The Secret Desires of a Soccer Mom (32 page)

But I knew I couldn’t do that. Portman had warned me to keep
my distance from Javier, and I had to agree it was for the best. Perhaps I
could donate the iPod to a women’s shelter or a club for street kids? Someone
should get some enjoyment out of it. A glance at my watch told me my decision
would have to be put on hold. It was time to go pick up the children. Hurriedly
placing the card on top of the device, I returned the lid to the box. I would
hide it in the back of the linen closet until I could figure out the best way
to dispose of it.

Life went on as normal for several days, aside from the fact
that I could virtually feel myself developing a peptic ulcer. Portman did not
call. I was beginning to fear that he never would. The green straw with
Javier’s trace saliva was likely languishing in some landfill by now. Troy
probably told me it was in the lab to appease me, and then planned to stall me
indefinitely until I lost interest. Unlike Javier, this avoidance technique
would probably work on me. I was already feeling incredibly defeated.

No one seemed to notice my general malaise, which only
served to intensify it. That is, until Saturday evening. I was loading plates
into the dishwasher after our evening meal when my daughter appeared in the
kitchen. She had just emerged from the bath. Her hair was wet, pasted to the
sides of her face, and she was wrapped in her yellow, terry-cloth robe. “Hi,” I
said, as she rounded the corner. “Are you all clean?”

“Yep…” She was looking at me strangely, a wide grin
splitting her features.

“What?” I felt a little paranoid. Was she laughing at me?
Did I have something on my face?

But my eldest child moved toward me and gathered me in a
gigantic hug. “I love you, Mom.”

“I love you, too, honey,” I said, a little warily.

Her wet head was still pressed to my chest as she continued
to speak. “I know I was acting like a spoiled brat about the karaoke machine.
I’m sorry.”

“It-it’s all right.”

“And I don’t even want my belly button pierced anymore.”

“I’m glad.”

“And you’re not the meanest mom in the world. You’re the
nicest mom in the world.”

“And you’re the nicest daughter…”

She released me. “I’m going to do some singing practice in
my room for awhile. Or do you need some help cleaning up?”

“Uh… I think I’ve got it under control. But thanks for
asking.” She skipped happily back upstairs.

I walked directly to Paul’s office where he was working on a
proposal or a presentation or something for next week. “There’s something wrong
with Chloe,” I said.

“What do you mean?” He swiveled around in his chair.

“She’s acting really, really strange.”

“What’s she doing?”

“Hugging me, telling me I’m the nicest mom in the world,
offering to clean the kitchen.”

“Christ!” Paul stood up. “I’ll go talk to her.”

“She couldn’t be into drugs already, could she?” I asked
worriedly. “I’ve heard that ecstasy makes you act very sweet and loving.”

“Don’t worry,” Paul said, bounding up the stairs. “I’ll get
to the bottom of this.”

When the kitchen was clean I put the kettle on and made a
cup of Serenity herbal tea. Paul had still not returned, but I was sure he
would summon me if he suspected our daughter was on ‘e’. I flicked on the TV
and put my feet up on the coffee table, immersing myself in the umpteenth
season of
American Idol
. It wasn’t until the episode was over that my
husband appeared in the living room.

“I put the kids to bed,” he said.

“Thanks, hon. What’s up with Chloe?”

“Well… I think she found her Christmas present.”

“What?”

“In the linen closet,” he said, moving to sit beside me.
“She found this…”

Holy shit! Oh, my God! Fucking fuck, fuck, fuck!

Paul began to remove the lid from the flat, silver box. “You
didn’t tell me you were getting her an iPod. It’s a little extravagant for a
ten-year-old, don’t you think? She’s thrilled, though.”

Oh, help! Please!
I silently begged for an
earthquake, a car to crash into the formal living room, a twister… anything to
postpone or prevent what was about to happen.

“Wow,” Paul said when Chloe’s supposed Christmas present was
revealed. “This is really nice. A guy at work has a—” He stopped, noticing the
card. “What’s this?”

I didn’t know what to say. I was frightened, mute.

He opened it, taking in the missive and the impassioned plea
at the bottom. I had expected him to explode, to scream and yell at me for my
obvious betrayal, but his voice stayed calm—which was actually worse in a way.
“What the hell is this?”

“It’s not what you think,” I said, my voice quaking.
“Please… let me explain.”

“Yeah…” he said, coldly. “I think you’d better.”

“Okay…” I said, taking a deep, ragged breath. “I’m going to
start at the beginning. It’s kind of long, so please hear me out. But first let
me tell you that I’m not having an affair.”

“Good.” There was no relief in his voice.

“Karen was.”

“Karen was?”

“Yeah… well, at least she told me she was.”

He was quietly angry. “Why didn’t you tell me this before?
Don’t you think the police need to know this?”

“They do know.”

“Oh. So you’ve been talking to the police and you haven’t
even bothered to inform me? You complain that we’re not
connected
, and
then you keep all these secrets from me. What the hell is going on with you,
Paige?”

Tears had sprung to my eyes. “I’m sorry. I handled this
badly, I know. But please… let me start at the beginning.”

And I did. I began with Karen’s confession and how she’d
sworn me to secrecy. I explained how, after she died, I had wanted to protect
her reputation and Doug’s feelings, so I kept her affair hidden. I explained
how I met Javier at drawing class, how I found out Karen was pregnant, how the
police received an anonymous letter… I told him that Karen’s baby wasn’t Doug’s
and that I’d provided the police with a green straw with Javier’s DNA on it. I
told him everything—except of course, my own attraction to Javier. That was
irrelevant now, anyway. At this point, the mere thought of Javier was
sickening. And I had never appreciated what I had with Paul so much. In that
moment, I knew how precious my marriage was: not perfect, not thrilling, but
incredibly precious. If I had jeopardized it by playing Cagney or Lacey or
whichever one was skinnier, I would never forgive myself.

“I don’t blame you for being mad,” I said, tearfully. “I was
stupid. It all got out of hand.”

“You
were
stupid,” he said. “And I
am
mad. You
invited a possible murderer onto our doorstep.”

“I didn’t
invite
him…,” I began.

“You’re the reason he’s been here, to our home, at least
three times. God, Paige. Don’t you care about your family? Your children?”

“I do!” I wailed.

“And what if he had hurt you? How do you think that would
affect the kids and me? It would destroy us.”

My sobs could no longer be held in check. “I screwed up. I
know… I’m such an idiot. But please… Paul, I love you and the kids so much.
Please forgive me.”

Almost grudgingly he took me into his arms, where I wept
inconsolably for at least ten minutes. When my tears and snot had soaked
through his shirt, Paul gently pulled away. “Listen to me,” he said, gripping
me firmly by the shoulders. “From now on, we’re going to handle things my way.”

‘O-o-okay,” I blubbered.

“I mean it, Paige. This amateur detective act is over. Do
you understand me?”

“I-I do.”

“Good. Now, why don’t you go have a nice warm bath and then
get to bed?”

“Will you be joining me?” I asked, hopefully. His new
take-charge attitude was a real turn-on!

“Later,” he said, gruffly. “I’ve got some phone calls to
make.”

I slept more soundly that night than I had for months. My
deep slumber could probably be attributed to emotional exhaustion, but I also
felt a tremendous sense of relief. With Paul’s involvement, the burden of
Karen’s secret had finally been lifted. In the morning, my spouse still seemed
disgusted with my behavior, but he was not overtly hostile. I pussyfooted
around the house, making pancakes, ironing Paul’s shirts, and playing with the
children so that he could work in his study, undisturbed. At this stage, he
didn’t seem open to a huge display of affection, but I hoped to subtly convey
my appreciation.

But Monday morning brought an end to the cold war. At
six-thirty, when Paul would have normally been leaving for the office, he
phoned in and said he’d be working from home. I wasn’t sure what to think: Paul
never worked from home. Did he feel I needed to be watched, in case I started
playing detective again? Protected from my extravagant gift-giving stalker? Or
did he really just want to work on his proposal or presentation in the relative
quiet of his home office? I didn’t ask. Instead, I focused on delivering my
children to school in a timely manner.

When I returned, Paul was on the phone in his study.
Quietly, I went into the kitchen and began to clean up the breakfast dishes.
After a few moments, the audible murmur of his conversation ceased and he
called my name.

“Coming!” I called back, still contrite, scurrying to meet
him. When I was in the doorway, I smiled sweetly. “Yes, honey?”

He swiveled in his chair to face me. “I just got off the
phone with Ed Alahan.”

“Okay…?”

“He’s a lawyer friend of mine.”

“Oh…”

“We’re going to take out a restraining order against this
Javier guy,” he stated. “Ed’s bringing some forms by. You’ll need to fill them
out and then he’ll help you set a court date.”

A restraining order? A court date? Was that really
necessary? I mean, Javier had only left some bubble bath and an iPod on my
doorstep, not a decapitated rabbit or something.

“Gee… I don’t know if that’s—”

Paul’s formidable expression stopped me short. “I’m handling
things now. Don’t even think about arguing with me.”

“Okay…” I said meekly. “So, uh… do you feel like—I don’t
know—going upstairs and lying down for a while?” His forcefulness was making me
so hot!

“Ed will be here in half an hour,” he said, coldly, turning
his chair away from me.

Ed Alahan was a nice-looking Indian man about my age. He sat
with me as I filled out a number of forms, stating my name, age, address and
the nature of my relationship to the defendant (Javier). What
was
the
nature of my relationship to him? Unrequited crush? Model and artist? Deceased
friend’s boyfriend? I decided the last one was the most accurate, and the most
incriminating. Then I was asked to provide an incident checklist, providing the
approximate dates and details of my disturbing encounters with Javier. When the
list was complete, it looked so…
benign
.

Dec. 6, Defendant leaves iPod loaded with Spanish love songs
in petitioner’s mail box.

Dec. 2, Defendant delivers a basket of sensual body products
and leaves it on petitioner’s doorstep.

Nov. 10, Defendant leaves pressed rose in mailbox with card
requesting petitioner meet him for coffee.

Nov. 8, Defendant shows up at restaurant where petitioner is
dining and lures her into his car. Defendant drives petitioner to secluded
parking lot to talk to her, before returning her to restaurant.

There was really nothing sinister about our interactions. In
fact, except for the last one, all Javier had done was drop a couple of gifts
off on my porch. That didn’t make him a stalker, did it? It just made him…
overly generous. What judge would grant a restraining order for that? Ed sensed
my concern. “Don’t worry…” he said, kindly. “The list will have more impact
when it’s placed in context. In court we can explain that this man was the
lover of your murdered friend.”

“If Karen really was murdered,” I added.

“Well, for the purposes of obtaining an order of protection,
we’ll be focusing on the fact that her death is still under investigation.”

“Right. Of course.”

“I’ll be in touch with a court date.”

I felt a sudden surge of panic. “Will I have to testify?
Will Javier—
the defendant
” —be there?”

“The first step is a temporary, order of protection hearing.
The judge will ask you some questions about the stalking, but Mr. Rueda won’t
be in attendance. If we progress to a permanent order, there will be a more
formal hearing, and the defendant will be able to attend.”

“I hope we won’t need to go that far,” I said.

“Me, too.” His smile was reassuring.

“Thanks for all your help.” I shook Ed’s hand.

Paul appeared from his study. “You all finished here?”

“It’s taken care of,” Ed said, gathering the papers.

“I’ll walk you out,” Paul offered.

When he returned, he joined me at the kitchen table. “You
okay?” His voice was still cool, but I was touched by his concern, nonetheless.

“Yeah… I just wish I didn’t have to go to court and
everything…”

“Yeah? Well, I wish you hadn’t been seeing a strange,
potentially dangerous man behind my back, but you were.”

Obviously, he was still pissed off. I took a deep breath. “I
don’t know, Paul,” I said, frankly. “I’m not one hundred percent sure Javier’s
the killer. He certainly seems obsessive and a bit…
misguided
, but…”

He stood up. “We’ll see what the police have to say. They’ll
be here in an hour.” Jeez… when Paul said he was taking control of things, he
wasn’t kidding. I went upstairs to freshen up a bit, and then put on a pot of
coffee.

Detectives Portman and Conroy showed up punctually at eleven.
Paul ushered them inside, shaking hands and exchanging introductions. I hung
back, standing awkwardly at the edge of the grand entryway. “And, of course,
you know my wife, Paige,” Paul said, with a hint of derision.