couldn’t imagine what she’d do without her.
“Why don’t you head on over to the resort,” Vanetta was saying, turning the TV around so she could watch. “Go see that handsome husband of yours, and bring Mr. Dev back yourself. I can hold the fort down. Besides, looks like another storm is coming. Supposed to be another record snow year.” She rubbed her elbows. “Might be time for a bit of buttered rum. Keep the joints working,” she grumbled. As she always did during the winter season. Brett had tried to talk her into staying out west during the cold months, to which she’d frostily replied, “What, and leave this place to fall down around your ankles?”
They both knew that Vanetta was happiest when she was working, or tending to something. And what she most wanted to tend to was the two of them. They were family. Even Aunt Frieda had started to make routine visits, which had gotten longer and longer each fall season.
What a family they’d become, Kirby thought as she scooted out from behind the desk, barely missing tripping over Elvira. Barn cat turned loyal companion. She’d never left that night after they’d taken Dan away. She’d caught Brett feeding her out back, and after a while, she’d just kind of ended up staying. So far she hadn’t attacked a single guest.
Kirby slapped her thigh and whistled for Elvis. The big, lumbering mutt trotted out from her office and then perked right up when he saw her slipping on her coat. Brett had found him on the side of the road by the first farmhouse they’d rehabbed. He’d been a permanent guest ever since.
She gave his head a good scratch and then gave Vanetta a quick hug. Always discombobulated the older woman, which was half the reason why she did it. “I think I saw Clemson hanging around the foyer,” she told her. “Maybe he’d like to join you for that buttered rum,” she added with a wink as she snagged the truck keys from the front board, where they hung next to Brett’s bike keys. And her own bike keys.
“Old coot,” Vanetta grumbled. “Can’t find something better to do than to get in my way.” But Kirby caught her patting at her hair as she walked into the foyer.
She grinned to herself as she opened the front door and headed out to her truck, Elvis trotting by her side. It started snowing again. Big fat flakes swirling through the air. She stuck her tongue out, letting a few land there and melt, and raced Elvis to the truck.
She climbed in and pulled the seat belt across her lap, then laid a protective hand on her slowly burgeoning belly. A medical miracle, her OB had called it. But, at forty-three, all was going blissfully, almost ridiculously well. By the end of summer, there’d be another permanent guest at the inn.
Yep, the Hennessey Fortune Factor was still going strong.
Donna Kauffman
