The Scarlet Letter Society

by Mary McCarthy

  You never knew what you were going to find. There were pieces of a 19th century Blue Willow patterned dish that she’d found periodically over time. She’d collected so many pieces she could almost put the dish back together like a puzzle again. She’d find a piece one day and then, a month later, another piece from the same dish. It was romantic to think about where the pieces came from—a shipwreck, a long-ago ferry to Baltimore. There never seemed to be a rhyme or reason to the patterns of the tide and how the bay churned out what it churned out. But somehow, it always kept you coming back. It was so easy to forget the rest of the world when she hunted for sea glass. There was only the search to find the next piece.

  Eva’s phone rang. So few people called her anymore (her teenage boys always texted). It startled her, and she jumped at the sound of her own ringtone.

  She looked at the phone and saw Charles’s name. He knew she was at the cottage and it was safe to call. In times past, they’d only spoken when she’d been in New York.

  “Hello,” she said.

  “Madame Eva, pretty girl,” said Charles. “How are you this weekend?”

  “I’m well,” said Eva, looking around her at the sea glass spread around the floor and table. “And how are you, my fine French chef lover?”

  “I’m better now to hear your voice,” said Charles.

  “That is very lovely,” said Eva. “Thank you.”

  “I just called to tell you that I am happy you are coming to New York this week,” he said. “And that I miss you, and I think of you often when you are away.”

  Eva felt her heart swell with emotion.

  “I don’t even know what to say,” said Eva. “That means a lot to me. I think of you when we’re apart, too. And I miss you, too.”

  They chatted for awhile about work and her boys and when they would see each other again, and wished each other farewell until the next time.

  This conversation was one of very few in which they’d discussed any sort of feelings with each other outside the context of passion’s embrace. He wasn’t the kind of guy who would use words to tell her how he felt. She was touched by the gesture of the simple phone call: he was thinking of her. It was generally understood that they saw each other when they saw each other, and they were apart when they were apart. It was nice to feel the same sort of happiness, only from a distance.

  As she hung up the phone, she had mixed feelings. She did not want to need a man. She let Ron go, because it was time. Her marriage had ended, because it was time. Her life was much simpler now. She wanted it simpler. She worked, she spent time with her boys. She spent time at the cottage. She did not want to leap from the embrace of one man to the embrace of another.

  She wanted to be alone, to learn to live on her own in four walls to herself at the times when her sons were not with her. Am I in love with Charles? she wondered, and she did not know what the future held for them. Being in love made you vulnerable to being hurt, and Eva did not like to feel vulnerable. But he was there. He’d always be there, in New York. She knew he’d never move, and she wasn’t sure she’d want him to. She didn’t know how much longer she’d travel to the firm in New York. She had enough control over her career to do what she wanted, including ending it altogether. Washington? New York? She could choose one if she really wanted to; she’d tell her partners she didn’t want to travel so much because of the boys. She’d use her savings and live a simple life at the cottage. But if Charles wasn’t in her life anymore, she would miss him. She allowed herself to admit it. And she would be so happy for him to visit the cottage.

  Maybe a weekend here with Charles, she thought, filled with the magic of the brilliant, gorgeous sunsets, crabs freshly caught from the bay, the dark, moonlit nights where you could lie on the dock and watch shooting stars…maybe that would be what they needed to fill the emptiness in their lives. Or maybe I can just enjoy those things all by myself.

  For now, there were piles of sea glass to sort into their places, because each weathered piece, tumbled in the sands of time to perfection, had a place where it belonged.

  Maggie parked her car in front of the stone Victorian house where she had raised her two grown daughters, and where she had lost her only son. She breathed out, fighting the memory of rocking her baby boy in that very porch rocker, begging God to let her son live, and later cursing that same God who did not.

  I will not let the ghosts of my past affect the reality and importance of my future, she decided. Dave had invited her to dinner. He loved to cook and she did not, so she was happy for the invitation. Her mind wandered back for a moment to one of her earliest memories: her mother, curled up with her in bed under the shabby covers had said, “I want better for you.”

  He opened the door and looked at her. In his eyes, even behind his glasses, she could tell he was happy to see her. He stepped outside, and they hugged on the porch. This porch, with its history of scraped knees being bandaged, Christmas cards coming and going from the mailbox, girls playing with Barbie dolls on long ago hot summer days.

  “I’m happy you’re here,” said Dave.

  “Well, it’s nice to come out to the country for a break from the big city,” she said, and they laughed, because the house, in a row of Victorians on the outskirts of town, was only 12 blocks away from her own downtown shop and apartment. She’d never wandered very far from home.

  “How’s work?” she asked, knowing the answer.

  “Just trying to keep up an old building or two,” he answered,.

  “If anyone can do that, you can,” she told him.

  “I hope you’re hungry,” said Dave, glancing at his watch. It wasn’t 6 pm yet, but Maggie was always hungry early. The Lady is a Tramp Frank Sinatra song line “she gets too hungry for dinner at eight” was one they’d always jokingly referenced over the years. Who can wait until 8:00 at night for dinner? Maggie always said. I want to be asleep by then.

  She fought the urge to feel awkward in a house that used to be hers many years before. Of course, Dave had bought out her interest in the house during the divorce, and she couldn’t help but feel like a visitor, despite the vase on the stone mantel she’d picked out at a fairgrounds auction forever ago and left because it went there so perfectly, despite the linens in the linen closet she’d gotten at an antique shop for their first dinner party, despite the years she had spent in that kitchen making peanut butter and jelly for girls who have been old enough for many years now to make sandwiches for themselves.

  He could sense her awkwardness.

  He put his arms around her. She let herself melt into the warmth of his embrace. He’d always been there for her; this hug had been something she had taken for granted. Tough as she seemed to others, in her heart she knew she’d be a mess if she didn’t have Dave’s arms waiting for her. Could she live on her own? Of course she could, and had for years.

  But there was needing, and there was wanting, and although maybe Maggie didn’t need to be with anyone, at the end of the day, she knew she preferred it. She wanted to feel the safety of those strong arms, even if it meant admitting she wasn’t always the strongest person herself.

  “It doesn’t make me weak to need you,” she said suddenly. He pulled away from her a bit to look down into her eyes.

  “What?” Dave said, and he smiled at her.

  “Anyway, it isn’t really that I need you. It’s that I want you, and there’s a difference,” said Maggie, as though trying to convince herself.

  “Maggie, I have always needed you,” said Dave. “I don’t care who hears me admit it. It’s true.”

  “I have always needed you, too,” said Maggie. “I think I’ve just had a hard time admitting it.”

  Dave took her by the hand and led her to the kitchen. He handed her a beer, and opened one for himself.

  “Want to pick a Pandora station?” he asked.

  “Do you even have to ask?” she said.

  “Not really,” Dave said. “Soft hits of the 70s. I’d put money on it.”
>
  “No one loves the Air Supply and the Dr. Hook and the Bee Gees like I do,” said Maggie.

  “I know,” said Dave.

  “You’re the Biggest Part of Me” by Ambrosia began to play. She walked around the kitchen counter, took her life’s love into her arms, and they began to dance.

  And in the morning, he brought her coffee in bed.

  The End

  Acknowledgments

  Thanks first to my publisher Jason Pinter at Polis Books, for taking a chance on me when the “traditional houses” rejected the manuscript.

  Thanks to my literary agent Myrsini Stephanides of Carol Mann Agency in New York, for making my dream of having a literary agent in New York come true, and for believing in me. Also to Lydia, for opening the book proposal from the slush pile and saying “oh my God” sufficiently enough to warrant interest.

  To my teachers: there is no greater gift than a love for learning.

  To Beth Werrell, my writing coach and friend, whose early read of the novel served to make it better. Thanks!

  To Russ Smith, the publisher of SpliceToday.com where I’ve worked as Senior Editor for the last few years. Thank you for paying me so I had money to rent the writing cottage where the novel was written, but far more importantly, thank you for making me a better writer.

  Ah, Tilghman. Thanks to the Tilghman family who provided a writing retreat where the idea for the novel began and grew, and to Jacque and Pat at Tilghman Landing, who provided the serene island spot where it was completed.

  To my beloved Tilghman Island Book Club, whose support was unwavering and much appreciated. “Reading Between the Wines” (even though I always seem to be the only one who’s never read the book and bring Jack Daniels to meetings because I don’t drink wine) has been such a nurturing environment; you ladies rock.

  To Zack, Brahm, Michael and Alfie, for inspiration.

  To my friends: Liz, Susan, Stefanie, Cara, Patricia, Mindie, Alex, Kellen, Laura, Kara, Charlotte, Tracy…thanks for the love and support and for being there.

  To my readers: whether you read my Quite Contrary newspaper columns two decades ago, my PajamasandCoffee.com blog, or anything in-between, I appreciate you more than I can say. You’re why I’m here. Thanks for taking the time to read my words.

  Finally: to my family. I was going to try to use that term to include everyone in my family, but my brother John fought for our country twice in Iraq and I want to be sure to avoid what we lovingly refer to as “the freedom speech” if he wasn’t mentioned. So John, thanks for the freedom.

  Thanks to my sister Beth, for always being my best cheerleader. Much love and thanks to my amazing dad and to my siblings Alex, Emily, and Drew.

  I also want to thank my fantastic mom, the poet Ellie LeJeune, for the reverend’s words at the wedding. They are from her poem “Marriage Blessing” which appears in her book of poetry called Silent Song.

  To my husband and four amazing children: I love you beyond words. Thank you for being my team, and the heart of my world.

  About The Author

  Mary T. McCarthy has been a professional journalist for over twenty years for newspapers, magazines and the Internet. This is her first novel. She lives on Maryland’s Eastern Shore with her husband and four children. Find her online at pajamasandcoffee.com or on Twitter @marymac.

  Wherever you go, your next great read awaits.

  Visit http://www.PolisBooks.com for more information on terrific eBooks for every reader.

  Follow Polis Books on Twitter at @PolisBooks and on Facebook at Facebook.com/PolisBooks