The Secret Desires of a Soccer Mom (19 page)

“Okay. I’ll see you at ten.”

I was the first to arrive at Jane’s palatial home. Okay,
palatial
was probably too strong a word, but
grand
wasn’t. They had built the
six-thousand-square-foot home two years ago to Jane’s exacting standards. While
Karen’s home was like an upscale version of all the others in our suburb,
Jane’s was in a different league. It perched, alone, on the top of a hill
overlooking the rest of Aberdeen Mists. There was something regal about the
McKinnon abode. It was like the
king
house: the rest of our homes its
lowly subjects.

“Hi!” Jane opened the door and
mwa-mwa
’d both my
cheeks. I stepped into her grand entryway, which, unlike mine, the name
actually befitted. “Let me take your coat,” she said, carrying it to a vast
coat closet.

“The place looks great,” I said, looking around. It was a
pointless comment. The place always looked great, thanks to Becca and the
Wednesday team from Merry Maids. I turned to Jane. “You look great, too.”
Again, a completely unnecessary compliment, but she was looking particularly
pretty in her white, cashmere sweater and slim, dark denim jeans.

“Thanks. You look… really tired, actually.” She took my
hand. “Are you okay?”

“Oh, fine.” I laughed away her concern. “I just had a
terrible sleep. I made the mistake of having caffeine at about nine o’clock
last night.”

“You silly thing. Come, I’ve got coffee brewing and Becca
made a low-fat key lime pie this morning before she took Ainsley to pre-school
and Amelia to her swimming lesson.”

I waited in the resplendent kitchen, nursing my coffee while
Jane welcomed first Trudy and then Carly. We sat at the massive, hand-hewn oak
table, set with sunny yellow placemats and blue and white Tiffany bone china.
Our host cut us each a slice of low-fat pie and then joined us. “Okay,” Jane
said, when she had taken her seat, “there are a few rules for this morning.”

“Rules for coffee?” Carly laughed, looking from Trudy to me.

“Yes,” Jane continued. “This is to be a happy gathering. We
can talk about Karen, of course, but there is to be no crying. We should honor
her memory by reminiscing about the good parts of her life, not the sad
ending.”

“Agreed,” we chorused, holding our coffee cups up in a sort
of toast.

“So…” Jane said. “What’s new with everyone?”

There was not a lot new, or so it seemed to me. Carly and
Trudy talked extensively about the Karen Sutherland Alternative Infertility
Treatment charity. Trudy also mentioned Cameron’s supporting role as boy number
three in the Young People’s Theatre production of Oliver Twist and Emily’s leap
to grade-five piano.

“Good for them,” Jane said, exuberantly. “And what about
you, Carly? Any luck tracking down the Diet Coke man?”

“No,” Carly said, with a small shrug of her shoulders. “But
I’m okay with it. If it was meant to be, I would have found him again. That’s
one thing Karen’s death has taught me.”

“What?” I asked, looking up from my pie. “What has it taught
you?”

“Well…,” Carly said, “that we can’t necessarily control our
destiny. I think our lives are already mapped out for us. We don’t know who
we’ll meet, who we’ll fall in love with, or even when we’ll die. Karen’s short
life inspired me to take each day as it comes and not put so much pressure on
myself to find a man. I have a feeling that when the time is right, he’ll look
up and I’ll be standing right there, in front of him. ”

“That’s very accepting of you,” Trudy said, kindly.

“Or fatalistic,” Jane chimed in. “I don’t know, Carly. You
make it sound like we have no control at all. We make choices, choices that
define who we become, our happiness and success…”

“I agree that we have choice in our lives…” Carly was
saying, but I could feel myself losing interest in their existential debate. My
mind slipped back to Javier’s revelation about Karen’s fantasy life as I waited
for a break in the conversation. Then, mustering my courage, I addressed the
group.

“How did Karen seem to you… before she died?”

There was a long pause. My friends were obviously taken
aback by the abrupt change of subject.

“What do you mean?” Trudy asked.

“Well, you know…” I said. “Did she seem happy? Content? …
Sane
?”

“She seemed very happy,” Carly said. “It gives me some peace
to know that she was in a good place, mentally and emotionally, when she passed.”

“I thought she seemed fine,” Jane said. “I know she was
sometimes frustrated about not getting pregnant, but otherwise…” she trailed
off with a shrug.

“So… she never said anything…
strange
to any of you?”

“Strange how?”

“I don’t know, just… weird or out of character?”

“Why?” Carly asked. “Did she say something to you?”

“Not really,” I said. “But I thought she seemed kind of…
discontent
with her life in Aberdeen Mists, just a little… out of sorts during the weeks
before the accident.”

“No,” Jane said. “I can’t think of anything.”

Trudy, who had been silent up until now, finally spoke.
“Well…” she began hesitantly. “There was one thing I took as a little… odd.”

“What?” I leaned toward her across the massive table.

“She asked me if I’d ever thought about living a simpler
existence
—
like buying a small apartment, getting a
cheap little car, spending less on clothes…”

“Oh my God!” Jane said, as if this were the craziest thing
she’d ever heard. “Why would she say that?”

“I don’t know,” Trudy replied. “Of course, I told her that I
felt blessed to have this life, but she was really on this
simplifying
kick. She was even talking about leaving Aberdeen Mists.”

“No!” Jane said. “And going where?”

“She didn’t say, exactly… but she mentioned Europe.”

“Europe?” Carly asked.

“Europe.” Trudy nodded.

“Did she say where in Europe?” I asked. “France? Spain,
maybe?”

“Yes… I think it was one of those.”

“Of course it was one of those,” Jane said. “People don’t
dream of running off to Germany or Belgium do they?”

“I suppose not,” Trudy said. “Unless they really loved beer…
or waffles.”

We all laughed, but my mind was preoccupied with Karen’s
admission to Trudy. She had obviously been thinking a lot about fleeing Doug
and her suburban existence, but what did that mean? Was her relationship with
Javier the real thing? Had he promised to whisk her away to Spain to save her
the humiliation of facing all the perfect, happily married Aberdeen Misters? Or
was she just bored and discontent, and running off to Spain with her dream-boy
was merely wishful thinking?

Jane’s voice brought me back to the table. “Maybe Karen
wasn’t as happy as we all thought.”

“Yes, she was,” Carly said, vehemently. “I spent the most
time with her and she was happy… very happy. She may have been a little frustrated,
sitting around at home waiting to get pregnant, but she loved her life. She
loved Doug.” No one said anything for a long moment. Carly added. “He has an
air tight alibi, you know.”

“We know,” I said.

“Of course.” Trudy nodded vigorously.

Jane jumped in. “No one’s saying Doug
killed
her, but
maybe their marriage wasn’t as picture-perfect as we’d all believed.”

“Well, whose is?” This came, surprisingly, from Trudy. She
instantly noticed our eyebrows raised in surprise. “I’m just saying that no
matter how solid your marriage, everyone occasionally daydreams of running off
to the south of France with some muscular, young mailman.”

I gasped. “You mean Leon!”

“No!” She blushed. “I was being hypothetical. I could just
have easily said muscular, young … meter reader.””

I pointed at her. “You
do
mean Leon!”

“Leon has great legs,” Jane said.

“Particularly his calves,” I added.

“He’s twelve years old!” Carly cried.

“He’s twenty-four,” Trudy said. “Not that it matters because
I wasn’t talking about him, specifically.” She was beginning to sound a little
flustered.

“Okay… I’m sorry,” I said, patting her hand, “but you’re
right. Everyone has fantasies now and again.”

“That’s right,” Jane seconded. “Even if you are happy,
there’s not a woman in the world who doesn’t occasionally wonder about a
different kind of life… a different kind of man.”

“True.” I nodded.

“So… Karen was probably perfectly happy,” Carly said. “I
mean, you three have it all, and you still have fantasies.”

We all agreed that this was true. Fantasizing about living
in a small apartment in Europe did not necessarily mean Karen had been
seriously unhappy with her current existence. With that subject exhausted, we
returned to more lighthearted banter: how Chloe was adjusting to being a
bespectacled sideshow attraction; Becca’s recipe for low-fat key lime pie (the
secret was ricotta cheese); and the Foundation for Success’s annual fundraising
craft sale… Before we knew it, Becca had returned home with Jane’s two Ralph
Lauren-clad daughters, signaling that it was time to go.

When I arrived home, I felt more lighthearted than I had
since the tragedy. Jane had been right: it was important to keep up our coffee
tradition in Karen’s absence. She would have wanted us to go on. In fact, our
coffee klatch was kind of an homage to her. Going to my pantry, I grabbed the
two, family-sized cans of soup and took them to the living room. Flicking on
The
Young and the Restless
, I lay on my back and began working my pectoral
muscles. It had been weeks since I’d felt motivated to tackle the life makeover
list. Of course, lifting the soup cans was just a baby step, but still… It was
a good sign that I was on the road to recovering my normal life.

As I lifted the cans and watched Malcolm (returned from the
dead with really unfortunate cornrows) argue with his former
lover/sister-in-law, a realization crept over me. My carefree mood had to be
attributed to more than just a good chat with girlfriends. In fact, I almost
felt like I’d had an epiphany, of sorts. Trudy’s confession had been the
trigger. If even perfect Trudy fantasized about running off with Leon—or,
rather, some anonymous hottie—then perhaps Karen’s make believe affair with
Javier wasn’t so strange, after all? I had feared my belief in his story was a
result of my own gullibility, my weakness for attractive, sensual men. But now,
I realized he was probably telling the truth. We all had these momentary
flashes of a passionate, exciting life outside the confines of suburbia. It was
completely understandable. And the only difference between our fantasies and
Karen’s was that she had told me her amazing love affair was real. So she’d
told a little fib. So what? It probably made her feel happy to talk about it as
if it were actually happening to her. I was glad to have brightened her final
days by playing along.

Victor Newman walked out on Nikki for the three thousandth
time, and I breathed a deep sigh of relief. I felt as though I could finally
stop clinging to my doubts and suspicions, and close the door on the mystery of
Karen’s death. It was just as Paul had said: a freak accident. It was just as
everyone had said: everyone but silly, paranoid me. I could finally let it go.
There was no need to ponder the circumstances of Karen’s death, to question
Doug’s alibi, or to think about Javier… at all. I was finally free!

This sense of lighthearted freedom lasted through the
weekend and on until Thursday. I was patient and fun-loving with the children,
kind and affectionate with Paul. On Saturday night, back on schedule, my
husband and I made love. It was very nice. Javier did make an appearance in my
mind’s eye, but I no longer felt guilty about it. Now, fantasizing about Javier
was no different than fantasizing about George Clooney. Since I had decided to
drop the art class, there was no fear I’d be running into either one of them.

I would focus, with renewed vigor, on making over my life.
Of course, I had neglected this project ever since Karen’s terrible accident,
but now that I had put it behind me, I could take great strides. There would
continue to be moments of sadness, I knew that, but her death no longer
consumed me. I was at peace… and it was time to figure out what would make me
happy.

A soul-nourishing hobby would be an excellent start. I
flicked through the Wild Rose Arts Center’s flyer. Drawing was out, obviously.
Unfortunately, my lack of artistic ability extended to most other visual
mediums, as well. But the arts center also offered a number of dance classes:
jazz, salsa, Highland dancing… Maybe that was the answer? As I recalled, I had
shown a natural flare when I took ballet back in kindergarten. Yes, dance would
be a good choice! I would be expressing myself creatively and getting in shape!
Why hadn’t I thought of it before? It was like killing two birds with one
stone. And then, the phone rang.

“Ms. Atwell?”

“Yes?”

“It’s Detective Portman calling from the Denver police
department.”

“Oh… hello.” I was startled.

“I was wondering if I could come and talk to you?”

My husband’s words flitted through my head—something about
calling him and getting a lawyer if the police showed up again. “Sure,” I said.
“When?”

“I could be at your place within the hour.”

“Fine. I’ll see you then.”

As I freshened up to meet with Detective Portman, my mind
raced through the possible reasons for his visit. Had they found something
fishy while investigating Karen’s death? I didn’t want to believe it. It felt
so good to let go of my doubts and suspicions, to accept that Karen had simply
fallen and hit her head. But as I put on a coat of mascara and some sheer,
berry lip gloss, I couldn’t think of any other reason. Unless… unless our
meeting was more personal in nature? I had sensed something between Portman and
me, that day
—
call it chemistry, mutual attraction, what
have you… It hadn’t been particularly intense on my part, certainly nothing I
would have acted upon, but maybe it had been more pronounced for him? He hadn’t
mentioned bringing Detective Conroy along. I went into my bedroom and put on
the water bra.