A Stirring from Salem (4 page)

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—”

“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.

Laura was now Bill’s estranged wife, and he’d seen her again at his mother’s funeral. He’d also seen his daughter, Jennifer, and his son, Lucas, who was the product of an illicit relationship years earlier. All in all, it had been an emotionally tumultuous time.

The doorbell rang.

Bill sighed and then got up from his leather chair. Over the hills, a crack of lightning lit up the sky, signaling an encroaching thunderstorm.

“Hey,” Bill said as he opened the door.

“Hey,” Patch answered. “Can I come in?”

“If I said no, would it make a difference?” Bill asked lightly. He and Patch had become friends. He didn’t dislike the guy, but he wasn’t in the mood for company.

“Not really,” Patch said, entering.

“Some iced tea?” Bill offered.

“Sure.”

Bill padded to the kitchen and took a pitcher of sweet tea from the fridge. Nothing was said as Bill poured a tall glass for Patch. Nothing had to be said.

Patch took a long drink. “He lost a lot of blood, but he made it.”

“Great.” Bill sighed with relief. “From what I could tell, he was shot by some bastard trying to poach a rhino.”

“I hear the guy succeeded.”

“Too many of them do,” Bill said.

The desire for rhino horn had escalated tremendously since they’d opened the clinic. More than two hundred rhino had been poached in South Africa alone in the past year. While rhino horn had always been cherished by wealthy Chinese for use in herbal medicines and for aphrodisiacs, it had recently gained more popularity than ever around the world, even though science had proven it produced nothing more than a placebo effect.

“At eight thousand for an ounce of powdered horn on the black market, I guess that’ll happen,” Patch admitted.

There was a long silence, punctuated by one of the quick summer downpours that could happen on a moment’s notice.

“Wish I could tell you what happened, Patch, but I’m clueless.”

“You left Kayla holding the bag. Or the scalpel, I guess.”

“And the last thing I remember is driving into Ngala.” Bill noticed Patch’s quizzical expression. “I had a quick one with Cornelius at the Trading Post and then headed for New Year’s Eve drinks with the VP from First National in Jo’burg. I got the call about the ranger on my way and called Cornelius, then you.”

“He never got the message,” Patch said.

“I called him,” Bill said, defending himself. “Then Kayla.”

“What was so important at Ngala?” Patch queried.

“Mueller, the VP,” Bill said. “I heard that guy never stops working, even on a holiday. At least I hoped so.”

Bill’s expression was glum. The lines on his handsome but well-worn face were more prominent than ever.

“Talk to me.”

“I am so sorry.” Bill sighed heavily. “We’re broke, Patch. We’ll be flat broke at the end of this month. He’s my last gasp.”

“We? You mean Tom-Ali?”

Bill nodded. “Ever hear of a guy named Richard Gaines?”

“Don’t think so.”

“Like Bernie Madoff, but his scheme seemed to mostly attract those of us in the health industry. I met him at a medical convention in Paris five years ago and sank every cent we had into his hedge fund. One of those too-good-to-be-trues. And it was.”

“A lot of people depend on this clinic,” Patch reminded him.

“To have the place named after my folks go under will kill me,” Bill offered. “Mueller put me off until next week, but that may be too damned late. Please, don’t tell Kayla until after that last meeting. I beg you. Do not let anyone know.”

“Bill…”

“Promise me.” Bill was adamant.

“Promise. But is that why you’ve been in your cups so much lately, Bud?” Patch asked while looking him squarely in the eye.

“Strange thing is, I haven’t been overindulging,” Bill answered.

“The slurred speech, the forgetting things?” Patch added. “Really out of character for you, man.”

“Oh, I know it’s been happening,” Bill admitted, concerned about it himself. “I just don’t know why.”

“Mommy!” Joe squealed. He flew to Kayla as she walked in the door.

Seeing Joe always put a smile on Kayla’s face. Well, almost always. When she was exhausted, as she was this morning, she wished Steve was with her to absorb Joe’s energy.

“Play with me!” Joe said as he grabbed her hand.

“I will, sweet boy,” she agreed. “Just give me a few minutes with Violet.”

Violet appeared from the kitchen, wiping her hands.

“We made mud pies, Mrs. Kayla.” Violet smiled.

“Want some, Mommy?” Joe asked. “Where’s Pop?”

“Taking care of some things,” she answered simply. “He’ll be home soon.”

“Can we play? Let’s play soldier!” Joe said, taking a stance as if holding a gun. “Bang!”

Kayla blanched. “How about playing mechanic instead?” she asked. No matter that they were in Africa and had several guns in the house, Kayla was not a fan of war games.

“Bang!” Joe repeated. “You’re dead!”

Kayla gave him an admonishing look. He turned the pretend gun on Violet. “Bang!”

Violet pretended to fall back, and Joe giggled happily. “Let’s build a fort!” he said, tossing the imaginary gun to the floor. “Come on, Mommy.”

He tugged at her pant leg.

“Let’s let your mommy rest a few minutes, my big little man.” Violet smiled. Her warm and wide smile crinkled the corners of her deep brown eyes and always made Kayla feel better. “Just ten minutes,” Violet added with a directive to Joe that let him know she meant business.

Joe nodded and shuffled off with Violet. “Darn it,” he grumbled under his breath, which made Kayla smile. Her son was a rambunctious one, but for being just over two years old, he was both articulate and compliant.

Kayla put her satchel on the African mahogany dining table and took out her phone to charge it. She thought about how in Africa, the phone had become as important a doctor’s tool as her stethoscope and syringes.

As she was about to plug it in, she remembered her terse conversation with Marlena. She checked the time and selected Marlena’s cell number.

After two rings, Marlena answered. “Kayla, hi. You didn’t need to call back.”

“I just didn’t want to leave you hanging,” Kayla answered. “Is this a bad time?”

“No, of course not,” Marlena said. Actually she was wrapped in John’s arms on their living-room sofa, watching the end of the parade, but she didn’t want to lose the chance to talk to Kayla. “I always love hearing a voice from home.”

As she sat up to talk, John noticed Marlena’s demeanor change. She seemed more relaxed than she had been over the holidays.

“Didn’t want you left hanging about Bill. I know you were close,” Kayla said gently.

“What’s going on?” Marlena asked.

“We don’t know, but he’s been acting strangely lately,” Kayla admitted. “I hadn’t said anything to Steve before, hoping I was imagining it, but now I’m worried. Bill always seems distracted and then forgets things. He’s just not himself.”

“Should I call him?” Marlena asked.

John could hear the tone in her voice.

“Steve’s over talking to him now,” Kayla answered. “Why don’t I let you know what he finds out, if anything?”

“Probably the best idea,” Marlena admitted. “I’ll wait to hear from you.”

“Once again, Happy New Year. And I love hearing a voice from home, too. It was nice talking with you,” Kayla said.

“You, too. Bye-bye,” Marlena said. She hung up the phone and held it in her hand for a long moment. Then she turned to John to explain. “Apparently, Bill Horton’s been acting out of character.”

“I got that,” John said.

Marlena’s mind was swirling. Her face had a look John recognized from being in love with a psychiatrist for so many years.

“Depending on what Patch says, I may call him,” Marlena offered.

“You miss working and you miss friends, don’t you?” John said, with a look Marlena recognized from being in love with a man who had known her well for so many years.

“Christmas was a bit tough,” she admitted. “With the kids all doing their own things on the other side of the world and the situation with Charley up in the air…”

Things had been somewhat unsettling since John and Marlena had discovered that Charley Gaines was their biological daughter. She had visited them once since the revelation the previous summer, and while it was a friendly visit, it had been a bit strained. They were all amazed by the genetic traits they shared, from the way Charley’s and Marlena’s eyes smiled exactly the same way to the way Charley cocked her eyebrow like John when she questioned something. But in essence they were strangers with no shared life experiences to bind them. At least not yet.

“I’m not sure sending that family album for Christmas helped,” Marlena added.

“It was a beautiful book and a thoughtful gift,” John assured her.

“But since I had one made for each of the kids…it just may have been too pushy.”

“Doc, you said yourself that Charley’ll reach out to us when and if she wants us in her life,” John reminded her.

“That was me being a doctor, not a woman,” she admitted.

“And if there is anything you are in spades, it’s a woman,” he growled sexily.

“I love you,” Marlena said, managing a smile.

“And I love nothing more than being with my gorgeous wife, but we can only have so many romantic dinners.”

“How am I to take that?” She grimaced.

“Maybe it’s time for an adventure.”

“Like the helicopter skiing you’re determined to try?” Marlena said, tilting her head.

“Why don’t you let me surprise you?” John said, cocking his eyebrow in the way that always got her.