The Secret Desires of a Soccer Mom (36 page)

I’m sure you have heard by now that my
neighbor Carly Hillman has been charged with Karen’s murder. She maintains it
was an accident. At the very least, it was a crime of passion. Carly was
jealous of Karen and obsessed with everything she had. Her rage just got out of
control on that terrible afternoon.

I also wanted you to know that I forgive
you for lying to me. For whatever reason, you felt you had to deny your true
relationship with Karen. I’m sure you had your reasons. Maybe you thought I was
interested in you
in that way
, which, I certainly
was not. Maybe you thought that if I knew the truth, I would cut you out of my
life completely. I wouldn’t have. I would have supported you in your grief…
because, like I said, I was not interested in you,
in that way
… Though I do think you’re a very attractive man.

It is not a good idea for us to see one
another. My husband was very angry about my subterfuge, and rightfully so. My
marriage and my family are my number one priority, so please don’t leave
anymore gifts on my doorstep—though the ones you left were really lovely. Thank
you. Just know that I feel for you, in my heart, and hope you will go on to
have a happy life.

Sincerely,

Paige Atwell

I reread it. It seemed to get the point across. I scratched
out
subterfuge
and replaced it with
sneaking around
. Yes, if I could
get this note to Javier, it would be the final page in this painful chapter—not
counting the trial of course, which I had resolutely decided not to dwell on. When
my sympathies had been conveyed to the poor, misguided foreigner trying,
fruitlessly, to find love in his new land, I could close the book on this
experience for good.

But the letter sat in my purse until the new year. I didn’t
know where to send it: The Old Grind? The Wild Rose Arts Center? With all
Javier had suffered, who knew if he still worked at either place. Thanks to me
siccing the cops on him, he had probably been fired from one or both. And was
popping the letter in the mail really going to give me sufficient closure? Mail
got lost or misdirected all the time. If I posted it, I would never know for
sure that he received it.

There was no way around it: A little surveillance work was
going to be necessary. Don’t get me wrong, I was more than happy to hang up my
private investigator’s license, but this mission was vital to my peace of mind.
I would find out whether Javier still held either of his previous jobs, and
deliver the letter to him there… not to him in person, of course. That was too
risky. I didn’t want Paul to find out, and I certainly didn’t want Javier to
fall head over heels at the sight of me and begin bombarding me with gifts
again. I would leave the letter in the hands of one of his co-workers at The
Old Grind or at the front desk of the arts center. That would ensure he
received it safely.

On Tuesday morning, I drove to the coffee shop, but that
proved futile. From my parking spot across the street, I couldn’t see in
through the window well enough to know if Javier was working or not. And I
didn’t have hours to sit in my car watching for his entrance or exit. Besides,
this was just a bit creepy. I mean, it was like Javier needed the restraining
order against me. After twenty minutes, I pulled the SUV back onto the road and
headed home. I would stake out the Wild Rose Arts Center on Wednesday evening.
If he hadn’t been fired, there was at least a fifty-fifty chance that he would
be there to pose for Allan Drury’s drawing class.

Not surprisingly, Paul had become a little more suspicious
of my extracurricular activities. Telling him I had plans to meet an old
co-worker or that I was taking a night class was not going to fly anymore. He
would definitely nail me on the specifics: Who? Where? When will you be back?
Undoubtedly, he’d call me, possibly even drive by to check up on me. I couldn’t
blame him. It was going to take some time to regain his trust. But Paul
couldn’t deny his children milk and cheese slices, both of which we
conveniently ran out of at eight-thirty that evening.

“Damn,” I said, poking my head into the refrigerator. “We’re
out of milk.”

“Do you want me to go get some?” Paul offered distractedly,
staring at the TV.

“Oh, we can make do,” I said, casually. “Oh, great… We’re
out of cheese slices, too.”

“I’ll go,” my husband said, eyes still transfixed by the
hockey game being played out on the screen before him.

“No, you stay and watch the game,” I said sweetly. “I’ll
go.”

“I don’t mind.” Paul started to stand.

“I need to get some tampons and stuff, anyway,” I added.

“Oh…” Paul sat back down. I kissed him quickly before
hurrying out the door.

If my estimation proved correct, I should arrive at the arts
center approximately seven minutes before the Drawing the Human Figure class
was let out. If Javier was the model tonight, and not that annoyingly perfect
Amanda person, he should emerge from the building at roughly 9:06. I would
confirm his continued employ, watch him drive away in his Audi, then hurry
inside and leave the envelope, addressed to Javier Rueda, propped prominently
on the reception desk. That would be it. I would be free.

I pulled the SUV into the lot and parked in a remote back
corner. From this vantage point, I had a perfect view of the main doors, from
which I felt sure Javier would exit. The digital clock on my dash glowed in the
darkness: eight fifty-two. Close enough. Slouching down in my seat, I waited.

At nine oh-five, the first students began to leave. I
recognized my former neighboring artist, instantly recognizable in her maroon
sweatpants, Birkenstock sandals and socks. A few more artists straggled through
the doors, some in small clusters, others alone. I had not seen Javier yet, but
neither had I seen Amanda. It was possible that they had hired a new nude
model, but I doubted it was one of the motley crew I’d just seen exiting. At
least I hoped it wasn’t. The doors remained quiet for several minutes, until
the instructor, Allan Drury, walked through them at nine-twelve.

Something was wrong. Where was Javier? Where was Amanda? Had
Drawing the Human Figure
been changed to something else—like
Drawing the Bowl of Fruit
? Perhaps Javier had been posing for
the class when he was hauled in for questioning by the police or served with
the restraining order? Allan may have decided that live models were too much of
a liability. How was I ever going to find Javier? How was I ever going to
express my remorse for the way he’d been treated? How long could I sit out her
before Paul began to wonder if I really was just buying milk, cheese slices and
tampons? Dejectedly, I reached for the key in the ignition.

Suddenly, the movement of the exit doors caught my eye. I looked
up, and there he was, emerging into the night. My stomach did a little dance.
Javier had become quite attractive again, now that he was no longer stalking me
and I’d confirmed he was not a murderer. He paused there in the doorway, as if
holding the door open for someone to follow. I could see the steam of his
breath in the cold air, his hands burrowed deep into the pockets of his
expensive leather jacket to protect against the chill. His hair looked a little
longer, stylishly disheveled. I slid down further in my seat as his eyes seemed
to scan the parking lot. Poor Javier. He was probably paranoid that the police
or a process server would pop out at any moment.

Suddenly, a woman appeared behind him. She was clutching a
sketchbook to the front of her white rabbit fur coat, and she wore snug jeans
tucked into stiletto boots. Talk about overdressing for an art class! Her hair
was shoulder-length and pale blonde, but as she turned in my direction I caught
a glimpse of her face in the halo of light emanating from the single outside
bulb. Despite her impeccable make up, it was clear she was another
later-in-life artist… quite a bit
later
, in fact. The woman was at least
in her early fifties. Okay… maybe that was a bit of an exaggeration, but she
had at least eight to ten years on me. It was sweet of Javier to escort this
elderly woman to her car.

The pair began to move down the steps, and I watched
Javier’s arm slide around the older lady’s waist. She stopped, obviously
delighted by his attentions, and turned to face him. Her arms slid under his
leather coat and wrapped around his taught, young body. She said something then—obviously
something hilarious, as they both threw their heads back in laughter. When they
had composed themselves, they stood, talking quietly, for a long moment on the
steps. There was something so intimate in their pose, so…
carnal
. But it
couldn’t be, could it? She was twice his age. And then, casting his eyes
quickly around the silent parking lot, Javier leaned in to kiss her. I covered my
eyes, peaking horrified, through my fingers.

The old lady reached in the pocket of her fur coat and
handed Javier a set of keys. I watched them, through my splayed digits, walk
briskly to a steely Mercedes. Javier opened the passenger door for her before
hurrying around to the driver’s seat. Moments later, he pealed out of the
parking lot.

When they were gone, I reached into my purse and extracted
the note. So, Javier had moved on; that didn’t change anything, did it? It was
obvious he had a proclivity for mature women, preferably with a lot of money to
buy him cars and leather jackets and immigration lawyers but still… He wasn’t a
dangerous stalker or a killer. And it wasn’t fair that he had been treated like
one. Really, his only crime was falling for Karen… and falling for me. Exiting
the car, I walked purposefully toward the building, my heartfelt condolences
clutched in my hand. This was it. This was closure, finality, the end of a
strange and disturbing episode in my life. When I reached the main entrance, I
stopped. There, on my left stood a large, plastic garbage can. Tearing the
missive into tiny pieces, I dropped them into the bin. That was all the closure
I needed.

Carly was sentenced to eight years in jail. With time off
for good behavior, she’d be out in four. Testifying against my friend was the
hardest thing I had ever done. I tried my best to give an accurate account of
events, while still demonstrating Carly’s kind and generous side. But every time
I tried to bring up the frozen lasagnas she made for Doug, or Karen’s memorial
Christmas decoration, the prosecutor shut me down. As she was led from the
courtroom, Carly looked over at me, just briefly. Tears streamed down my face,
but hers was dry, emotionless, her expression unreadable. Carly was obviously
in shock, but I hoped she could see how much this had hurt me.

Back in Aberdeen Mists, life began to regain a sense of
normalcy. Carly’s house went up for sale and was quickly bought by a family
from Portland. They seemed like nice people and were friendly enough, but both
parents had careers, leaving little time for mingling with the neighbors. I was
secretly thankful. Call me superstitious, but I didn’t want to get too close to
the next residents.

Jane, Trudy and I continued to socialize. Margot Baumann was
often included and I grew to really like her. Of course, Jane frequently
invited preschool or ballet-class moms, trying to fill that fifth seat vacated
by Carly, but we had yet to find someone with whom we clicked.

Our incarcerated friend still weighed heavily on my mind. I
couldn’t help but feel responsible for sending her to the ‘big house’, no
matter how many people reassured me that it wasn’t my fault. Logically, I knew
that was true, but what did Carly think? Obviously, given her psychotic
behavior, logic wasn’t her strong point. For my own peace of mind, I knew I had
to contact her. It wasn’t like with Javier, where seeing him necking with some
old granny had allowed me to close the door on our relationship forever. Carly
and I had shared a much deeper bond. I decided to send a letter to the Colorado
Women’s Correctional Facility. But what could I say?

Dear Carly,

How are you? I hope you are enjoying
jail?

I wanted the letter to be somewhat upbeat, but not
patronizing. After much forethought, I sat at my sunny breakfast nook and put
pen to paper.

Dear Carly

I hope you are keeping well. This must
be a difficult time for you, but I have noticed that many women who are
released from prison have really amazing complexions. Martha Stewart looked
several years younger after her short incarceration, so I’m sure you will look
incredible after eight years.

Oh God, that was no good. I crumpled the page into a ball.
No, there was no room for niceties in this missive. It would have to come
straight from the heart.

Dear Carly,

I’m writing to try to explain, if I can,
why I had to be honest and testify against you in court. It was truly the
hardest thing I’ve ever done, and the pain of that day will stay with me
forever. But I had no choice. You see, I couldn’t live a lie any longer. Karen
had confessed her affair to me as well, and keeping her secret was eating me
alive. That day, when I discovered you had been involved in her fall, I knew
the truth had to come out… all of it.

Of course, I would like to ask for your
forgiveness, but I understand if you can’t give it to me. I want you to know
that I hope you have a good life when you are released. I’m sure, with some
therapy, you can learn to be happy again. You will still be a young woman,
Carly (and if other released prisoners, e.g. Martha Stewart and Mary Kay
LeTourneau, are any indication, you will probably look far younger than your
years). You can still have the life you dreamed of: husband, children, good
friends…. I want that for you Carly. I really do.