The Secret Desires of a Soccer Mom (23 page)

“Okay... tomorrow morning, then.”

“You really think it’s that easy to find a new outfit?
Well,” I scoffed, “you obviously don’t have to deal with a small bust and extra
long torso.”

Paul looked at me in silence for a moment. “What’s going
on?” he asked slowly.

“What? … What?”

“Why are you getting so upset about this party?”

I busied myself putting away the dishes sitting in the
drying rack while I tried to compose an answer. I could think of several
reasons for my chagrin. Paul’s office parties were excruciatingly dull,
especially for someone like me who had less than no interest in computer stuff.
Sadly, they often culminated in an argument between my husband and me, since I
found his colleagues painfully boring and he seemed to find them both
entertaining and hilarious. And after my morning meeting with Detective
Portman, my nerves were completely shot. I knew I was blowing the event out of
proportion, but at the moment, it felt somewhat overwhelming. Besides all that,
I really did have nothing to wear.

I sighed deeply and turned around to face my husband. “I’m
sorry. I’m overreacting.”

“Yeah.”

“I just wish I’d known about it sooner so I could have been
prepared.”

“Honestly, Paige, I really think I told you.”

“Whatever…” I waved it away with my hand. “I think…” I
sighed heavily, again. “I think you and I need to reconnect.”

“Oh,” my husband said, seemingly surprised, “I thought we
kind of had.”

“Well… we kind of did, but I need more than that.”

“Okay…” he said, thoughtfully. “Maybe when the kids have
gone to bed we could do it in the shower or something?”

“I’m not talking about sex this time.”

“Oh. Sorry.” This puzzled him. “So… reconnect how?”

“
Emotionally
.
Spiritually
.” This appeared to
puzzle him even more. Apparently, I would have to spell it out for him. “We
used to be a team, Paul. Lately, I feel like we’ve been too wrapped up in our
own lives. You’re completely immersed in your job, and I’ve been absorbed
with…” —It took me only a millisecond to find the right word— “my grief. We
need to come together again.”

He moved toward me. “You’re right.” His arms reached out to
embrace me. “That sounds good.” We held each other in silence for a long moment,
a contented smile playing on my lips. It was the new beginning I had hoped for;
I could feel it. I would invest all of my energy back into my relationship with
my husband, into my family. It felt so right.

Paul pulled back and looked at me. “Maybe later we could
still… you know, do it in the shower?”

“Maybe.”

We didn’t end up doing it in the shower, but still, I felt
positive about this next phase of our relationship. Paul and I needed to be
more cohesive, less insular in our separate lives. I was glad I had finally
spoken up about it. I was also glad that I managed to find a knee-length,
champagne-colored dress that flattered my small bust and extra long torso.
Plus, Katy Baldwin, a skinny blond teenager with a mouthful of orthodontics had
agreed to baby sit. Maybe this party wouldn’t be as painful as I was expecting?
I vowed to have a positive attitude.

I tried, I really did. The evening had started off quite
well. When we first arrived at the upscale, Italian eatery, Paul was attentive.
He introduced me to his colleagues—or rather, reintroduced me. Over the last
six years I had spent approximately twelve evenings with these people, but I
usually needed a quick refresher upon meeting them again. I smiled warmly as I
shook their hands, asking about the ski chalet they had been building last time
we met, or their daughter who had just been heading off to college in Idaho.

But by the second cocktail, conversation was rapidly
deteriorating. Paul seemed to have forgotten my existence as he immersed
himself in animated discussions about difficult clients, crashing thingamabobs,
and golf scores. I found another wife standing idly by and managed to strike up
a conversation. Unfortunately, I soon found out that she was childless and
extremely devoted to her career in banking. With less than nothing in common,
our idle chitchat quickly petered out. My husband, on the other hand, seemed to
be having the time of his life. Thanks to a continuous stream of scotches, he
was getting louder, more gregarious, and definitely more obnoxious. Surely
someone would tell him to shut up soon? But to the contrary, the other guests
seemed to find him incredibly amusing. I was grateful when we were summoned to
the dining area for our meal.

The food was excellent. The conversation was not—at least
not to someone who had no understanding of software protocols, had not been on
that team building retreat in Vegas, or dealt with client, Natalie Devon,
a.k.a. Nastily Devil. I was used to this, from the past dozen or so events, so
I smiled pleasantly and tried to concentrate on my veal and red wine. But I
couldn’t help but feel some resentment toward my husband. After our
heart-to-heart about reconnecting and presenting as a cohesive unit, he was basically
ignoring me. He was so engrossed in relaying his many humorous anecdotes that
it was like he’d forgotten I was there. When dessert had been served and it was
apparent that the evening was going to progress in this manner indefinitely, I
knew I needed a break. I leaned over to my husband.

“Paul,” I said, quietly.

“No way, Damon! They
needed
that upgrade. Haven’t you
ever heard of
upselling
?”

“Paul…” I tried again.

“Give me a break! You’d sell your grandmother the AP3000 and
she doesn’t even own a computer!”

Amidst his cohorts’ uproarious laughter, I snapped, “Paul!”

He turned toward me. He almost looked surprised to see me,
like he wasn’t quite sure why I was there when I so obviously didn’t fit in.
“What?”

“I left my cell at home. Lend me yours so I can check on the
kids.”

“Okeydoke…” As he extracted his phone, he dove back into his
previous conversation. “You’re just in it for the free golf, man! I can see
right through you!”

Dejectedly, I walked to the front of the restaurant and
asked the pretty coat-check girl for my wrap. It was a chilly, November
evening, but I needed some fresh air. Hopefully, it would cool me off. By this
time, I was positively seething at Paul’s indifference to my presence. It was
like our reconnection conversation had gone in one ear and out the other. This
was going no better than my initial resexualizing efforts.

Standing on the sidewalk just outside the glass, front
doors, I dialed home. Katy Baldwin answered after a couple of rings.

“Hi, Katy. It’s Paige calling.”

“Oh, hi.”

“How’s everything going?”

“Good,” she said, in her high-pitched, vaguely muddled
voice. The plethora of metal in her mouth caused a slight speech impediment.
“Really good.”

“Did the kids get to bed?”

“Yep. Spencer went at about 8:30. Chloe went at nine, and
then she read for awhile.”

“Great… great. …Were they well behaved?”

“Yeah. They were really good.”

“Good… good.” There was a long pause as I scrambled for
something else to ask. I wasn’t ready to return to the party yet. “Spencer
didn’t say any, uh,
naughty
words, did he?”

“Not really.”

“Not really?”

“No. He was fine.”

“Okay… well, thanks Katy. Hopefully we won’t be too much
longer.”

“Take your time.”

I hung up and stuffed the phone into my tiny evening bag.
Huddling into my wrap, I stared out at the darkened parking lot and the largely
vacant highway beyond. At that moment, I really wished I smoked: it would have
given me an excuse to stay outside, away from the party. I wondered how long I
could stay away before Paul missed me—likely, until the restaurant closed at
midnight.

Suddenly, I was assaulted by the stinging beam of headlights
in my eyes. One of the dormant cars, parked across the lot and facing me,
sprang to life. I squinted in its direction. It was a nice car, sleek and
black. The hood ornament indicated that it was an Audi. As it sidled out of its
spot, my first thought was one of envy: at least someone was getting to leave
the party early. But the car didn’t appear to be in any hurry to exit the lot.
It eased forward, heading directly toward me. The driver, obscured by the
glaring lights in my eyes, turned the wheel, and pulled the car up beside me. I
heard the electric whir of the passenger window being lowered.

“Paige. Get in.”

I leaned down to peer inside. Holy shit! It was Javier! I
felt a momentary flash of relief that he wasn’t in prison or some immigration
holding cell. But what was he doing here? How had he found me?

“What are you doing here? How did you find me?”

“I need to talk to you. Get in… please.”

“I- I can’t.” I couldn’t, could I? Paul might come looking
for me—although, that was highly doubtful. But Javier might want to harm me!
Detective Portman’s warning to stay away from him replayed in my mind.

“Please…” he said again, looking at me with his dark,
pleading eyes. Oh shit. He had some kind of Rasputin-like power! “I must speak
to you.” Before my rational mind could talk me out of it, I hopped in. With a
piercing, squeal of tires, we peeled out of the parking lot.

Javier was silent as we sped down the deserted highway. It
was difficult to read his mood as I sat mutely beside him, frozen in my
luxurious leather seat. There was definitely something titillating about being
in this sexy car, so close to this sexy man. But I was also uneasy. I didn’t
know his intentions, and he was driving way too fast.

“Can you slow down please?” I said, firmly. He ignored me.
“Seriously, Javier! Slow down!” He did not decelerate. “Whose car is this
anyway?”

“It is mine.”

“Oh.” I didn’t want to be rude and ask how he could afford a
car like this on his barista wages, but he must have read my thoughts.

“I saved for a long time. … And when my aunt died, she left
some money to me.”

“Really?” Skepticism had colored my voice. “Aren’t you the
lucky one? I wish I had a rich, dead aunt to buy me an Audi.”

Suddenly, Javier flicked on the right-turn signal and began
to slow the vehicle. When we reached the driveway of a darkened, hardware
store, he pulled in. He drove the car around to the back of the building and
then slammed it into park. As he turned off the ignition, I felt my first real
tremor of fear. Maybe Javier
was
violent? Unstable? Capable of stealing
a fancy car, and kidnapping an innocent mother of two? Maybe, he was even
capable of murdering that mother of two, like he had murdered Karen? But if he
had murdered Karen, wouldn’t the police have arrested him by now? It had been
nearly twelve hours since I ratted him out to the cops.

He swiveled in his seat to face me. “Why did you do it,
Paige?”

“Do what?” My voice was breathless with dread.

“Why did you tell the police I was sleeping with Karen? I
told you that was not true.”

“Yes, well, she told me it
was
true. The police asked
and I was honest. I told them that Karen said she was having an affair with
you, but that you denied it.”

“I am so hurt by you,” he said, quietly.

“They’re not going to deport you, are they?”

“No. I am legal to be here.”

“How…?” But I decided not to ask. “Well, that’s good, then…
for you.” I looked into those dark eyes and he really did look hurt. “Sorry,” I
said. “But what did you want me to do, lie to the police?”

He reached out and took my hand in his. They were warm,
rough, perfect… “I want you to believe me. Karen was nothing more than my
friend. I had nothing to do with her death.”

Oh great. Here we go. Next thing I knew he’d be talking
about his sad, fatherless childhood in Seville, and I’d be like putty in his
hands. “I have to get back. My husband will be looking for me.”

He said nothing for a long moment, just held my hand in his.
Finally: “I did not write that note to the police.”

“Okay.” But it was obvious I doubted him.

“The day Karen died, I was working all day. I think that,
maybe, someone is trying to… ummm,” he struggled for the word. “To make it look
like I was there… like, I wrote the note…”

“Someone is trying to
frame
you?” I encapsulated it
for him.

“Yes. I think someone is trying to frame me.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know.”

“But no one knew about your relationship with Karen except
me, and I’m certainly not trying to frame you.”

“Maybe she told someone else that we were lovers?” He
squeezed my hand gently. “Even though we were not lovers.”

I didn’t respond. I was lost in thought. Who else could
Karen have talked to? I had eliminated our close circle of friends when she
initially confessed to me. Carly was too wounded by her ex’s affair to be a
good sounding board. Trudy was too prim and proper, and Jane, despite her
adulterous past, had become this pro-active, marriage-sustaining zealot.
Besides, none of them would write a letter trying to
frame
Javier. There
had to be someone else.

“You look beautiful in your new dress.”

This statement jarred me from my speculation. I turned to
face him, my eyes narrowed. “How did you know it was new?”

“It looks new,” he said, releasing my hand and turning the
key in the ignition. “I will take you back, before your husband misses you.”

I continued to stare at him. “How did you know where I’d be
tonight? Have you been following me?”

“No.”

“Oh my God! You
have
been following me!” I suddenly
felt the very real need to flee. I couldn’t believe I had been stupid enough to
get in a car with this… extremely good-looking stalker! I reached for the door
handle but he caught my arm.