He tossed the Phantom of the Opera mask onto the wooden table.
She gasped, clasping her hand over her mouth, and stood, walking around toward him, smiling at her mystery man.
“There’s only one answer to that,” said Kellie. She removed his police hat, placed it on the table, and kissed him, not caring if the mirror was two-way.
After a chilly walk on the beach, sea glass hunting with her friend Jo Bird, Eva walked toward the small cottage by the water, her pocket full of treasures from the bay. There was ice along the shoreline but they’d crunched through it, laughing at the treasure hunt of trying to spot pieces underneath the collapsing sheets of ice.
She looked up at the house that had belonged to her mother, willing herself once again to think of it as her own. It had been a perfect place of refuge. She’d enjoyed her sons’ visit when they came over at the holidays. Though they complained about the lack of cell signal, the boys seemed more at ease here on the island than they had back in Keytown, and she looked forward to their return in spring. On the porch, the tiny peach-colored lights of the small nautical-themed tree shone brightly, creating a blush of color on the white starfish ornaments.
She walked into the screened porch and sat down in a wicker rocking chair for a moment, spreading her sea glass finds in her hand to examine them. A worn turquoise piece she knew once was a Coke bottle, a purple patterned piece Jo had been jealous of, a worn green oval. What was once discarded as trash had been recycled, rejuvenated by the waves, transformed by time to become nature’s beautiful jewels. She added them to the huge half-filled jar on the porch.
Before walking inside, Eva took one more gulp of the fresh, cold winter air. There was something different about the air here on the island. It was cleaner air and slower, if air could be slow. Somehow just breathing here was more refreshing, more nurturing. Living by the water was simply good for the soul.
Eva walked inside the house, fixing herself a cup of herbal tea. She sat down at the kitchen table, opening her laptop to send a few emails to the office. The legal case against the state on behalf of the local watermen had been her idea. She’d convinced Nathan to let her proceed with a class action lawsuit so that the watermen could stop being bullied by the regulations and licensing designed to harm their way of life and cost them money they could ill afford. The upcoming trial was being heavily covered by the media and could mean a change for the better for the endangered lifestyle of the hardworking watermen—at least she hoped so.
These people worked sixteen-hour days or longer in blistering heat and freezing cold to bring the Chesapeake Bay’s bounty of crabs and oysters to the tables of Marylanders and beyond. The last thing they needed when they got home was to fear for their livelihoods while the state took away more and more of their rights and legal hunting grounds. Eva’s lawsuit would hold the state accountable for the financial harm it had brought upon the watermen lifestyle; one that was already threatened in so many ways, most of all by dwindling numbers.
She sat back, sipping her tea, and thought of Nathan and their time together on Christmas Eve. He had brought her a necklace made from a single pearl. He’d found it while oystering and asked his sister’s friend, a jeweler on nearby Hooper’s Island, to add the pendant and chain. It was a simple, beautiful gift she’d always treasure. She’d given Nathan a new insulated pair of work boots. She knew he needed them, but hadn’t wanted to splurge on them himself. Their gift exchange had been so humble, but so sweet. He’d prepared baked oysters and they had sat by the tiny fireplace watching the moon’s reflection on the water together.
And they had made love. Their union had a harmonious quality to it that Eva hadn’t felt before; a rhythm that just naturally played without any effort. So much of her sex life in the past had seemed to be frenzied, hurried. But just as life on the island was slower, so too was the lovemaking; there was never a hurry to go anywhere, to be anywhere next. His worn hands explored her body and found ways to pleasure her; they would spend an hour just touching each other before becoming one. There was a sanctuary about their relationship she had never experienced, and with so few words shared between them. Her life had been so full of noise, and now it was quiet.
She closed her laptop and the long, white plastic object on the table caught her eye. She smiled, but once again felt the shock of what she’d discovered only a few hours before. She’d already done the math, thinking back to her visit in New York and her time with Charles, and thinking of the past weeks and her time with Nathan. She thought it was funny to call what was happening with them an affair. And she would never call Nathan a boyfriend—such a juvenile term. Really, the personal relationship she shared with Nathan was so much more than that. There was a companionship, a peace she hadn’t known before. No expectations, no drama, no ongoing exclamations of love. Just two people on a small island who enjoyed each other’s company and genuinely cared for one another. It was a humble beginning to what Eva hoped would be a long journey.
As she heard Nathan’s truck pull into the gravel driveway after a long day on the water, Eva picked up the pregnancy test, thinking again of her age, how her sons were ready to graduate from high school. She’d remembered calculating once upon a time that she’d be under forty-five years old when they went off to college. Her thoughts returned again to the tiny cottage bedroom upstairs that her mother once used for sewing. She placed a hand on her belly. It was far too early to feel anything but she smiled anyway. So much hope and promise in this tiny secret. Was she ready to share it with anyone? The test had been the third one that morning with a “positive” sign, and Eva wondered if the identity of the father even mattered, really.
Thanks to my energetic, entertaining, enthusiastic publisher, Jason Pinter at Polis Books, for all those e’s. (Sorry for all the exclamation marks!!)
Thanks to my literary agent, Myrsini Stephanides, of Carol Mann Agency.
Thanks to Christine LePorte for your excellent copyediting skills on the manuscript. Your razor-sharp attention to detail made this novel better and for that you have my sincere thanks.
Special thanks to Russ Smith, publisher of SpliceToday.com, writing mentor and champion cusser/emoji user.
I’m not sure how I could produce this novel series without a bucolic waterfront Chesapeake Bay setting. Endless thanks to my Tilghman family. Patricia and John at the Tilghman Island Country Store, who feed me with food and friendship (to often include homecooked meals and/or Moonshine Cherries). Thanks to the lovely ladies at the Tilghman Island Book Club, who provide fun, support, and delicious food and often patience and understanding if I can’t always be there or haven’t read the book. Special thanks to Sue and Jay Shotel for all the extra TLC including food, lodging, and the fab author photo. Thanks to Nadine and Stewart, who provided a lovely waterfront cottage setting to work on edits for this book, the manuscript for the third book in the trilogy, a home for my kayak and creativity, and for your kindness and friendship. Also a thank-you to Rondy, Janice, and Len and Mary Pat for lodging rentals as I worked on this novel.
Thanks to my former political archnemesis, the brilliant director and worldly sea captain Michael Whitehill, for your invaluable theatrical perspective, feedback, and encouragement. Stella-r thanks.
Special thanks to Kara for being, like seriously, dude, the Truck Stop Muse, which seems like it might be an oxymoron, but isn’t, because where there is Creamed Chipped Beef and Circus Specials and Kathy Jo, there is always a way. Also, “The Truck Stop Muse” would be a great name for a rock band or something, wouldn’t it? Love you, Hermey.
To my therapist Dr. Teresa Schaefer, my chiropractor Dr. Adam Cohen and my migraine guru Dr. Jason Rosenberg at the Johns Hopkins Headache Center – the team that literally keeps my head on straight. I couldn’t do much without you. Many thanks.
A very special thank-you to Lisa and Doug, whose peaceful property is the setting for most of my ideas and much of my joy. Thanks for sharing what is literally my “happy place.”
> Special thanks to the Knapps Narrows Marina for their unofficial kayaking membership and helpful nautical advice: “don’t die.”
To friends who have been supportive of my first book and of my life in general: Liz, Susan, Tracy, Stefanie, Beth, Jennifer (those cupcakes!), Julie, Lori, Katie, Lauren, Heather, Kerry, Lynne, Alex, Kellen, Laura, Kim, Donna, Peggy, thank you for being there.
To Kris, Jojo, Connie, Mindie, Meg, and my other mermaid friends out there (yeah, I have sea glass friends on the Internet, don’t judge me): I love you guys. We share a common bond of low-tide love for broken glass that washes up on beaches, which takes a special kind of person and we are special. Glad we are picking up the pieces together.
To anyone who supported my first novel The Scarlet Letter Society: I’ll always remember that and I’m thankful you were there for me. Much appreciated!
Thanks to all the members of my amazing family; I am so grateful for your love and I love you right back.
Special thanks to my husband, Bob, my life’s true love and best friend, and our four loving, sweet children, Sarah, Molly, Faith, and Bobby. I love you guys more than I could ever put on a page. Sorry if my books are embarrassing in front of your friends. Thanks for being my team and the heart of my world.
Mary T. McCarthy has been a professional journalist for over twenty years for newspapers (The Philadelphia Inquirer, Baltimore Sun, Washington Post), magazines (Chesapeake Family, What’s Up Eastern Shore, Chesapeake Life) and the Internet, where she’s Senior Editor at SpliceToday.com. The Scarlet Letter Scandal is her second novel. Her first novel, The Scarlet Letter Society, reached #4 on the Amazon.com Erotic Romance bestseller list, atop Fifty Shades of Grey. Her third novel, The Scarlet Letter Storm, will be released in May 2016. Mary lives with her family on Maryland’s Eastern Shore. Find her online at marytmccarthy.com, on Twitter @marymac, or on Instagram @marytmccarthy.
Read on for an exclusive excerpt from The Scarlet Letter Storm
Coming soon from Mary T. McCarthy
“Zoom in on her red lipstick and the ball gag,” said Jo.
“Who doesn’t love a good lipstick-and-ball-gag shot?” asked Zarina with a laugh.
The two women sat in a small glass room perched above the filming set floor. The old building had once served as a seafood warehouse, with thousands of pounds of crabs and oysters moving through these walls each year on Matthew’s Island, tucked away in the Chesapeake Bay on Maryland’s Eastern Shore. Now, the property had a sign outside reading “VXD Enterprises.” Shellfish still came and went from these parts, but not from this building anymore.
Vixenden.club was a high-end sexy fantasy website for women, secretly owned and operated by schoolteacher Jo Bird and coffee shop owner Zarina Harandi, unbeknownst to most of the people in their lives.
The producer next to them gave a thumbs-up, and the director below made an “okay” hand gesture signifying he’d received the message from the studio. The screen in the studio reflected the change: the scarlet-red lipstick-clad mouth of the actress now glistened in the shot, perched as it was around a specially ordered black rubber ball gag. The original red ball gag hadn’t looked good in any of the combinations with red lipstick, so Jo ordered the scene to be shot again. The close-up was going to be used as the main image for the short film.
“Are you happy with it?” asked Zarina, pointing toward the screen. She knew how much effort had gone into the shot.
“Yeah, I think there is just enough glitter in that deeper shade of red,” said Jo, concentrating on the image before her. “Let me see the still.”
The producer paused the shot, and Jo nodded. Only Zarina noticed the simultaneous exhales of the producer, the director, the makeup artist, and the photographer. Even the actresses on the set breathed quiet sighs of relief—that crazy OCD bitch finally had the shot she wanted.
“Pause the action and send in the photog,” the producer said into his headset microphone. The director said “copy that” with the slightest hint of relief in his voice as the auburn-haired photographer made her way onto the set to capture the image that would be used on the website’s main page.
“We should toast to that!” said Zarina. “This is going to be our biggest hit yet.”
“It’s a good feeling,” said Jo. “Taking our tiny company from a crazy idea in a writing class to this secret online empire!”
The second line on the sign outside the door to VXD Enterprises read “Photography ~ Graphic Arts ~ Web Design” and most islanders had ignored the comings and goings from the building. The owner had been happy to lease the empty building. Locals figured some chicken-necker weekenders with more money than brains had set up some kind of fancy Internet business; they really couldn’t care less. Though the seafood business wasn’t what it used to be, hard-working watermen and their families continued season after season to bring in the shellfish for which the region was known internationally.
“The lighting is so perfect,” said Zarina, looking at the small screen on the camera handed to her and Jo by the photographer. “The way the sun comes through those wooden slats—you could never capture that with electric lighting.”
“Fantastic,” said Jo. “Let’s work it up with a title.”
“Tara’s Secret,” said Zarina. “Wait until the website members see this one!”
Vixenden.club was an exclusive, members-only website for women. Its creators took great care to avoid the use of the word “pornography,” which had negative connotations of male-dominated, anti-feminist ’80s VHS tapes in seedy video stores. Those days were over. This brand of sex for women was on an entirely different level. This was highly specialized, professionally produced erotica for the web: steamy short stories, artfully filmed short movies, and galleries of provocative, sexy images designed for powerful, sexy, discriminating women who were willing to pay.
“We are on track to double our members from half a million to a cool million,” said Jo. “And then it looks like my days as a schoolteacher are over. Besides, if any of the island mommies figured out that their kid’s elementary school teacher was moonlighting as an online sex empire goddess, they might object.”
“True!” said Zarina, laughing. “I think people who know me as the friendly neighborhood coffee shop owner would be a little shocked, too. My mom the college professor, for instance. Though I honestly don’t think she’d mind. Especially if she knew I was starting to make money.”
“What does your husband have to say?” asked Jo, who, at thirty-four, vowed to be perpetually single.
“Stanley couldn’t be more laid back,” said Zarina. “He calls himself a ‘product tester’ and always offers to check out our new stuff first! I just wish the hours at Zoomdweebies weren’t so long so I could be here on the island more—but having an Internet business works out.”
“I’m at the point where I hate going across that drawbridge at all,” said Jo. “The phone signal on the island is terrible, but I think I’ll be sad when the new cell tower starts working. I didn’t want to talk to anyone on the phone that badly anyway.”
“Definitely has its charms,” said Zarina. “Something to be said for unplugging. Though there is some irony in the fact that we started an Internet company on an island where there’s hardly enough bandwidth for four people to play Words With Friends at the same time. Ha! Well, for now I’m headed up the road.”
“I’m having lunch with Eva,” said Jo. “Do you think it would be cool to talk to her about VXD Enterprises? We could really use a legal opinion on our expansion.”
“I think it’d be great,” said Zarina. “She will be totally cool with it, and a great help—and besides, I keep worrying she’s going to see my car on the island and wonder what I’m doing here!”
Zarina gathered her purse and keys and walked past a wall where crops, whips, switches, handcuffs, blindfolds, ropes, spreader bars, and other BDSM tools were neatly arranged on hooks and shelves. A chain and black leather sling in the corner was a bit more hardcore tha
n the typical suburban “sex swing” from a toy party that usually ended up as a plant holder. The film set was busy and she was sure to remain quiet as she passed the dominatrix and her submissive; the two women were readying themselves for the next scene. Girl-on-girl BDSM was hot on the website right now. As the site’s statistician and web traffic analyst, Zarina made recommendations to Jo about what stories and film clips were getting the most hits. As the more creative director, Jo, who was a world-class dominatrix herself, seemed to have good instincts when it came to knowing what women wanted to see in both the straight and gay portions of the Vixenden.club world.
Their site was meant to bridge a gap in the online world of sex. Needless to say, there was tons of porn available for those who wanted it. But for the more “vanilla” set, there wasn’t much in the way of classier, more subtle arousal. That’s where Jo and Zarina’s site came into play: curate some of the better sexy content from around the web, screen out the hardcore, tacky, or overly violent stuff, and produce original material that was just what couples needed to start off a hot night at home after the kids went to bed.
As she got into her car, Zarina smiled thinking about Jo’s schoolteacher comment. Would the parents be surprised “Miss Jo” ran a sexy website? Sure. But they’d be even more shocked if they saw her in full pro-domme costume, starring in one of her own videos.
“That’s a wrap, ladies,” said Kevin, the thirty-something director of the video, and the actresses headed for the changing rooms. He walked up the steps to the studio and entered. The producer, Dara, removed her headset, exchanged a few words with Kevin and their executive producer, Jo, and headed off to her job at the local radio station in nearby Easton.
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