The Secret Desires of a Soccer Mom (24 page)

“Let me explain,” he said. “I did not follow you. I got your
address from the art studio—from your registration. I had to talk to you so I
drove to your house. When I got there, you and your husband were just leaving.”

“Jesus Christ! You came to my house? Why didn’t you just
phone?”

“I thought you would hang up!”

“Well, you were right!”

“And… I had to see you.”

“Take me back to the restaurant, Javier,” I said forcefully,
staring straight ahead.

“You are angry.”

“Damn right I’m angry!” I whirled on him. “I have children!
I can’t have some strange, possibly dangerous man lurking outside of my home!”

“I am not dangerous, Paige. Please, you must believe me.”

“Just take me back to the restaurant! Paul’s probably called
the police by now.”

There was no way Paul had called the police: we’d been gone
less than half an hour. In fact, he probably thought I was still on the phone
or in the bathroom. But Javier complied with my request, and soon we were back
on the highway. We drove in silence, while I feigned continued fury. He had
crossed a line, that much was certain, but I really didn’t believe Javier was a
danger to me. Maybe I was naïve or gullible, but he just didn’t seem capable of
violence. And, if I was being totally honest with myself, I actually felt just
a
teeny-tiny
bit… flattered. How many thirty-eight-year-old mothers of
two could say they had a gorgeous guy like Javier lurking outside their homes,
desperate to see them? God, I had serious problems.

As we neared the restaurant, I spoke authoritatively. “Pull
up around the side.” I pointed to a secluded area. When the car had stopped, I
quickly jumped out. Before I slammed the door, I leaned in and hissed, “Stay
away from my house.”

I could feel Javier’s eyes on me as I walked back to the
restaurant. I could also feel myself, almost unconsciously, begin to swivel my
hips sexily under his gaze. Yes, I would make an appointment with a therapist
on Monday.

When I entered the dining room, the party had returned to
the bar area. I slipped into the room, unnoticed, and stood by my husband’s
side. It took him a few seconds to become aware of my presence. He was deeply
absorbed in a story he was telling about a rained-out golf tournament. “Hey,”
he said, smiling at me blearily. It was obvious his steady stream of scotches
hadn’t slowed during my absence. “Where you been?”

“I’m not feeling well,” I said. It was true. At this point,
my stomach was tied in knots.

“Oh…” he said, sympathetically. “Do you want to go?”

“Yeah. If you don’t mind?”

“You go on ahead,” he said, kissing my cheek. “I’ll grab a
cab.”

“Paul, a cab home will cost at least fifty dollars.”

“I’ll expense it. Go on.” He gave me an affectionate,
drunken headlock-type squeeze. “Feel better.”

In the morning, Paul was the one who wasn’t feeling well.
“Oh God…” he moaned, when he heard me getting out of bed. “I feel like crap.”

“I’m not surprised,” I sniped, sounding like I’d never let a
drop of evil alcohol touch my lips.

“I feel like a mouse crawled into my mouth and died.”

Charming. “Go back to sleep,” I muttered. “I’ll make the
kids breakfast.”

I was somewhat annoyed at Paul’s complete ambivalence to my
disappearing act last night, but I had bigger things on my mind. It was
actually a relief that he would be staying in bed. This way, I could relive my
kidnapping and the ensuing conversation, undisturbed. The children were
enraptured by cartoons, so I set about making them French toast. As I beat the
eggs and milk, my mind slipped back to the previous night’s events.

It had been stupid to get in the car with Javier—stupid,
wrong, scary—and exciting. Assuming I could trust my instincts at all, he
wasn’t a threat to my safety. Still, it was a bit
freaky
that he had
driven all the way out to my house to talk to me—
freaky
in a thrilling
and flattering sort of way. God, he could be out there right now, sitting in
his car just hoping to catch a glimpse of me. I hurried to the bathroom to fix
my hair, just in case.

When I had served my children their breakfast, I puttered
around the kitchen, making coffee, putting dishes in the dishwasher and
thinking about what Javier had said. If he really hadn’t written the note to
the police, then who had? As tight as our Aberdeen Mists social circle had
been, Karen could have had any number of friends on the outside. Maybe I wasn’t
her sole confidante? Maybe she had confessed her affair—or fantasy affair—to
someone else, someone who held a grudge against her and wanted her memory to be
sullied? Say… a high school nemesis or one of Doug’s ex-girlfriends? It was
far-fetched to be sure, but it was not impossible. If I was going to believe
Javier’s version of events, I would have to do some more digging.

But the digging would have to wait. Spencer had a soccer
game and Chloe had her hip-hop dance class. I managed to drag Paul from his bed
to cheer on our son, while I raced to drop Chloe at the community center. I was
not invited to watch her practice, because “…Only like,
babies
have
their moms watch them”. I sincerely hoped her reluctance to have me observe
wasn’t really because they were learning the hip-thrusting, crotch-grabbing,
nipple-tweaking moves so popular in today’s music videos. With Chloe delivered,
I raced back to the soccer field to catch the last half hour of my son’s game.
When he was finished, we all piled into the SUV and rushed back to retrieve
Chloe.

“Who wants McDonald’s for lunch?” Paul asked. It was like
asking a drowning man if he was interested in a life preserver. The kids began
screaming their agreement, and shimmying around in their seats with excitement.

“Great idea,” I grumbled. I tried to limit the children’s
fast-food intake.

“Come on,” Paul said, “They love it.”

“And it’s so good for them,” I replied, sarcastically. “I
suppose this has nothing to do with your hangover?”

“Well…” Paul said, sheepishly, “It couldn’t hurt.” Laughing
and shaking my head, I pulled into one of the approximately four-thousand
fast-food restaurants that lined our route home.

An hour and a half later, with grease oozing from our pores,
we pulled through the gates marking Aberdeen Mists. As I brought the car to a
halt in our driveway, Paul said, “Here comes Carly.” Sure enough, my friend was
walking across her front lawn toward us, carrying a large cardboard box.
Exiting the vehicle, my husband called to her, “Do you need a hand with that?”

Though she was obviously struggling under the weight, she
cheerfully called back, “No, I’m okay. Thanks, Paul.”

Handing the house keys to my husband, I walked slowly to
meet her at the edge of my drive. “What have you got there?”

“Well…” she said breathlessly, dropping the box on the
interlocking paving bricks, “I’m cleaning out my garage. Trudy and I are
organizing a spring yard sale with all the proceeds going to Karen’s
infertility trust.”

Oh, for Christ’s sake. What was it with those two? It was
like they had become compulsive do-gooders. But I managed to smile sweetly and
say, “Great.”

“We’re going to collect stuff from around the neighborhood
and store it in my garage until the weather warms up. When I was going through
my things I found a lot of Brian’s old stuff. I was wondering if Paul would
want any of it?”

I looked over my shoulder but Paul had taken the children
inside. “Uh… I don’t know. What kind of stuff?”

“Hockey equipment, baseball glove, his camping gear… He
obviously doesn’t want it anymore and there’s no sense me keeping it.”

“Well… I don’t think he really needs anything like that.”

“What size are Paul’s feet? Brian’s skates might fit him.”

“He doesn’t really skate.”

“What about the camping gear? Your kids must love camping?”

“We have all that stuff. Really...”

“Well, I’m also getting rid of some extra kitchen things. Do
you need a lettuce spinner? An extra set of measuring cups?”

“I’m good… thanks. Keep that stuff for the yard sale.”

“Okay…” She dug down the side of the box. “What about books?
I went through all our old books.” She retrieved a handful. “You like to read.
How about these?”

Jeez… Carly had always been the generous type, but this
seemed a little overboard. “Sure,” I said, feigning appreciation, “I could use
something to read.” She thrust the small stack into my arms and I briefly
inspected my bounty: a couple of mysteries, a historical romance, and a bright
pink chick lit. “Thanks. This is great. And it’s really nice of you and Trudy
to hold a yard sale for Karen’s trust.”

“Well… it’s not completely selfless,” my friend said, with a
self conscious laugh. “I’ve been meaning to clear some of the junk out of my
life—particularly all the remnants of my life with Brian.”

“Right…”

“I read in
O
Magazine that you have to have room to
let new things enter your world. If you keep adding and adding and never giving
anything back, you end up with clutter—with your belongings, your emotions,
your friends… “

“Makes sense …”

“It’s about time, don’t you think? I mean, it’s no wonder I
haven’t been able to find a new man. My life has been too full of junk and
baggage!”

I laughed agreeably.

“If you have anything to donate to the yard sale, we’d
really appreciate it. There’s no rush, obviously. We won’t have the sale until
probably the third Saturday in March.”

“Okay. I’m sure I can get some things together by then.”

Entering the house, I deposited the books in a corner of
Paul’s study and went in search of my family. Spencer was at the kitchen table
drawing what appeared to be a giant toilet with lumpy, brown people falling
into it—or more likely, turds with arms and legs. Chloe was locked in her room
singing loudly into a deodorant-stick microphone, and Paul was lying on the
family room couch, watching football on TV. “How are you feeling?” I asked.

“Okay,” he said, still staring at the box. “All that greasy
food is soaking the booze out of my liver.”

“Great. I’ve got a few things to do. I’ll be up stairs.”

Carly had inspired me. I would do a good deed by
contributing to the fund-raising yard sale. Besides, my existence could do with
a little decluttering as well. Not, in my case, to allow someone new to enter
my life.
Au contraire
! But if I could simplify my environment, it might
make my thoughts more clear. After last night, I was more confused than ever
about Karen’s accident.

I began in my closet, sorting through pilled sweaters,
outdated blazers and high-waisted pants. When in doubt, I tried things on,
laughing at my reflection on several occasions. Why had I been hanging on to so
much old crap? Yes, the eighties were now considered “retro”, but I was fairly
sure that jewel-toned sweaters with huge shoulder pads would never be back in
style. Jeez… if your closets were a reflection of your psyche, it was no wonder
I had been feeling so stale and uninspired.

As I pulled on a turquoise, acrylic sweater complete with
leather epaulets, I thought about Javier’s suppositions. Could someone really
be trying to frame him? He seemed so sincere in his belief. But if so, who was
it? And why? Was that letter written by Karen’s real murderer, or just some
nasty person who wanted to spill Karen’s secrets? If that were the motivation,
surely there were easier ways to besmirch her good name? Or was Javier lying to
me—using his good looks and sexy accent to make me believe everything he told
me? This uncertainty and speculation was driving me insane!

Suddenly, as I stared at my reflection in the hideous,
military—meets—Sheena Easton sweater, I had a revelation. I needed to talk to
Doug! True, our previous conversations had not gone smoothly—okay, they were
disastrous—but now some time had passed. We had both endured a grieving period,
allowing us to deal with our shock and loss. By now, he likely knew about
Karen’s pregnancy, the anonymous letter, and possibly, even the affair—if it
had actually occurred. I had to go and speak with him.

I barreled down the stairs and into the kitchen. Chloe was
poking around in the fridge, and Spencer was sitting in the living room,
playing with his sleeping father’s pate. In my son’s lap was a bottle of hand
lotion, which he was using to make impressive, greasy sculptures with Paul’s
thinning hair. Normally, I would have intervened, but it seemed sort of an
appropriate punishment for Paul’s previous neglect of me.

“I’m going for a short walk,” I said, to my daughter. “Wake
dad up if you need anything.”

“Okay,” she said, emerging from the fridge. “Cool shirt.”

“You like it? You can have it,” I said.

“Really? Thanks, mom.”

“You’re welcome, honey. Be back soon!” Throwing a coat over
Chloe’s new shirt, I rushed out the door.

Okay… I told myself, as I stalked across the street in the
crisp, early evening air, you can do this. Apologize to Doug for your earlier
conversations. Tell him you were overwhelmed by your own emotions and may not
have been as sensitive to his feelings as you should have been. Then… come right
out with it. Tell him the police have been around to talk to you, that you know
about the letter, and the baby. Don’t say anything about Javier—unless he
brings it up first. If he does, you can admit that Karen mentioned him,
casually, but not that you knew anything about an affair. You want Doug as an
ally, not an enemy. Tell him that you met Javier, briefly, just by chance, at a
drawing class. This time, you must be gentle and supportive with Doug. He’s
going through an incredibly difficult time: It was bad enough losing Karen, but
now he has to deal with all these doubts and suspicions.