Dancing in Lake Mistletoe (Lake Mistletoe #4)

Chapter Three

Mindi

I follow a wonderful aroma down the stairs and to the front of the inn, where Annette is behind the desk, checking in a gentleman and two small boys.

“Here’s your key. You’re all set in your usual room—301.”

“Thank you, Annette,” he says as she hands a key ring to him and scoots a glass jar, filled with candy corn and orange foil-wrapped chocolates, toward the end of the desk. The boys each reach inside and pull out a handful of treats before following him up the stairs.

“Good morning, Mindi,” she greets when she catches sight of me.

“Good morning,” I return.

“You’re up bright and early. Do you need a ride to the resort?” she asks.

I shake my head.

Ellen, a core dancer in the cast, is supposed to be arriving in a couple of days. She and I both attended the School of American Ballet—or SAB—in New York City. After, I joined the American Ballet Theatre—or ABT—in New York, and she joined Ballet Idaho, a smaller company based in Boise. She’s driving in, and I’ll be commuting to and from rehearsals and performances with her.

“No. Rehearsals don’t start until next week. I was just following the smell of bacon,” I say.

“Oh, well, just take the hallway down to the second door on the right, and you’ll find breakfast set up in the dining room,” she says.

“Thank you.”

I follow her directions and find Willa and Keller seated at a large table. Trixie is across from them with Beckham in her arms, a bottle in his mouth.

“Good morning,” I say as I make my way inside and take one of the empty chairs beside Trixie.

“Hi, Mindi. Did you get settled in okay?” Willa asks as she slides a coffee carafe over to me.

I lift the coffee cup from the place setting in front of me and turn it over on the saucer, fill it with the steaming elixir, and add cream and sugar from the lazy Susan in the middle of the table.

“Yes. Everything is wonderful. I especially love the basket you had in the bathroom. The lip balm is amazing,” I say before blowing over the rim of the mug and taking a sip.

“Norah makes those by hand,” Trixie says.

“Norah?”

“She’s Keller’s sister. She owns the flower shop in town, and she grows her own herbs. She makes a variety of homemade tinctures and teas for colds and sore throats, as well as essential oil lip balms and lotions,” Willa explains.

“Does she sell the lip balms and lotions” I ask.

“She does. She has a display at the flower shop, but if you want, I could have her bring some samples over,” she offers.

“I don’t want her to go to any trouble,” I say.

Trixie waves me off. “It’s no trouble. She stops in to deliver fresh flowers every Sunday, and I’m sure she’d be happy to bring a basket of goodies with her for you to try.”

These people are so nice.

“That’d be lovely,” I say.

A petite woman comes in, carrying a tray loaded with scones, and places it on the large sideboard that stands at the far end of the table. It’s loaded down with silver chafing dishes, full of bacon, scrambled eggs, hash browns, gravy, biscuits, and fresh fruits.

“Thank you, Alice,” Willa bellows. “Come meet Mindi.”

The lady wipes her hands on the apron that’s tied around her waist and stops beside my chair.

“Mindi, this is Alice. She and her husband, Hal, run the kitchen around here. So, she’s the one to thank for all the delicious meals you’ll have during your stay,” Willa introduces.

“Mindi, you’re the dancer, right?” Alice asks.

“I am.”

“I received your dietary instructions last week,” she says.

Dietary instructions?

She must read the question on my face because she explains, “Yes, someone with the ballet company sent over that you would need high-protein, low-carb meals.”

I roll my eyes. “Please don’t go to any trouble. I’ll have what everyone else is having.”

“It’s no trouble. I’ll just make sure that Hal sets aside a double main-course portion for you each evening. You’ll need that extra protein with all the dancing you’ll be doing. And as far as the carbs go, a little dessert has never hurt anyone,” she says with a wink. “Breakfast is served buffet-style. Would you like some pancakes? I can make them out of buckwheat and add a scoop of vanilla protein powder.”

“That’s very kind of you, but I think I’m going to attack a plate of bacon, eggs, and hash browns,” I say.

“Perfect. Help yourself,” she says, squeezing my shoulder before she disappears through the door.

I stand and take my plate over to the sideboard and load it down with the delicious-smelling food. When I return to my seat, Willa asks about my plans for the day.

“I think I’m going to take a walk and familiarize myself with the town,” I say.

“That sounds like a great idea. Tonight, after dinner, you’re welcome to join us in the great room. We’re going to be stuffing treat bags with candy and toys to pass out on Halloween while we watch horror movies,” Willa says. “You can meet Norah. She and Keller’s cousin, Hannah, will be here.”

“I don’t want to impose,” I say.

“Impose? It’s an inn activity. It’s all part of the Gingerbread Inn guest experience.” She beams.

“Hmm, I do like horror films. How intense are we talking?” I ask.

“Oh, we like to be scared to death, but we have a couple of tiny humans helping out, so the first show of the night will be Hocus Pocus . Then, once the kiddos are off to bed, we’ll pull out the big guns.”

Keller snickers beside her.

She turns to him and cocks an eyebrow. “What?”

“Oh, nothing. I’m just bracing myself to get no sleep for the next few nights because someone will be elbowing me to go check things out every time the wind blows outside.”

She narrows her eyes. “That tree branch broke loose and was scraping against the windowpane every time the breeze kicked up.”

“That branch was a twig,” he corrects.

“A very noisy twig.”

Beckham chooses this moment to spit out the nipple of his bottle and giggle.

All our eyes go to him as he coos up at his grandmother.

“See,” Keller muses. “Even little man knows his momma’s a big chicken.”

I step out onto the porch, and a shiver runs through me as I wrap the scarf around my neck. Mid-October in New York still sees high temperatures of close to seventy, but here, in the mountains of Idaho, it’s already in the forties.

Looking at the lake, I pop my earbuds in as I cross the street to the footpath that follows the shoreline for a light, easy jog. I usually swim or jump rope to get my cardio in since dancers are advised against running, especially on asphalt or concrete, because it can lead to injuries, such as shin splints, stress fractures, or joint pain. We rely on our bodies for precise movements, and any injury can significantly impact our performance. Power walking and what I refer to as wogging —a combination of walking and jogging—are generally safe as long as we pay close attention to our surroundings.

Careful to keep my pace slow and steady, I make my way onto the path and head toward the pedestrian bridge I see in the distance. The trail is empty, save for a few people walking their dogs, and as I make my way around, I take in the sights.

The town is decorated for fall. All the homes and inns that dot the foothills surrounding the lake are adorned with rustic-hued floral displays, hay bales, corn stalks, and spooky Halloween scenes. The public spaces around town hall are filled with harvest-themed decor—wheelbarrows full of pumpkins and gourds, lampposts wrapped with autumn leaf garlands, giant scarecrows, and large planters bursting with fall flowers, like chrysanthemums, asters, and ornamental cabbage. All of it gives the town a cozy ambiance, but if you look closely, you can see the beginnings of the Christmas preparations. Strings of lights are twined around the posts of the gazebo. Window displays on the storefronts are being removed, and some have already been replaced with holiday scenes and lights. An area on the south side of the lake has a temporary outbuilding, assembled and fenced off to hold what looks to probably be a Christmas tree lot.

I can’t wait to see it all come together. Before I left for the airport, I did a little online snooping and found a bounty of photos of Lake Mistletoe in all its festive glory. They were breathtaking.

I bet it will be a hundred times better in person.

As I round a corner, I catch sight of a group of little girls in leotards and tutus, their hair in topknots, filing out of a two-story brick building. I slow as I watch them excitedly sprint out to meet grown-ups, most likely their parents, in the parking lot.

One girl in particular draws my attention. She has dark brown hair, and she leaps across the asphalt into the arms of a man. A tall, handsome man with broad shoulders and a sharp jawline. He catches her with ease and turns to carry her to a red truck.

They remind me of Leia and her dad. She’s a little girl I met this past summer in North Carolina. My best friend, Eden, is her dance teacher. She was the cutest little thing.

I remember being a tiny dancer, and my teachers were like family. My mother was in the military, and we moved around a lot when I was young. So, making friends wasn’t easy. As soon as I formed a bond with someone, I’d have to change cities and start at a new school. No matter where we landed, Mom would find the closest studio and enroll me immediately.

Back then, dance was a lifeline. My one constant.

It was my only friend.