The Scandal

by Nicola Marsh

  “Would you like to go out for a coffee?”

  “Now?” His gaze is hopeful, like an eager puppy.

  “Yeah.” I shrug, like his answer means little, when I’m hoping he’ll come. I need the distraction. I need to lose the feeling of degradation.

  “Sure, that sounds good. Where did you have in mind?”

  “How about that all-night café on Main Street, Margot’s?”

  To his credit, he doesn’t look disappointed that ‘coffee’ doesn’t mean more. “I’ll meet you there.”

  “Great.” And it is, to enjoy a guy’s company with a view to nothing else but chatter.

  However, fifteen minutes later, ensconced in one of Margot’s crimson leather booths with only a coconut and lime scented candle for illumination, I wonder what I’m doing here. I don’t do small talk well, especially with a virtual stranger who I’d normally be tempted to flirt with. And while Griffin may be cute and polite, I have little interest in taking our mild attraction further. I’ve got too much on my mind: like how to tell my friend the truth without everything imploding.

  “Did I say something wrong?” Griffin lowers his coffee cup to the table and reaches for my hand before thinking better of it. “We hit it off at the party and now you seem… different somehow. Distant?”

  “It’s not you.” I gulp my coffee and it burns my tongue. “I bumped into someone at the party that rubs me up the wrong way and I’m in a bit of a mood.”

  He’s puzzled. I don’t blame him. “Then why did you ask me here if you want to be alone?”

  “That’s the thing. I don’t want to be alone and you seem like a nice guy.”

  He winces, like I’ve wounded him. “The dating kiss of death. The nice guy.”

  “But we’re not dating.” I sound sharp, shrewish and he visibly recoils.

  “I know that, but I thought…” He gestures around the place, filled with couples like us enjoying a late-night supper. Candles are lit, lights are low and soft acid jazz filters through the café. Mahogany lines the walls and the monstrous fireplace that divides the room is lit, the slow-burning wood emitting the occasional crackle. Margot’s vibe is cozy, chic and way too romantic. I’m a fool for asking him here tonight.

  “It’s not you. I think you’re a great guy but I rarely date. I wanted some company tonight and thought you might like to join me, that’s it.” I show him my open palms, like I have nothing to hide. “If you want to leave, fine.”

  Confusion makes his forehead crinkle, like he can’t figure me out. He’s not the only one. “Do you do this often?” There’s a glint of anger in his stare. “Reel men in then push them away?”

  I hear the censure in his voice and I’m instantly transported back fourteen months ago to having a drink with another guy I thought I could trust, a guy who hadn’t taken no for an answer and taken what he wanted regardless. At least, that’s what I assume happened, because I still can’t remember a thing.

  “Is that your professional opinion?”

  My sarcasm makes his eyes narrow, like he can’t work me out. Join the club, buddy. I’m a warped, twisted mystery even to myself.

  “Considering I’ve made some dubious decisions over the last few hours, my professional opinion isn’t what it’s cracked up to be.”

  His self-deprecation gets to me a little. Most guys would’ve called me out for being a sarcastic bitch. I’m right. He’s nice and would be the perfect guy to get to know if I was so inclined, which I’m not.

  “We all make questionable decisions at times.”

  Like me, sitting here pretending that I’m interested in what he has to say when I’m dying a little on the inside.

  With every encounter with my lover, I lose another piece of myself. My self-respect shattered a long time ago but I’ve never felt this soul-destroying remorse before. I know why. This time I’ve taken it too far. I’ve slept with the guy and have let him into my hardened heart a little. But worst of all, a friend is involved and even when I tear the blinkers from her eyes I’ll never recover from this.

  He eyes me with respect. “I know you’re not interested in hearing this but whatever’s bugging you, it really does help to talk about it.”

  I rear back like he’s poked me in the eye but before I can tell him to fuck off, he holds up his hands and offers a rueful grin. “I’m not volunteering to hear you out, by the way. That was a general observation.”

  He’s candid and I appreciate it. The subterfuge perpetuated by my ex, my lover and all the other guys who dupe, taints my view of all men. Griffin isn’t a bad guy. He’s a dork, the kind of guy who says what he thinks and reads situations wrong despite the college degree. He’s harmless but I’m not in the mood to continue being psychoanalyzed against my will.

  “Thanks for the free advice but I’d rather be alone.”

  “My bill’s in the mail.” His smile is candid as he stands, slips a few notes out of his wallet and lays them on the table. “For what it’s worth, I think you’re great and if you want to give me a call when you’re in a better place, I’d love to hear from you.”

  I don’t want to hurt his feelings so I remain silent. With a rueful shrug of his shoulders and a hopeful half smile, he’s gone.

  I made a mess of that yet I don’t care. Even if he hadn’t turned out to be sweet, what did I expect to happen? How would Griffin have been any different from the other guys I’ve been with? Guys I use in the hope I’ll feel wanted in a way my husband never wanted me, even for the briefest speck of time.

  If I hadn’t driven him away tonight with my whacky behavior I may have asked him out on a date. Dinner maybe. Then when he called the next day, or the next, or even the week after that, I wouldn’t have returned his call. Meaningless flirtations serve a purpose for a short time. It distracts from my self-doubt. It helps me escape if only during a brief interlude. So when the fleeting date is over, I don’t want to see the guy again. I don’t want to get close. I don’t want to ever risk putting myself out there again.

  Besides, Griffin is nothing like my lover, and against my better judgment I can’t help but compare the two. I like a confident, take-charge man because it makes me feel more powerful when I get the better of him. At least, that’s what I keep telling myself, because if I’d learned one thing tonight at Ris’s party it’s that seeing him with his wife made me feel almost… jealous.

  Crazy, because I’m only using him as an adjunct to make my friend wake the hell up. But every time I see him lately he’s worming his way under my skin and making me feel, when I’d vowed to never feel anything for a man ever again. It terrifies me.

  I need to stick with the program and not deviate, like tonight.

  Nice guys aren’t my type. Nasty guys who lie and cheat are. I need to stay ahead of the game. Regain control.

  Starting now, with a terse text to my lover.

  Sixteen

  Jodi

  I’ve had a good night’s sleep at the center, which is basically a halfway house for lost souls like me. They fed me, gave me a change of clothes and plied me with a pile of brochures outlining various scenarios, including adoption. It’s not like I haven’t thought about it. When I first discovered I was pregnant I couldn’t envisage being a single mom so giving my baby up seemed like a logical choice. But now that I’m in Gledhill and close to my baby’s father, I’m reassessing the wisdom of that. When I find him, I hope he’ll be open to child support. If not, having a loving couple care for my baby wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. But the ache in my chest at the thought of giving him up suggests otherwise.

  The receptionist ushers me into Marisa’s office precisely at nine. Marisa looks the same as last night: polished, elegant, classy, this time in tailored black pants and a red silk blouse. She looks too posh to be a social worker and going by her fancy house I’m puzzled as to why she needs to work.

  “So you’ve had a chance to read the brochures?”

  I nod and mumble, “Uh-huh.”

  She
rests her forearms on her immaculate desk. “Do you have any questions about adoption?”

  I’m not surprised she’s homed in on adoption as that’s what most of the brochures referred to and it’s the most rational step if I don’t want to raise my baby. But before I can answer, she launches into a spiel.

  “There are many couples in this area who have the money to facilitate a private adoption if that’s what you choose to do. They would pay for an attorney who would handle all the legalities, negotiate payments to you and protect the rights of all involved.” She beams like it’s the most natural thing in the world to give up one’s baby. “Medical and social histories are obtained on the adoptive parents and a qualified home-study counselor will assess the parents’ suitability. And if it’s okay with you, the adoptive parents can be present at the birth and take the baby home directly from hospital.”

  I tune out as she continues outlining the process: that my consent isn’t binding before the birth of my baby, that because I’m unmarried there’s no paternity test and if it’s unlikely the father will commit to parenting I can decide everything, that I can revoke consent even after signing the documents post-birth, and on and on until my head is spinning.

  “So what do you think, Jodi?” She leans forward, pinning me with a hopeful stare I have no chance of interpreting because everything she’s said is a jumble.

  “Think?”

  “About letting a childless couple in Gledhill adopt your baby.”

  I bite back my instant refusal. I’m nowhere near making a decision like that, especially as I don’t know if I’ll have money to support us yet. I’m about to tell her as such when I spy a photo on top of a bookcase behind her.

  There are eleven people in the photo.

  One of them is my baby’s father.

  My breath stalls and my throat tightens. I remember those eyes, piercing and persuasive, the strong jaw, the handsome features, the wicked grin that undid me as much as his smooth lines. To my mortification I feel a flicker of heat shoot through me.

  Trying to appear nonchalant, I point at the photo. “That looks like a happy group.”

  If she’s surprised by my abrupt change of topic she doesn’t show it. Instead, she picks up the photo and smiles. “A bunch of us took this in Montauk about eighteen months ago. A good day.”

  I want to ask how she knows my baby’s father but I need to be subtle. “Friends? Family?”

  “A mix of both, plus a few taggers-on.”

  He doesn’t have his arm draped over any of the women but I wonder if he’s Marisa’s husband: he’d been at her house last night and now in this picture.

  I want to jab at my baby’s father and ask, “How do you know him?” but I don’t. I need to be circumspect until I find him and if I demand information from Marisa she’ll figure out why I’m so curious about this guy.

  “So would you be interested in adoption?” She replaces the photo and turns back to face me. “Because if you’re not keeping the baby I think it could be the best option.”

  There she went again, using that word, option. Like I have any choice in this. Ever since I discovered I’m pregnant I’ve felt like all my choices have been taken away and I’m caught up in some endless swirl of helplessness. A vortex I can’t escape, no matter how desperately I claw at the sides to climb out.

  “I’m not sure,” I say and I’m not. I have no idea what to do if I can’t get my hands on some serious money to raise this kid.

  When I’d first come up with my plan it had all seemed clear: find the father, demand the dollars. But what if he doesn’t care if I divulge the truth about the baby? What if he denies it? What if he doesn’t give me what I want?

  I haven’t thought this through enough. I rushed to Gledhill on a whim, with a vague plan that hasn’t come to fruition yet. And if it doesn’t… I’m screwed. But my baby won’t be. I’ll make sure of that. Adoption is a viable option but I’m all talked out for today.

  “The thing is, this childless couple are locals and if you agree for them to adopt your baby I think you should stay in town. We could help you with whatever you need.” She leans forward on her desk, sounding too eager. “If you have no one back in the city, this could be good for you and the baby.”

  She doesn’t care about me. All she wants is for me to present this couple with a baby.

  “Unless you’ve told the father and he’s agreed to co-parent?”

  I shake my head too quickly, the familiar wooziness overcoming me. “I will tell him but I doubt he’ll want any involvement.”

  She doesn’t appear sad. She looks positively gleeful. “In that case, why don’t you take a few days to think it over then let me know what you decide?”

  I don’t have the funds to stay in a motel for a few days and I don’t want to. I want to find my baby’s father, get my money and head back to the city. I’ve only been granted three weeks’ paid leave and I can’t risk losing my job if the baby’s father won’t pay up.

  As if reading my mind, she adds, “You can stay here. We’ll take good care of you.”

  I force a smile, her effusiveness increasingly annoying now that I know she’s like everyone else and has a hidden agenda. “Thanks. You’ve been very kind.”

  “It’s my job,” she says, with a diffident shrug, but I know it’s more than that now.

  She stands and shows me to the door. “How about we meet again in two days and see where you’re at?”

  “Okay.”

  I have forty-eight hours to find him. If I don’t, staying in town on the pretext of giving my child up for adoption might not be such a bad idea until I have what I’ve come here for: money.

  Even after I locate my baby’s father it may not be easy to instigate a one-on-one meeting. And in turn it may take longer for everything to fall into place. Yes, staying here while I ‘consider’ adopting out my baby is a good idea.

  My plan is evolving and it’s solid.

  I should know better than anyone that the best laid plans eventually end up astray.

  Seventeen

  Marisa

  The next day, I’m waiting for Claire on the boardwalk at lunchtime. I’ve done well to hold out this long to tell her my news. Technically her news, if she approves of the idea. It’s outlandish and may not happen because I sense Jodi is fickle but I have to tell her before I burst.

  Rosie, one of the cooks at Sea Breeze, spies me sitting on a bench and saunters over.

  “Hey, Marisa. How are things?”

  “Good. You?”

  She wavers her hand side to side. “I’ve been better.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  Rosie darts a nervous glance over her shoulder before continuing. “My sister’s in trouble. I hope you don’t mind but I asked her to go see you at the Help Center?”

  “You did the right thing.” I reach out and clasp her hand briefly. “Toxic relationship?”

  Rosie’s eyes fill with tears as she nods. “The guy she’s with is no good for her and I feel so fucking helpless.”

  My heart aches for this cheerful, generous girl who has helped me serve food at a shelter in nearby Westhampton on countless occasions. It’s rare these days to find a young woman in her twenties willing to give up her time to help those less fortunate but Rosie never balks when I ask her to lend a hand.

  “Taking the first step is the hardest.” I hate how trite I sound. “If she wants to distance herself from a bad relationship I’ll do everything I can to help, okay?”

  “Thanks, Marisa, you’re the best.” She leans down and gives me an impulsive hug, making welcome warmth spread through me. This is what I like doing: solving problems, helping people, the buzz far better than anything I get from socializing with Avery’s wealthy friends. “Next time you’re in Sea Breeze, the Thai chia salad is on me.”

  As she walks away I see Claire approaching so I wave. When she reaches the bench she sits, places two soda cans between us and hands me a tuna and pickle on rye before unwrapping h
er pastrami sandwich.

  “What’s this all about? You sounded hyper on the phone earlier.”

  “Let’s eat first.” I chicken out at the last minute, afraid she’ll hate me for interfering in her life. Not that sandwiches and soda will make this task any easier but it gives me time to formulate some kind of rational presentation rather than blurting, “I think I’ve found you a baby.”

  “What do you think of my domestic skills?” Claire brandishes the crust of her sandwich.

  “You made these?” I sound incredulous, intent on making her laugh and she does.

  “Who knew that if you have time on your hands at home you can do all sorts of extra stuff like make lunch?” She places the crusts back into a paper bag and dusts off her hands. “Beats the unhealthy donuts and awful quinoa salads at the station.”

  “I thought that whole donut-eating-cop thing was a fallacy?”

  “Have you seen the size of Ron’s gut?”

  We laugh in unison and it feels good. With the sun on our faces and the wind ruffling our hair I can momentarily pretend that all is right in my world. But it’s not and the faster I focus on fixing Claire’s life than dwelling on my own, the better.

  “When do you go back to work?”

  “Next week.” She sips at her soda, staring at the ocean through narrowed eyes. “I’m ready. Things are better at home.”

  She turns to me, clarity in her eyes I haven’t seen for weeks. “I’ve been so angry, mostly at Dane, and he doesn’t deserve it. But we’re talking now and working through stuff.”

  “Good for you.” Having their relationship on solid ground will make what I have to tell her all the more exciting. “You two are one of the best couples I know.”

  She manages a lopsided grin. “We are pretty great, aren’t we?”