A Stirring from Salem

by Sheri Anderson

  “Have you heard anything, Sweetness?” Steve asked as he entered from one of the storerooms.

  “From Bill?” she asked.

  “Jo’burg General.”

  “That poor boy lost nearly three pints of blood before he got there, but by the grace of God, he’s still alive.”

  “The grace of Dr. Kayla Brady,” Steve corrected her. “Without you, he’d have died on the way.”

  “Bill left him here with the tracker!” she bellowed.

  “There has to be an explanation,” Steve said, trying to calm her.

  The rear door to the clinic clicked open and Cornelius entered. In his mid-twenties, the Cape Town–born volunteer was normally the most reliable worker they had. He’d taken a year off from getting his veterinary degree to devote his time to the clinic.

  “Where the hell were you?” Kayla demanded, startling both Steve and their assistant. Kayla Brady did not use four-letter words. Ever.

  “A fight broke out last night over at Malivana,” Cornelius answered. Malivana was a small game farm an hour the other side of Hoedspruit. “I took the call and didn’t want to disturb the two of you. I thought you deserved a quiet New Year’s Eve.”

  “Well, we didn’t have one,” Kayla answered. She took a few deep breaths. “What did you find over there?”

  “I never made it, but I hear it was a tempest in a teapot—or more of a whisky bottle,” Cornelius admitted.

  “Why didn’t you get there?” Kayla wondered.

  “The van blew a tire halfway there.”

  “There was no spare?” Steve asked.

  “Nope. I spent the night in the van. Sometimes one forgets how bright the night sky is in Africa—and how few mechanics are open on New Year’s Day. Especially in Hoedspruit.”

  Kayla sighed. “I’m truly sorry, Cornelius. But why no spare?”

  “Ask Dr. Horton,” he answered simply.

  The moment was broken as Kayla’s cell phone rang. She answered abruptly. “Dr. Brady.”

  “Kayla, it’s Marlena. We wanted to wish you and Patch a Happy New Year. Is this a bad time?”

  Kayla realized her agitation was clear as a bell to Marlena. The two had become especially close during their last few months in Salem and read each other well.

  “I just need to get in touch with Bill, and…” Kayla stopped and took a deep calming breath. “Please, give our love to John. I hear he’s fully recovered and all’s well there.”

  “It’s wonderful,” Marlena said. At least it should be.

  Just then, another call came through on Kayla’s cell. The caller ID said B HORTON. “It’s Bill, Marlena, can I call you back?”

  “Any time,” Marlena said. “Tell him we miss him, too.”

  Kayla pushed the “flash” button on her phone. “Bill?”

  But there was no answer. She tried a redial to the number, which was his landline at home. His voicemail answered.

  Kayla was more frustrated than ever.

  “Sweetness, you should get back to Joe,” Steve reminded Kayla calmly. “Let me drop you off and go to Bill’s to see what’s up.”

  Kayla knew he was right. Though it was still morning, Kayla was indeed fading. And she knew their Xhosa housekeeper, Violet, had been promised New Year’s Day off to spend with her husband and son. Besides, if Kayla saw Bill now, she might throttle him.

  “I’ll stock the van for tomorrow,” Cornelius offered. “I know you wanted to get over to the Mapusha weavers tomorrow.”

  “Thank you both,” Kayla agreed. Then she added wryly, “Happy New Year.”

  Steve escorted his exhausted wife out to their Jeep, which was parked next to the van at the rear of the clinic. The Rover was stifling from the searing summer sun, so Steve immediately turned on the air conditioning full blast.

  Cornelius waited in the open doorway until the Jeep disappeared down the gravel highway and into the lush foliage. He then signaled the guard, who slung his rifle over his shoulder and joined Cornelius at the rear of the van.

  Inside the Tom-Ali van were two large cardboard boxes. The guard quickly hoisted them, one on top of the other, and then carried them into the clinic. Cornelius nonchalantly made sure they had not been observed and then bolted the back door of the clinic behind them.

  If the streets of London were a madhouse on New Year’s Eve, they were even worse the next morning. The New Year’s Parade was expected to be bigger than ever for its twenty-fifth anniversary, with more than ten thousand performers participating from around the world. Dance troops, marching bands, clowns, and acrobats. More than a half million people would crowd the two-mile route from Parliament Square to Piccadilly. Some of them had camped over and were suffering from the night before, while others were arriving in droves to view the spectacle.

  In other words, with the parade starting when Big Ben struck noon, if you had someplace to get to, one of the worst times of the year to be in the center of London was 11:00 a.m. on New Year’s Day.

  But Charley had to get ready to leave for Africa that night so she needed lightweight khakis and malaria tablets. Where better to find them on short notice in London than Harrods?

  “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” she said to Chance as they hurried out of Kingston House South and into the bitter cold.

  “Happy to help,” Chance offered as they crossed through the serenely beautiful Ennismore neighborhood. “But why did Jackson have to bail?”

  “He had to go see his fiancée,” Charley answered. She was walking at a fast clip. “You up to walking?”

  “Not again,” Chance groaned.

  “It’s less than ten minutes,” she said, misunderstanding.

  “I meant about Jackson. Abby Deveraux?” he questioned. Jackson and Abby had only been dating for a few months, but Chance knew his impulsive brother well.

  “He’s going to see her now,” Charley responded with a look Chance knew well. “Come on, so much to do!”

  The brother and sister crossed over to Brompton Road and made their way to the most famous department store in the world, Harrods of London.

  ***

  Once known for the royal warrants awarded for serving the Queen for nearly two hundred years, Harrods was now more like an amusement park for shoppers. The massive store had more than three hundred departments and was a zoo for more reasons than one. Not only was it one of the largest department stores in the world, but it also had massive sales starting on New Year’s Day. The times had changed from when holidays were family time—now they honored the heights of consumerism.

  From top to tail, the store was still replete with thousands of Christmas decorations, starting with more than twelve thousand lights that ringed the store’s block-long exterior. Inside were hundreds of lavish Christmas trees and gaily wrapped packages, as well as elves, faeries, and gnomes. Angels with silver-tipped wings and snowmen as big and cold as refrigerators. Reindeer and bright red sleighs. Christmas carols piped in throughout the store. At least for a few more days.

  It had been a family tradition for her mother, Olivia, to take Charley to see Father Christmas at Harrods’ second-floor grotto every year as a child, starting when she was two. Decked out in fur with her perfectly coiffed hair and movie-star makeup, Olivia had offered flirtatious winks whenever she saw the jolly fat man in the red suit and had created incredible moments for Charley to remember.

  Once Charley was too old for those visits, she and her mother had still made nostalgic annual trips to Harrods. But this year, just six months after her mother’s death, Charley hadn’t stepped inside the store during the holiday season.

  When she and Chance walked through the front entrance, it all struck her.

  “I’ll hit the chemist first,” Chance said, picking up a brisk pace. “You’re headed to malaria country…you need to take the tablets right away. You hear me?”
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  There was no answer. Chance realized he was walking alone.

  Ten feet behind him, standing stock-still in the center of the bustling aisle, was Charley. All around her she could see the international women’s designer labels.

  “Sis?” he said, approaching her. “You okay?”

  “Sure,” she said quietly.

  Chance realized they were surrounded by the fashions that had once been competitors of their mother’s now-in-limbo label.

  “Sorry,” he sighed.

  “I am so lucky I have you and Jackson,” Charley said, choking back unexpected tears. “But I miss Mummy and even Dad,” she admitted for the first time in months. “Whatever unspeakable things he did, he was our father.”

  “I’m happy for you, Abby. I really am,” Chelsea said, sniffling.

  “If only my dad was,” Abby admitted.

  The exquisitely cut diamond on her finger seemed to catch fire as it was hit directly by a ray of light shining through the large bay window that looked out on Regent’s Park.

  “With my parents’ crazy history, I don’t know how Dad could judge me. With my luck, Mom will, too.”

  Throughout Abby’s childhood and into her teens, Jack and Jennifer had gone through a divorce, abandonment, and life-threatening illness before they made their way back to each other. Their love for their daughter had never wavered, but the uncertainty and miscommunication in her parents’ relationship had made Abby cautious about love.

  Until she met Jackson.

  As the son of one of the most influential and social couples in the international jet set, Jackson had a je ne sais quoi unlike any of the boys she’d dated in Salem.

  “They’re your parents,” Chelsea sighed with a hint of envy. “They’re supposed to judge you. It means they care.”

  Chelsea’s own background as an adopted and then orphaned child was more difficult than Abby’s, and resentment had sent her into a tailspin as a teenager. She had once been a horrific influence on the willing Abby, but they’d both grown up and were now as close as two friends could be.

  “Your parents care for you, too. I know you heard from your dad over the holidays, and even Hope…” Abby said. “Your mom definitely adores you. I would have loved to have had Billie Reed as my mom.” Abby smiled and then tried her best to change the subject. “And hey, we have a wedding to plan!”

  In fact, that made everything worse. “These tears aren’t about my parents,” Chelsea said. “Max dumped me last night.”

  Max had been her off-and-on boyfriend for more than four years. Whatever they’d been through, Chelsea had always believed that they’d be together forever.

  Abby’s heart sank for her friend. “I’m so, so sorry…”

  The intercom buzzed.

  Abby pushed the button, confused. She wasn’t expecting anyone. “Yes?”

  “It’s me.”

  “Jackson?” she said, startled.

  “Didn’t you get my text?” he asked, having heard the tone in her voice.

  “My phone’s in the bedroom,” she answered. “Chels and I’ve been having a chat, but come in, come in.” She released the intercom button. “Sorry again,” she said, grimacing at Chelsea.

  “Don’t be silly,” Chelsea said, managing a smile.

  A light triple tap said Jackson had gotten there within seconds.

  Abby finger-combed her still tousled mane as she opened the door to her future husband.

  “Hey, I’m a mess, I know. Sorry,” she said coyly.

  The moment was awkward. While she hadn’t showered or changed, Jackson was his usual immaculate self. He was casually handsome in a brown leather duster that matched his dark hair and jeans that were worn in just the right places.

  “You’re beautiful,” Jackson said. With the glow in her eyes, she truly was.

  “I’m really happy for you, Jackson,” Chelsea said as she took a deep breath.

  “Right,” was all he could say. “Abby, why don’t we grab a bite over at The Engineer?”

  The Engineer was Abby’s favorite spot for breakfast, and it was open even on New Year’s Day.

  “Sure! Let me jump in the shower.” Abby smiled. “I love you.”

  “You, too.” Jackson gave her a half smile back.

  Abby put her arms around him and kissed his neck sweetly, whispering, “Max broke up with Chelsea last night.” Then she scampered off to get ready.

  “I heard that,” Chelsea admitted.

  “He can be a bit of a jerk,” Jackson offered.

  “Not really,” Chelsea said. “But thanks for trying to make me feel better.”

  Jackson nodded, and Chelsea finally smiled. “You know, I’ve never seen Abby so happy. And this news gives me faith that love still exists. Thanks for that, too.”

  She didn’t notice Jackson shift uncomfortably.

  “Her dad wasn’t exactly thrilled with the news, but—”

  “She already told her father?” Jackson asked.

  “Yep, and she told him to stuff it!” Chelsea was actually laughing. “You know, I really did need this. There really is true love in the world!”

  Great, Jackson thought. Getting the ring back is not going to be easy.

  Scarlett was doomed to a life of drama from the moment her mother saw her full head of bright red hair. The fact that their last name was O’Hara sealed the deal.

  Originally from Atlanta, Scarlett was in New York at the age of fourteen for the Modeling Association of America International competition when she was discovered while peering into the windows of Tiffany & Co.

  That had been in 1985—the year the first dot-com was registered. When Nelson Mandela was still incarcerated on Robbens Island. When Michael Jackson and Lionel Richie gathered their friends to perform “We Are the World” and the Live Aid concerts took place, all raising millions for the starving in Africa. Back then, Africa had seemed such a distant place…

  Now, so many years later, she was going there.

  “Shit,” she said as she looked at her reflection in the beveled mirror in her suite at the London Hilton on Park Lane.

  Scarlett’s porcelain skin had always been one of her most valuable assets, but it was showing signs of her thirty-nine years. The face she saw in the mirror was not the one she’d seen on the dozens of magazine covers, from Cosmopolitan to Vogue, that she’d graced in more than twenty-five years on the modeling scene. Sure, Photoshop could erase the crow’s feet and fine lines around her pouty lips. But for a woman once deemed “The Look,” that wasn’t much consolation.

  At least Vince Castle was the photographer for this shoot. Scarlett had been his muse since the cover he’d shot of her for The Look had resulted in the magazine skyrocketing to its first sales of more than one million copies. Now they would be shooting the twentieth anniversary edition of that issue, and she was bloody nervous.

  When her agent had told her she’d be sharing the cover and editorial with a new Swedish blonde, eighteen-year-old Brigitta, and stunning, twenty-seven-year-old, milk-chocolate-skinned Nikki Kovacs, Scarlett had thrown one of the screaming fits she’d become famous for. Now she wished she hadn’t. Mimicking the extreme facial expressions from her tirades over the decades, she realized what a toll those expressions had taken.

  “And shit!” she repeated.

  The phone rang. She jumped, startled, and then answered.

  “Yes.”

  “Miss O’Hara, your facial and massage were at eleven,” the clipped British voice said. It was Purity Mind & Body, the spa located in the hotel.

  “Yes?” she repeated.

  “It’s 12:30. We have other guests scheduled at three.”

  “And so?” Scarlett answered with incredulity.

  “Shall we cancel you?”

  “I’ll be five minutes! Do you have any idea who—�
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  “We’ll see you then, ma’am,” the voice interrupted.

  Scarlett blanched as she heard a click.

  “Ma’am? Shit,” she muttered under her breath. The entire point of this shoot was to give her a chance for resurgence. She needed to be as relaxed and pampered as possible.

  Wearing nothing but her hotel robe over her still-toned size two frame, she moved into the living room and opened the minibar. Two small bottles of vodka went into her robe pocket, and she dumped a third into a glass of orange juice.

  She looked around her room. The Park Lane Hilton wasn’t the most exclusive hotel in the city. But adjoining it was Whisky Mist, currently the hang for the likes of George Clooney, Jennifer Aniston, Kate Moss, Chloe Green, and the royals. Scarlett liked being in that crowd. She always had.

  Glancing out across Hyde Park, she could see stragglers heading toward the end of the parade route.

  “You know who I am? Don’t you?” she said quietly. Then she downed the stiff libation.

  Bill was nursing an unbelievable hangover when he heard Patch’s Jeep pull into the gravel driveway.

  He was not ready for company, especially Patch.

  The year had been a long one for Bill Horton. Both his older brother, Mickey, and his beloved mother, Alice, had died. The year anniversary of Mickey’s death was in a week, and it weighed heavily on Bill’s shoulders. Had he been in Salem at the time, would he have been able to save his brother?

  The answer, of course, was no. Mickey had died of a massive heart attack before the paramedics arrived, so even the most celebrated heart surgeon in the world would have been helpless.

  The brothers had had a long and complicated relationship. They had been in love with the same woman, Laura, who had borne a child who was Bill’s biological son but who had grown up thinking Mickey was his father.