The Scarlet Letter Scandal

by Mary T. McCarthy

As she rode to the thirty-seventh floor, she thought about how noisy New York City was. Of course, she’d known this, but living on a very quiet, dark island for all this time made returning to the city a jolting experience. The train, the people, so many people crowded everywhere, the horns blowing constantly, the cell phones dinging, it was all very overwhelming. It’s amazing how different two islands can be, she thought.

  She took a deep breath as the doors opened, putting her shoulders back as her late mother had constantly reminded her—if you put your shoulders back and take a deep breath, you can handle anything, she’d always say. Eva pushed thoughts of her mother out of her head; thinking of her would make this day worse than it was already going to be.

  The receptionist, with her perfect white linen blouse and flawless hair and makeup (so young, Eva thought) looked up at her and immediately tried to hide the surprise that had unintentionally raised her eyebrows for a split second.

  “Good morning, Ms. Bradley,” said Helena. “It’s lovely to see you. My name is Helena. Welcome back.”

  “Thank you,” said Eva, having absolutely no idea who the new receptionist was. She was impressed, if a bit creeped out, that the girl knew who she was. And then she remembered the three massive oil paintings that adorned the wall directly across from her in the seating area. Gregory Smith had insisted on them about a decade ago and Eva had relented, though she didn’t love the idea of being immortalized in oil. She continued to dislike it now since she looked so much older—the years were showing on her face despite the microdermabrasion and she refused to go under the knife…yet. Maybe when fifty came.

  “… or have it brought to your office?” The young woman was talking and Eva hadn’t been paying attention.

  “I’m sorry?” asked Eva.

  “Your mail,” repeated Helena. “Did you want it now or would you like me to have your assistant bring it later?”

  “I’ll go over it with her,” said Eva. “Thanks.”

  As she walked to her office, she realized that hadn’t been much of an answer, but the last thing she wanted to see was an enormous stack of sympathy cards and client case letters. Greg Smith and Jake Cohen had been very accommodating in her absence; her work was spread among the firm’s lawyers by the partners. She was amazed at how simple that had been.

  She walked into her office and immediately admired its view of Central Park. Of course, she’d seen the view thousands of times before, but she’d never really stopped to just look at it before. It was truly breathtaking. She put down her soft leather bag and walked over to her ivory leather chair, for some reason running her hand over the fine materials of each, appreciating the softness of their expensive surfaces; not found on her other, less fancy island. Just that morning she’d been sitting in Paul’s Café with Nathan, eating Crabby Eggs Benedict and admiring the local photography on the walls. Now she was in another world. Another planet, it seemed.

  Her long-time assistant, Becky, walked in, also pretending not to be surprised by her presence.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t call,” said Eva. “I just thought I’d come in and see where things were; it’s been so long and I just needed to be back here.”

  “Oh gosh, Ms. Bradley, please don’t apologize to me,” said Becky, pushing up her glasses. “It’s so nice to see you again. I’m so sorry for your loss and I was glad to hear you took some time off.”

  “Bet you were surprised about that,” said Eva, the beginning of a smile at the corner of her mouth.

  “Well, of course everyone… I mean, we all hoped…” Becky blushed.

  “Oh, please don’t feel awkward,” said Eva, opening her laptop. “I know it’s odd to just have me pop back in. But I figured it had to happen sometime.”

  “Have you been in to the DC office?” asked Becky, clearly worried there was something she should have known about preparing for Eva’s return.

  “Not yet,” said Eva. “And if it’s okay, can you just hold off on bringing my mail in here yet, please? I don’t think I’m ready to open that can of worms.”

  “Of course,” said Becky. She paused, glancing at Eva; they both understood there was a far worse chore at hand: Eva’s email. “Just let me know,” said Becky, as she turned to leave.

  “Thanks, Becky. Great to see you again,” said Eva. There that fake smile was again.

  “Welcome back,” said Becky, closing the door behind her.

  Eva spun her chair to face the picture window. Tears burned at the edges of her eyes. Why do I feel so out of place in my own office?

  She dreaded the thought of Greg and Jake coming in to meet with her when they heard she had returned without even telling them. She dreaded the thought of opening her email. She dreaded the overwhelming task of diving back into client work, though she had convinced herself that she needed the distraction. She needed the normalcy. But now, for some reason, none of this seemed normal.

  She turned her chair back around and caught a glimpse of the huge vase of sea glass on the antique credenza. A gold-leaf oval mirror hung on the wall behind it and matching antique gold candlesticks flanked the glass container. Look at those stupid candles, thought Eva. Why are they even there? Like I would ever light candles in my office. She walked over and scooped out a handful of the sea glass. What had been her mother’s hobby had become her life’s first hobby in the months since she moved to the island.

  She clasped her hand over the smooth glass, moving the pieces around inside her fist. Even holding these gifts from the Chesapeake Bay made her yearn for home. Her mother had collected the vase full for her office one year for Christmas. She looked down at the handful; a rounded, perfect white piece, a smaller lime green nugget, a honey-colored soft triangle, a frosted seafoam Coke bottle piece.

  She returned to her desk and took her phone out of her purse. There was a text message from one of her sons (Where is the permission slip for the lacrosse field trip??), a text from Nathan (How was your train ride?), a text from her sea glass friend Jo Bird (When’s low tide?!).

  Her sea glass friend. What a funny thought. She’d met Jo as Jo wandered on the shoreline in front of her cottage one day, her head hanging down toward the sand. She’d looked up and been alarmed, as though Eva might yell at her for being on the property.

  “Hunt away,” Eva had said. “I know from my mom that in Maryland it’s legal to be on any beach up to the average high tide line.”

  Jo had smiled. “Your mom was an expert beachcomber.”

  And they’d talked for an hour and ended up drinking a bottle of wine together. Jo was a teacher at the island’s elementary school and the friendship had been natural and instant. For the past few months they’d gone kayaking and sea glass hunting together many times. They texted each other every day, and Eva marveled at how easily a new friend had come to her in a time of need, like a wave on the sand. She’d missed Maggie and Lisa back in Keytown when she moved to the island. Even though she was there once a week to drop her twin teenage sons off after weekend visits (she and her ex-husband had made the decision they should spend their senior year in a private boys’ boarding school to ensure they made it to graduation day), she didn’t see them as much as she used to when they had monthly meetings on the calendar. Jo’s serendipitous arrival had been welcome; she’d never appreciated having a friend more than she did now.

  Eva’s thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door; she was sure it would be the first of many.

  Helena walked in.

  “Sorry to bother you,” she said, “but I wondered if you wanted me to set up a meeting between Mr. Smith and Mr. Cohen and yourself?”

  “That’s very thoughtful,” said Eva. “Please do, but could you make it for tomorrow? I just want a day to try to get acclimated again.”

  “Of course,” said Helena, and she returned to the front desk.

  Eva picked up her phone again, taking a minute to answer her texts and to send a new one, to Charles. She hadn’t seen her chef lover in a few months; he’d only come
to visit her once on the island, and it wasn’t because he didn’t want to see her more.

  She sensed how much he missed her, and she missed him too. But she had needed time to grieve and mourn the losses of her mother and her marriage, and had surprised herself by taking it. The relationship with Nathan had been a complete surprise to her, as finding a new lover would have been the last thing on a list of to-do items in her life. Charles didn’t know about Nathan, though she hadn’t lied to Nathan when he’d asked if there was anyone else.

  She picked up her phone.

  Eva: In town tonight. Didn’t have notice. Are you working?

  She grimaced, thinking it was pretty rude to just show up in New York and expect everyone to run around changing their day’s plans for her. Her phone lit up almost instantly with a new message.

  Charles: Two minutes ago the front desk called to inform me that your bag arrived. Said they thought I might want to prepare a meal for you.

  Eva: So I guess the whole Plaza Hotel knows about us?

  Charles: Apparently so, though it’s been quite some time. Would you like to have dinner?

  Eva: Let’s not do something so formal. How about a drink at the bar?

  Charles: Just let me know what time is convenient, after dinner hours of course. I am happy you are here.

  Eva: Thanks, me too. See you this evening.

  Eva had been happy to see her lover again when he’d visited the island, though he’d seemed out of place there and something had clearly changed between them. There was a time she thought she might be in love with him, and he with her. But the reality that he would never leave New York and that she would never live there full time had settled in over the months they’d been apart. He had sent her homemade chocolates, bouquets of flowers, and many messages, all of which she’d been thankful for. She wasn’t sure how she would feel seeing him again this evening.

  She looked down at her laptop and watched the email messages load. For now she would do something she was good at, something that felt like putting on an old pair of slippers: she would work.

  Kellie flipped the switch on the foyer wall that turned on the landscaping spotlights Chaz had installed for her. The large rocks at the end of her driveway were now lit, indicating to club members that the party was set to begin.

  Kellie walked downstairs to the secret underground club and admired her handiwork. Thin gold and black metallic streamers hung from ceilings, along with some glitter balls (what a mess they’d been to make) that caught the lights of the disco ball. Large black- and gold-feathered masks were adhered to different places around the bar and lounge area and on mirrors. Tonight’s “Masquerade Mash-Up” was underway. Instead of a traditional Halloween costume party, she’d decided this year to class up the joint with a more formal, classy vibe. Guests who had RSVP’d were told to wear simple masquerade masks and long capes, with anything (or nothing) underneath, and were encouraged to be creative.

  She knew many of the club members were fans of the movie Eyes Wide Shut, which was now set to play on the big-screen TV. The notorious Stanley Kubrick film was of course legendary for its use of costuming and anonymity in a sinister sexual setting, and served as inspiration not only for one of their themed rooms but also for the party, maybe without quite as much of a cult feel. The main idea was that no one would know who anyone else was. Women took painstaking measures to wear wigs or headpieces that disguised the color of their hair, and she suspected a few of them might even change their hair color for the night for extra anonymity.

  Brandon walked down the steps wearing black pants, a long black velvet cape with a red satin lining, and a huge feathered hat that included an attached mask covering his eyes. He wore no shirt, which showed off his amazing abs.

  “You look hot, stranger,” Kellie said.

  “So do you, stranger,” Brandon replied, and Kellie would know that smile anywhere. She wore a red leather bustier, garter belt, and black fishnet stockings, with a black silk cape over it all. Her hair was piled on top of her head, red streaks throughout it, and her feather headpiece and matching mask were magnificent: the beadwork of the New Orleans women who had created them was intricate and had been costly. Black and red feathers plumed off the top of one side of the headpiece, and black, red, and silver crystals lined her eyes. Thigh-high black leather boots with red spike heels completed the outfit. As the hosts of the party, Brandon and Kellie knew they’d be the most recognizable, but the rule tonight was that everyone pretended to know no one, even them.

  There would be around thirty or so people at the party; most in their thirties to early forties, most with children. The unwinding of normally accepted social sexual norms in their neighborhood had happened over time, like a tightly knit ball of yarn when released from its tension. First, there were flirtations at countless barbeques. Someone mentioned porn in a passing comment and favorite websites were mentioned. One couple told of their exploits at a sex club in the city they’d moved from. Anything goes, they’d said. There were activities centered around families—pool parties where the women’s swimsuits got more risqué over time, fireworks shows where kids went to bed in tents and couples groped one another in garden sheds and the backs of minivans parked outside.

  One night, a Stony Mill resident who owned a small farm suggested an outdoor movie night. On the outside of the barn, a sheet would be hung for the kids to watch Finding Nemo, while on the inside of the same barn, tightly locked against children’s entry (and a sitter hired to watch the kids), a porn flick ran on the opposite wall, the barn interior’s hayloft reaching a silent and clothed but highly erotic level of energy. The men hadn’t tried to hide their raging boners from the other men’s wives that night. Occasionally, a woman would accidentally-on-purpose brush her thin dress against another woman’s husband’s erection, the lust in her eyes visible to him in the movie’s flickering shadows. Hands brushed across the hardened body parts of others, or touched their own tingling places clandestinely to relieve the building ache, and things in the carefully constructed suburban existence began to come undone.

  In the light of the increasing disappearance of inhibition, Kellie saw the opportunity to change the focus of her business from “personal trainer” to full-on swingers’ club. A late-summer party had featured a “panty cam” across the entrance between the garage and the house. While the kids played in the fenced neighborhood playground out back, only the grown-ups knew that as they walked across the threshold, a camera would capture a picture with a view up a woman’s skirt or dress. The women could choose not to wear panties, and the men huddled in an upstairs room, watching a laptop, drinking beer, and guessing which genitals belonged to which wife. In that same home’s garage, a stripper pole had been installed. When kids were tucked away in bed, the braver wives would emerge wearing minimal lingerie, spike heels, wigs. Touching the spouse of another had become accepted in this environment, so a man could deposit a $20 bill between the legs of his neighbor’s wife while she was grinding on the pole to Def Leppard’s “Pour Some Sugar on Me.”

  So, layer by layer, the sexual limitations fell away as Stony Mill began to test the limits of marriage and fidelity. After all, was it cheating if your own spouse was in the room and sexually aroused? Hardly. They never would have referred to themselves as swingers. The word seemed outdated; reserved for ’60s and ’70s men and women in bellbottoms and big hair and big plastic glasses rocking out to Janis Joplin or Bob Dylan, smoking pot, and making out with everyone because “free love” was where it was at, man. Groovy. They preferred simply calling it “the lifestyle.” They’d forgotten what other kind there could be.

  Modern suburban swingers seemed to experiment sexually out of boredom. No one on the soccer field or at the PTA meeting would be able to recognize a single one of them in those settings, either. They didn’t dress more provocatively, speak outrageously, or flirt openly with strangers. They looked like everyone else: black yoga pants, baseball hats, Under Armour gear. But in close quarters,
as weekends approached and plans got made to “hang out,” the couples had gotten to know each other better, drunk more, and spoken more openly of sex. This gathering tonight was the pinnacle of their suburban sexual revolution.

  “I guess everything’s set for the party,” said Kellie.

  “Will you stop worrying about it?” Brandon responded. He came up behind her and grabbed her breasts, hard. “This house is already spotless. No one is going to know who anyone is anyway, and if you run around clearing dishes and wiping tables, everyone will know who you are when you’re supposed to be a stranger to all.”

  “You’re right,” said Kellie. “I like the idea of being a stranger.”

  She began walking up the stairs to do a final check of the entertaining area, Brandon in tow grabbing her ass. She paused on the final step before opening the door to the main area of the house and leaned over, grinding her ass against her fiancé’s growing erection. They were both primed for the evening.

  Kellie went into the kitchen and adjusted a flower arrangement on the granite countertop. She was thankful they’d hired a Guatemalan woman Chaz recommended to serve as a maid upstairs, where the food (and no unseemly activity) would be for tonight. The fee was higher tonight in order to pay for a caterer and servers so no one would have to think about food and cleaning up. These staffers would remain upstairs, a space partygoers were rarely allowed. With the larger crowd coming, Kellie had figured separating food and drink from the energized activities downstairs would create a better flow.

  There were no electric lights used on the main floor. While the downstairs lair was lit with LED dance floor lighting, these rooms contained only candlelight. Candelabras and candlesticks bought at yard sales over time created a glow and an atmosphere that would enhance the costumes and the mystery.

  Complete anonymity and silence were the goals of the party. Thirteen couples had RSVP’d, though of course there were the people who didn’t RSVP but would still show up, and the people who RSVP’d but would not show up, not to mention the unusual fact that single men were allowed tonight when they were not normally; all of which helped the fact that no one would recognize anyone (or admit recognizing anyone) at the masquerade ball that evening.