Matched by Moonlight - GINA WILKINS

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brought them for frequent visits with their great-uncle Leo Finley, the second-generation owner of the place. Kinley had been eleven years old, Logan twelve and Bonnie only eight when Leo’s beloved wife, their great-aunt Helen, had died following a brief illness. Afterward, Leo had closed the bed-and-breakfast, having lost the heart to keep it open, though he hadn’t been willing to sell it, either. He’d lived alone in the former inn for the next eighteen years, doing basic maintenance but letting the place run down a bit as both he and the building had grown older. When he’d died two and a half years ago, he’d left it all equally to his only surviving family, his late niece’s three now-grown children.

      Bonnie had dreamed almost all her life of reopening the inn, and had even majored in hotel management in college as preparation. She had begged, cajoled and bullied her older siblings into joining her in this undertaking when the property became theirs—and because both Kinley and Logan had been at crossroads in their lives at that time, they had allowed themselves to be persuaded.

      Still the compulsive overachiever she’d always been, Kinley was as determined as her sister to make a success of the venture. For her, the inn was a test of her competence, her business acumen. A practical use for her business and real-estate degrees, and a way to boost her confidence that had been bruised in a painful divorce. A fresh start, a new challenge, a new life. For Logan, it was just a job, a way to pay the bills and still be his own boss. For Bonnie, it was simply what made her happy.

      Opening one of the two large ovens in the top-of-the-line kitchen, Bonnie drew out a delicious-smelling breakfast casserole. She’d assembled two of the large dishes last night and had only needed to pop them in the oven this morning. She would serve them with sliced fruit and the bran muffins now browning in the second oven. Yogurt and cold cereals were also available upon request. Bonnie loved spoiling their guests.

      Kinley glanced at her watch. Breakfast would be served in the adjoining dining room at seven, just a few minutes away. “I’ll help you set up.”

      Bonnie sent a smile over her shoulder as she carried the casserole dish into the other room. “Thanks. Rhoda seems to be running a little late this morning.”

      “What else is new?” Kinley muttered under her breath, loading a tray with serving dishes. Helping with breakfast service was not on her tightly arranged agenda for the day, but she had a little extra time built in for flexibility. Her siblings teased her often about trying to schedule unexpected developments.

      She and Bonnie were both fond of Rhoda Foley, the full-time housekeeper who had worked for them since they’d reopened the inn, but their employee definitely marched to her own drummer—not to mention her own clock. Rhoda was a hard worker, tackling everything from cleaning to decorating to helping with meal service, as needed, but she was a little quirky, to say the least. “You need to talk with her again, Bonnie. We have the Sossaman-Thompson wedding this weekend, and everything must run smoothly. You’re going to need Rhoda’s help. And that travel writer, Dan Phelan, is coming tomorrow. It’s important that everything has to look perfect while he’s here. We could get a ton of bookings from his article in Modern South magazine, assuming he enjoys his time here as much as we hope he does, of course.”

      Bonnie chuckled. “Of course. Piece of cake.”

      Placing the food in silver-plated chafing dishes on the antique serving sideboard, Kinley looked around in satisfaction at the airy dining room decorated in traditional Southern style. Rather than one long, stuffy table, they’d utilized four round tables in the big room, each seating six. Silver candlesticks, snowy linens and fragrant flowers in crystal vases decorated the tables, which sat on an antique carpet and were illuminated by an antique silver-plate and crystal chandelier salvaged from an old Virginia plantation house. The chandelier had hung in this room since her great-grandfather built the inn, though Bonnie had it refurbished when they’d restored the place for reopening.

      Despite the formal touches, the room was cozy, warm, welcoming. As was the rest of the inn that had been lovingly and painstakingly restored before they’d officially opened for business just over a year ago.

      “How could he not write a positive review?” Kinley smiled fondly at her sister. “Every inch of the inn is beautiful, the service is superb, the setting idyllic. There’s nothing negative to write. Almost all thanks to you, by the way. I plan to impress the old guy with my business facts and figures, you’ll charm the bow tie off him and Logan...well, maybe Logan should just work quietly in the background,” she added with a wry laugh.

      Stepping back to eye the sideboard with a thoroughly appraising glance, Bonnie asked absently, “What makes you think he’s an easily charmed old man with a bow tie?”

      “I have no idea what he’s like. I’m just teasing.” Kinley moved out of the way when the first group of four guests wandered in, a young couple who were checking out the inn as a potential site for their wedding in the fall and the bride-to-be’s mother and sister. Kinley had a meeting scheduled with them later that day, so she simply bade them good morning and left them to enjoy their breakfast. They were followed in not long afterward by Lon and Jan Mayberry, a blissful pair of honeymooners in their late forties, and by Travis Cross and Gordon Monroe, a pleasant couple enjoying a long-weekend escape from their stressful jobs in Richmond. A nice group, Kinley thought. She always enjoyed visiting with friendly guests of the inn, though Bonnie usually got to know them better than she did.

      Two hours later she helped her sister clear away the remains of the breakfast buffet. Rhoda had still not made an appearance, nor had she answered her cell phone when Bonnie tried to call. They were going to get serious about trying to find her if she didn’t show up soon. Rhoda’s timing wasn’t exactly dependable, but she never just skipped a day at work without at least calling. Bonnie said she would drive to Rhoda’s house if she still hadn’t shown up by nine-thirty.

      The last of the breakfast diners lingered over coffee at their tables, discussing plans for the day in low voices, admiring the gardens visible through the big dining-room windows, looking full and content. Four of the seven guest suites were occupied on this Thursday morning and all but one of the rooms were booked for the weekend, counting the one the travel writer had reserved. The Sossaman wedding would take place Saturday afternoon and the bride and groom had agreed to allow the writer to include photos from the ceremony in his article. The weather prediction was for a nice, clear day. Forsythia, irises, tulips, creeping phlox and early-blooming roses had thrived in the nice temperatures of the past couple of weeks in May, adding splashes of vivid color to the bright green leaves on the trees surrounding the wedding gazebo in the back garden.

      Everything was perfect, she assured herself, refilling her coffee cup and taking a bracing sip. Or at least as perfect as she and her siblings could make it appear to be in front of their guests—one travel writer, in particular.

      Lost in her fantasy of a glowing write-up followed by a flood of bookings and accolades, she jumped dramatically when a loud, jarring crash came from the front of the inn. A couple of guests gasped, and one gave a startled little screech. Hot coffee splashed over the rim of Kinley’s cup. She hissed a curse, quickly setting down the cup and shaking her stinging hand. She was running toward the front of the inn before the sound of the crash fully faded away.

      Grimacing, she threw open the front door and viewed the scene outside as Bonnie groaned behind her in despair.

      An old pickup truck had slammed into the front post of the portico that jutted out from the front of the inn to provide cover for unloading cars at the front door. The post had splintered in half and now that whole corner of the shingled portico sagged dangerously downward. The top half of the post, along with some small debris, had landed on the now badly dented pickup.

      Rhoda climbed out of the driver’s seat of the truck, shoving a broken piece of gingerbread trim out of the way. Her curly salt-and-pepper hair was wildly disheveled around her plain face, but she looked uninjured, to Kinley’s relief.

      “I’m so sorry,” Rhoda called out the minute she was clear of her wrecked truck. “I overslept and I’d forgotten to charge my phone so I couldn’t call you. I stupidly glanced at my watch just as I started to drive under the portico and I misjudged the turn.

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