The Secret Desires of a Soccer Mom Page 18

  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.

  “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.”

  Chapter 21

  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.

  As I walked up Karen’s stone driveway, I felt prepared for the conversation that lay ahead. There had been too many secrets and too much speculation. I felt relieved to finally be sharing what I knew with Doug. And I was sure he would appreciate having someone to discuss his feelings and concerns with. I was just about to take the first step up to their front door, when some movement from inside caught my eye. From this vantage point, I had a clear view of the family room and part of the casual dining room. Seated at the table, were two figures: one, a man in a denim shirt—obviously Doug; and the other, a petite woman with blown-out, shoulder length blond hair. They were each holding glasses of red wine, and appeared to be in deep conversation. I watched, silently, as the woman threw her head back with laughter at something Doug said. I knew enough about body language to see that this was not a relative or a business associate. There interaction appeared to be flirtatious, almost intimate. Then the woman stood, walking slowly around the table. There was something familiar about her fit, compact figure and confident gait. When she was standing behind Doug, she placed her hands on his shoulders and began to knead. His head lolled forward, obviously enjoying her ministrations. And then she looked up.