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

“Maisie,” Mist said, pausing just a second in the doorway. “That’s the reason we’re all here.”

  * * *

  When Mist returned, she saw a dark green SUV sitting in front of the hotel. Her first thought, oddly enough, was how well the vehicle’s color blended with the foliage in her arms. If not for the chrome and glass, she might even have been able to incorporate it in the holiday décor. The thought made her smile.

  “Well, look at all that,” Betty remarked as Mist entered the kitchen. “We might not have room for food on the tables once you finishing spreading all that around.”

  “You’ll see,” Mist said, setting the flowers and greenery in a bucket, stems down. She moved to the sink, filled a pitcher with water, and poured it into the bucket. “It will all come together – guests, food, decorations, memories and hope.”

  “That’s good to hear,” Betty said. “Because this hotel is filling up by the minute. Mr. Blanton arrived while you were out, much earlier than expected.”

  “His room is ready.” Mist pulled a single spider mum from the bucket, contemplating it with fixed concentration.

  “I’m sure it is,” Betty laughed. “I never worry about the rooms with you here. But I did have him wait in the parlor until you returned, in case you wanted to check the room.”

  “Just eucalyptus and berries.”

  “What?”

  “The perfect companions to this flower are eucalyptus and berries. Such a wonderful mix of textures, don’t you think, Betty?” She pulled a branch of eucalyptus out of the bucket, along with a cluster of berries and held them up together, experimenting with the height of each in relation to each other.

  “Well, what do you know? You’re absolutely right,” Betty said. “I would have just thrown a bunch of those into a vase with red carnations and some fern.”

  Mist smiled. “That would have been beautiful, too.” She set the flower and accompanying branches back into the bucket, washed and dried her hands and headed to the front parlor, where she found the new guest sitting in an armchair, book in hand, just as Betty had described him the night before.

  An advantage to her unique way of walking soundlessly, Mist observed him, unnoticed. Seated, it was hard to guess his height, but he appeared tall. Definitely lanky, as evidenced by the angle of one leg dangling over the other. His hair was a medium brown, not short but not long. Only the words in the leather-bound book he held could see his eyes. He held a pencil in one hand, tapping its eraser against his right cheek every few seconds. He wore a pair of brown slacks and a simple, light-green shirt, plain and unremarkable.

  “Mr. Blanton?”

  The man looked up from the book and paused, not looking around, as if unsure what direction the sound came from. Mist repeated his name a little louder. He turned his head in her direction and smiled. Standing up, he set the book in the chair and crossed the room, extending his hand. She noticed he walked with a slight limp.

  “Yes, but please call me Michael.”

  Now, facing him directly, Mist could see his eyes, yet couldn't pinpoint the color. Was there such a thing as foggy steel green? Not quite brown, not quite green, not quite hazel. Almost grey, but with a touch of…that third chalk stick from the right side of her pastel container.

  Mist refocused her attention on greeting the guest, who now looked mystified, as if wondering where she had gone. If only she could explain that she wasn't quite sure herself. There had been many times in the past that she’d wished to do just that, times when a color or texture took her to an alternate consciousness before releasing her from its spell.

  “I’m so sorry, I just…”

  “They’re green-grey, or grey-green, as you wish.” He smiled. “Don’t worry, they throw everyone off. I don’t think there’s an actual name for the color, but my mother had the same eyes.”

  “I see,” Mist said, though she didn't see at all. Green-grey or grey-green fell far short as a description. “I believe I would call them patina.”

  “Patina? Is that even a color?”

  “Colors can be many things – light, sound, texture,” Mist said, more convinced now that recognition had sunk in. “There’s a slight touch of copper in there with the green and grey. Your eyes are patina.”

  “I’ll put that on my driver’s license, then, when it comes up for renewal.”

  “You should,” Mist said, pleased to have solved a puzzle. She turned away, retrieving a registration card and pen from the desk, which she handed to the guest. “I believe your room is ready, but I’d like to check it quickly. I’ll be right back.”

  Leaving Mr. Blanton to fill out the hotel card, Mist went to the back hallway closet and perused her options. Flowers would not be ready until mid-afternoon, but she could put out a chocolate mint now. She looked over the shelves of odds and ends and chose a vintage copy of Dylan Thomas’s A Child’s Christmas in Wales. Closing the closet, she made a quick trip up the rear staircase and back. The room was ready.

  “Room 14, just up the stairs and to the right. I’ll show you the way.”

  “That’s OK. I know where it is.”

  “Then let us know if you need anything. If I’m not here, Betty will be.”

  “Thank you. I’m glad to see Betty has help now. She’s always worked so hard to run this hotel.”

  “I only do a few things around the hotel; mostly I run our small café.” Mist pointed across the hall. A carved wooden sign with the word “Moonglow Cafe” hung from the arch of the doorway.

  “A café here, that’s new. Great idea, as a matter of fact. I used to smuggle food in with me, to avoid going to that horrible place down the road.”

  “Wild Bill’s”

  “Yes, that’s the one!” He shuddered. “Well, whatever you serve here is bound to be great in comparison to those greasy eggs.”

  “I hope you think so. Perhaps you’ll have dinner here tonight and see.”

  “Are there any other new options in town?”

  “Not really.”

  “Then I’ll plan on it.”

  With that, the guest slung a large duffel bag over his shoulder. Holding onto the banister for support, he headed upstairs, leaving Mist pondering both his limp and the dinner menu.

  “Mist, dear?” Betty’s voice calling her to the kitchen pulled her mind away from the odd conversation. Had she just completed a check-in with a discussion solely encompassing eye color and greasy eggs?

  “Mr. Blanton is getting settled in,” Mist said, as she entered the kitchen. “I put him in Room 14, as noted in the registration book.” She saw a new bag of caramels on the kitchen’s center table and smiled.

  “Yes, that’s his favorite room,” Betty said. “It has a comfortable chair for reading and gets a view of the sunset each evening. He requests the same room each year.”

  “Where is he from?” It wasn't the eye color that had Mist intrigued, or was it? No, there was something about his overall demeanor. Calm, yet guarded, like a book daring to be opened.

  “New Orleans, I believe, though he doesn't have a southern accent,” Betty admitted. “His address lists a post office box there.”

  “We don’t always end up where we begin,” Mist mused. “There’s something familiar about him. Not about him specifically, but the energy around him.” She knew Betty wouldn't quite understand this. Even after months of knowing each other, metaphysical philosophy wasn’t a subject they discussed. Not that Betty didn't send her questioning looks on occasion. But she was used to that.

  “You know best, dear,” Betty said.

  “I sense a similar energy around the Morrisons. I know you said they’ve had a tough year.”

  “Yes,” Betty said. “They lost their youngest child last year. I believe it might have even been on today’s date. It’s the reason they weren't able to be here. They cancelled their reservation at the last minute.”

  “No wonder there is an aura of sadness around them,” Mist said. “We’ll have to pull together some holiday joy to help fill
the emptiness.” Though she had been just a toddler when she lost her parents to a car accident, she’d been eighteen when the grandmother who raised her passed away. She remembered the pain of that loss.

  Mist turned to the bucket of flowers and greenery, contemplating the arrangement options silently. The bark-covered containers she’d been constructing over the last few weeks would be just right for each table’s centerpiece – not too large to crowd the place settings, they would add a holiday touch to the meal. Her overall vision of the table blended the best of everything the season had to offer. Not the least of which were the guests themselves.

  The residents of Timberton were enthralled with her food; she knew that. After all, they hadn’t had many options before she arrived. But she also suspected they didn't recognize the true ingredient that made the meals special: the people who sat at the table, who brought their silent dreams and wishes with them. Whether in conversation with each other, or reading a newspaper next to a warm cinnamon roll, those thoughts and feelings were ever present.

  “I’ll be in the dining room,” Mist said.

  “You mean the café,” Betty laughed. “Don’t forget it’s your café now, not just another hotel parlor.”

  “The café belongs to us all,” Mist said. “It doesn’t belong to me, or to any one person.” She smiled, knowing Betty wouldn't disagree with that. Arguing with Mist’s view of the world was pointless.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Tables cleared, breakfast long over, the café stood before Mist like a blank canvas. Except that it wasn't. She’d rearranged the tables and chairs a week before to match her concept of the holiday meals. Paintings of snow-dusted branches hung on the walls, bringing a touch of the wintery outdoors inside. Garlands of evergreens draped across the upper walls, tiny white lights hidden inside, a secret to be revealed on Christmas Eve.

  Mist set to work, weaving tapestries of eucalyptus and pinecones, bursts of floral colors and dry branches, ribbons and bark. As she created, she hummed Christmas melodies she’d known since childhood, the music of memories. Hours flew by. In the end, a magnificent arrangement spanned the center of the buffet, with miniature renditions of the same on each table.

  “Mighty fine.”

  Mist turned to see Clive standing in the doorway, nodding his head with approval. She smiled. It was a far cry from the western art he displayed in his gallery, but he was clearly impressed. That was the thing about holiday decorations. People’s hearts could bond over them.

  “Good afternoon, Clive. What brings you around today? Wouldn't be a certain lady we both know?” His face reddened like a schoolboy caught kissing a pretty girl under the bleachers.

  “You can tease me all you want, young lady,” Clive said. “But I’m here to replace a bulb in that entryway chandelier before the cookie exchange this afternoon. I don’t want Betty climbing up a ladder. Her hip’s been bothering her lately. She won’t say so, but I see the way she runs her hand over it when she’s been working too much.”

  “I’ve seen her do that, too. I’m glad you’re here to help her.”

  “Well, if not me, you’ll be climbing those ladders, too. And we don’t want that.”

  “That’s sweet of you to worry about me, but I’m strong and don’t mind climbing ladders.”

  Clive laughed. “Oh, I’m not worried about you. I just don’t want you falling and breaking an arm. What would we eat? The whole dang town might just starve.”

  Mist swatted him with a eucalyptus branch and pushed him out of the room. Both laughing, they almost bumped into a woman who stood directly under the chandelier in question. They straightened up quickly, like children just caught misbehaving.

  “Welcome to the Timberton Hotel,” Mist said, extending her hand. The woman’s soft, wrinkled hand slid into her grasp.

  Clara Winslow stood no more than five foot two and appeared frail enough that one light gust of wind could blow her clear out of town. Even her winter coat did little to add bulk to her frame. Her left hand held two red mittens, a toast to the season. Snow speckled her dark leather nursing type shoes. It struck Mist as odd the woman wasn't wearing a hat or scarf, as if she didn't care whether the crisp air chilled her face or neck. And then it occurred to Mist: perhaps she didn't care. This was the guest who was traveling without her husband for the first time, to spend a holiday at a hotel that had been their favorite for many years. Together, always together.

  “Here, let me take your coat,” Mist offered. She introduced herself as she helped Mrs. Winslow remove her arms from the wool sleeves. She hung the coat on an antique oak stand in the corner of the front hall. She led her to the desk to fill out a registration card and pick up her room key. As she filled out the required information, the woman glanced around with a mixture of appreciation and sadness.

  “I’m happy to be here,” Mrs. Winslow said.

  “And we’re happy to have you here,” Mist responded.

  “I didn't know if I would be, but I am.”

  “That’s good,” Mist said, treading lightly. There was no reason to say anything else. Mrs. Winslow would disclose more if she wanted to.

  “This was…oh, never mind. If the room is ready, I’d love to get settled in.”

  “As a matter of fact, it’s ready and waiting for you. Let me show you where it is.”

  “It’s fine, I know where…or, yes, maybe you should show me.” The comment didn't take Mist by surprise. Betty’s note in the registration book specified not to put Mrs. Winslow in Room 19, the one she and her husband had always shared.

  Mist took the key from a cubbyhole on the wall behind the desk and led Mrs. Winslow upstairs. She saw the woman glance toward Room 19 as they turned away from it and headed down a different hallway.

  The room Mist had chosen for the widow looked out into a courtyard behind the hotel. Room 16 was light and airy, cheerful even when sunshine had to fight its way through cloud and snow during this winter season. A double bed fit nicely into the space, still allowing room for a sitting area near the window. Mist had switched out the regular bed covering for an Amish quilt with holiday colors. A petite crystal vase held a single white rose and a sprig of holly. Mist had also seen to it that the Tiffany lamp on the bedside table blended with the colors in the quilt.

  “My, it’s lovely! And that quilt is beautiful. Why, I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “It’s a cathedral star pattern, quilted with holiday colors and prints,” Mist said.

  “It looks like a stained glass window! Everything is perfect, my dear.”

  “I hope you enjoy the room, Mrs. Winslow. It’s filled with sunshine when the weather cooperates. The antique walnut wardrobe is one of my favorite pieces in the hotel.”

  “Carl would have loved that wardrobe,” Clara said. She turned to Mist to explain. “My late husband. I just lost him a few months ago.”

  “I’m so sorry.” Mist’s sincerity made Clara smile.

  “It’s OK, my dear. I almost didn't come to Timberton this year, but I decided I would feel closer to Carl if I came, closer to those wonderful holiday memories.” Clara paused, looking around.

  “I’ve left some books on the nightstand for you,” Mist said. “If the radiator acts up, just call us right away. It can be temperamental.”

  “It’s perfect. And please call me Clara.” She stepped forward unexpectedly and hugged Mist, an impulsive gesture that took them both by surprise. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome, Clara. I’ll let you settle in. There will be wine, tea and refreshments in the front parlor later this afternoon.”

  “How wonderful. What time is that?”

  “Anytime,” Mist whispered. “Betty will tell you five o’clock, but really, it might be anytime.” Mist smiled at Clara’s quizzical expression as she slipped out into the hall and closed the door.

  Mist found Betty and Clive sitting at the center table when she returned to the kitchen. Clive had already finished switching out the light bulb.

&
nbsp; “I think everyone’s in for the day,” Mist said.

  “Actually, no, dear,” Betty said. “I had calls from both of tomorrow’s guests. The weather shows a storm blowing in tomorrow. Ms. Greeley is flying in a day early, to make sure she doesn't get stranded traveling. And Professor Hennessy is driving down from Missoula for the same reason. Seems we’ll have a good crowd by tonight.”

  “Good that they’re traveling while it’s safe.” Mist began recalculating dinner plans in her head. “What time do they expect to arrive?”

  “The professor will be here this afternoon. Ms. Greeley won’t be in until around dinnertime.”

  “Two more for dinner will be easy,” Mist said. “There’s always plenty of food, since I’m never sure how many people will come by. And I do like to have extra for Hollister. On cold nights like this, he usually comes around.”

  “You take good care of him, Mist.”

  “We all do,” Mist said.

  “What’s on the menu for tonight?” Clive was always first in line for dinner.

  Mist smiled. “We’ll just have to see what comes together.”

  “I smelled bread baking early this morning,” Betty said.

  “That’s always a good sign,” Clive said. Mist was certain she heard him smacking his lips as she headed out of the kitchen.

  * * *

  Marge was the first to arrive for the cookie exchange, bringing a plate of snickerdoodles, which she placed on the buffet. Mist had heard that Marge’s cookies were legendary, a town favorite. She eyed them with interest as she set out a pot of freshly brewed coffee. She’d make a point of trying them.

  A few minutes later, Maisie arrived, a tub of chocolate chip mint cookies tucked under her arm. She handed Betty the container before taking off her coat, knit cap and thick, emerald green scarf and hanging them on the lobby rack.

  “These look decadent, Maisie!” Betty exclaimed. “We’d better watch these carefully. We have a five-year-old chocolate fanatic running around here this year.” She added the cookies to the buffet arrangement.