, as well as the coffee and tea in the front entry area. Olga Savinova was just tapping her way down the hallway with her cane.

  “Good morning, Ms. Savinova,” Mist said. “I hope you slept well. Would you care for any coffee or tea?”

  “I slept very well, indeed, and please call me Olga. Tea sounds delicious.”

  Mist fixed a cup of tea and escorted the woman into the café, so that she wouldn’t have to juggle the tea with her cane to move again. It never hurt to open the café a few minutes early. Besides, she could already hear footsteps approaching both outside and on the interior stairway. Not surprisingly, Clayton was the first to arrive, as was his habit. Maisie accompanied him, but veered off toward the kitchen as he took a seat. Mist brought out a large bowl of berries, as well as the lemon-poppy seed muffins – minus one that Clive had “tested,” of course.

  “What a lovely café,” Luisa Rivera said as she entered. Maria followed, navigating her own wheelchair into the room, her father behind her. Seeing them enter, Mist suggested a seating not far from the doorway where three chairs surrounded a four-sided table, making it easy for Maria to take a place.

  “Thank you,” Mist said. “It’s really a community gathering place. You’ll see some of our townsfolk come join in for meals.”

  Michael was the next to arrive, bounding down the stairs with agility. This made Mist’s heart leap with joy. After seeing him limp at times in the past while he fought off a tumor in his leg, it was apparent this was a year of remission. He exchanged warm smiles with Mist and took a seat at Clayton’s table.

  One by one, hotel guests and local residents arrived, sharing conversation with each other and enjoying the breakfast scrambles that Maisie brought out from the kitchen. The professor chose a seat at the same table as Olga, which precipitated an animated discussion of Russian versus English tea cultures.

  Shortly before the last breakfast diners departed, Mist saw Liam Gallagher, one of several guests due to arrive, step into the lobby. If she hadn’t already known he was a dancer, his lithe posture would have betrayed it. His dark hair, pale skin, and blue eyes combined with the black turtleneck sweater he wore under a winter coat to make an elegant statement. He might have well been a print model.

  “Welcome,” Mist said. She took his coat, hoping he would offer his name before she had to guess which of two expected male guests he might be. “I’m Mist. We’re just finishing
up breakfast servings. You should help yourself, if you’d like.”

  “Liam Gallagher,” he said, reaching out to shake her hand. Mist noted a faint Irish accent as he spoke. “And I’m early. I imagine these are last night’s guests. I don’t want to intrude.”

  “Nonsense,” Mist said, surprising herself with the casual response. “These are not only last night’s guests, but also today’s townsfolk, and now one of tonight’s guests, and anyone else who may walk through that door.”

  “Yes,” Betty said, stepping into the lobby to offer help with registration. “I’d do as she says. She can be a tough one.”

  Liam laughed, immediately relaxing. “I find that a little hard to believe at first impression, but I’ll have to take your word for it.” Setting his luggage by the staircase, he followed Mist into the cafe. Seeing a newcomer arrive, the professor waved him over, adding yet an Irish twist to the tea discussion.

  After the last breakfast was served, Mist and Betty made quick work of the dishes, leaving the kitchen clean and ready for the day.

  “Hectic already,” Betty noted.

  Mist smiled. “We have three more guests to arrive, a cookie exchange, Christmas Eve dinner, and the Christmas brunch and morning celebrations ahead of us. I have a feeling we haven’t even touched the surface.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Heather and Keira Dawson arrived shortly after one pm, looking very much related to each other with blonde hair, slim build and angular facial features. If not for their twenty year age difference and varying heights, they might have been mistaken for twins. As it was, ten-year old Keira and Heather Dawson were clearly mother and daughter.

  With Betty in the kitchen, preparing for the cookie exchange shortly to follow, Mist greeted the two arriving guests and helped them with registration and their luggage. No sooner had the Dawsons been shown to their room, Mist returned to the lobby to find the remaining guest had arrived.