Epilogue

“Sure thing, Mr. Deverill. Dev,” she corrected, unable to keep the goofy, girlish smile off her face as she cradled the phone between her chin and shoulder and typed in his request to book his room for an additional week. “Will you be needing me to send someone to pick you up after the game is over? Fine, okay. Will do.” She hung up the phone and glanced over at the small television set she’d brought in from the kitchen and hooked up at the front desk.

ESPN was covering the third annual Brett Hennessey Foundation poker tournament out at the resort. She smiled with ridiculous pride as she watched her husband sitting in the booth with the announcers, calling the play. She watched with particular interest as they talked about the young Irish player, Iain Summerfield. In the past three years, he’d become something of a new sensation and was threatening to topple some of Brett’s long-standing records. Brett was not only not bothered by this, he seemed kind of excited for the kid.

Vanetta came around the corner just then and Kirby dragged her gaze away from the action. “I need to see if we can get Tommy to head over to the resort to pick up Dev. He’s already out of the tournament, but he just called to extend his stay.” Her smile turned a bit cheeky. “I think there’s a certain French ski team racer who caught his eye.”

Vanetta fanned her face with her hand. “If I was only a few years younger, I’d show that scamp what a real woman could do.”

Kirby laughed, as she often did when she spent any time around the older woman. Vanetta had come east during Dan’s trial and had never gotten around to going back. Brett had ended up setting up another management company out west to run her boarding house. He’d tried to talk Dan into sticking around, too, but he and his father had ended up in Palm Springs, both wanting a fresh start without the past haunting them. Brett respected their need for privacy and kept his shadow from looming anywhere over them, but he still kept in contact, and Kirby thought that someday, if he had anything to say about it, they’d find their way back to a solid relationship.

Vanetta had turned out to be a godsend to them both, managing a good part of the day-to-day business of the inn while Kirby helped Brett with his flourishing home rehabbing business. Kirby had found a profound happiness there, working side by side with Brett, indulging her own creativity that fulfilled her in a way she’d never thought possible. They’d never formally hired Vanetta on; she’d just sort of worked her way into their lives. By now Kirby 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