A Stirring from Salem by Sheri Anderson Read Free Book Online Page A

supermodel Linda Evangelista, who was once quoted as saying, “We don’t get out of bed for less than ten thousand dollars a day.” And her temper was more volatile than Naomi Campbell’s. But with jobs few and far between lately, one would have expected she’d have learned to be more humble, more considerate. Unfortunately, she hadn’t.
    When she sauntered in nearly two hours late for her massage and facial, her attitude didn’t endear her to anyone.
    “I’m looking for the spa,” she said with a look of disdain. The hotel was known for its location and club, and the spa was smaller than she’d expected.
    “Take a seat while you wait, Miss O’Hara,” the petite blonde behind the counter said.
    Me, wait? Scarlett thought.
    A chunky American of about fifty was waiting for a body wrap and leaned over to Scarlett. “Some supermodel is getting an extra half hour,” the woman sighed. “As if she needed it.”
    Scarlett realized the woman didn’t recognize her, which was good. Sort of.
    “You should try the antiaging facial,” the woman continued. “Really hydrating.”
    “Thanks for the tip,” Scarlett said as she sank into the lounge chair.
    Thanks a heap, she thought.
    The door to the facial room opened, and a stunning blonde exited.
    “That was really wonderful,” the blonde said with a lovely lilt in her voice.
    Even from where Scarlett was sitting, she could see that the girl’s lips were plump and her teeth as white as snow.
    Wonderful, Scarlett said to herself, mocking the beauty.
    Wait, Scarlett thought, does she have an accent?
    The girl turned to head to the lockers, and Scarlett could see she was more radiant than ever. “Scarlett O’Hara?” the girl asked, stopping in her tracks. “I’m Brigitta. We’re shooting together in South Africa.”
    Just friggin’ wonderful! Scarlett screamed in her head.
    “Great to meet you,” she lied.
    “You’re Scarlett O’Hara?” the tourist asked as her eyes lit up.
    Great, she knows me, Scarlett thought.
    “I used to be a big fan,” the woman added. “Could I have your autograph?”
    “I’ve never given autographs,” Scarlett sniped and strode into the massage room.
    The room fell totally silent except for the gently splashing Zen waterfall.
    Brigitta grimaced. “Well, this should be fun.”

Kayla could see the purples, golds, and oranges of the South African sunset, especially dramatic after the summer thunderstorm, through the massive kitchen window in front of her as she cooked. She was preparing an early dinner for her and Steve. It wasn’t even six o’clock, but as parents of a two-and-a-half-year-old, they had schedules that had changed drastically since their early days together.
    Kayla’s parents owned The Brady Pub, one of the most popular gathering spots in Salem, and she’d learned to cook at her mother’s knee. Her family was the salt of the earth, and as with so many others, they had their holiday traditions. Even on the other side of the world, those traditions were sacrosanct. New Year’s Day for the Bradys meant corned beef and cabbage with boiled potatoes.
    “Smells amazing, Sweetness,” Steve said as he entered, returning from his meeting with Bill.
    “I should have had you invite Bill,” she realized. “There’s enough for an army here.”
    “Leftovers for days,” Steve said as he picked a piece of the succulent beef from the plate.
    “And it’ll bring us the good luck it’s meant to bring,” Kayla said, smiling.
    “Let’s hope so,” Steve answered. With what he’d just learned from Bill, he suspected they were going to need it.
    “That sounded ominous,” she said. She retrieved two intricately hand-painted African ceramic dinner plates and a child’s plate for Joe, all of which had been given to them by one of the many grateful villages.
    “As beautiful as everything is in our little cocoon here,” Steve said, indicating their home, “we can’t deny South Africa’s got problems.”
    Okay, he