The Secret Desires of a Soccer Mom (21 page)

With that parenting crisis averted, I felt free to resume my
search for the truth regarding Javier. The sooner I could put that baby to bed,
the better it would be for everyone—especially me. I was eager to regain my
former sense of peace, unburdened by this obsession with Karen’s case. And I
was eager to return to guilt-free fantasizing about Javier. Unless, of course,
it turned out that he was a psychotic killer, then I would focus more on George
Clooney.

Unfortunately, a rendezvous with Javier necessitated a lie
to my husband. I called him at the office.

“Oh, hi hon,” he said, tap, tap, tapping as usual. Normally,
this would have annoyed me, but I felt I had no right to complain. It seemed
rather petty, considering I was about to concoct a fabrication to allow me to
see another man.

“How’s your day?” It was best to start out with a little
friendly chit chat.

“Good… good… What can I do you for?”

Normally, another enormous irritant, but I let it slide.
“Remember Mary-Anne Campbell? We used to work together at Kellerman PR.”

“Right… (tap, tap, tap) right…”

“Well, I haven’t seen her since Chloe was a baby, but she
just called me up out of the blue. We’re going to meet for a late dinner
tonight.”

“Great… (tap, tap, tap) Great… What time did you say you’re
going out?”

“What time will you be home?”

“I’ll be here until at least eight. Is that too late for
you?”

“No. We were thinking we’d meet around nineish so that would
work perfectly.”

“Okay babe. Gotta run. Love ya.”

“Love you, too.”

I had a light dinner with my children, cleaned up the dishes,
and then hurried upstairs to find something appropriate to wear. Unfortunately,
my closet offered little choice. Not that I was trying to impress Javier: it
was more of a confidence thing. Obviously, I couldn’t wear the boots again—and
not because they were currently in the swear-replacement box (I could easily
have sneaked them out after Spencer went to bed). But I didn’t want Javier to
think I was some sad, suburban housewife with only one sexy and stylish outfit.
Finally, I decided on a pair of snug blue jeans and a black V-neck sweater.
First, I slipped into the red water bra—not that I was trying to look sexy and
desirable. Oh no! That was far from the purpose of tonight’s meeting. But I had
worn the bra at our last encounter, and if I’d suddenly shown up with
noticeably smaller breasts, he may have found that distracting and not been
able to concentrate on answering my questions. When I was satisfied with my
appearance, I went downstairs to wait for my husband.

“Whit-woo!” Spencer fake whistled, his standard greeting
anytime I had lipstick or earrings on.

“Thanks, sweetie.”

Chloe looked up from her homework. “You’re going out
again
?”
she sniped, as if I routinely left my children home alone to go hang out at
some singles’ bar.

“Again? What do you mean a
gain
? I hardly ever go
out!”

“You do so,” she replied. “What about that drawing class?”

“I’m not even taking that class anymore—not that there’s
anything wrong with enriching yourself through a hobby. In fact, I’m thinking
about taking a dance class.”

“A dance class!” Chloe howled. “You’re kidding?”

“No, I’m not.”

“That’s so funny!”

“Why? Why is it funny?”

“Well… it’s just… just… you… dancing…” She was doubled over
now, and Spencer was starting to join in.

Suddenly, Paul walked into the kitchen. His presence at the
front door had been muffled by the sounds of my children’s vicious laughter.
“What’s so funny?”

“M-m-mom… M-m-mom…” Chloe gestured at me frantically, trying
to explain, but she had lost the power of speech.

“For some reason, they think it’s hilarious that I might
want to take a dance class.”

The corners of Paul’s mouth twitched, but the rest of his
face remained grave. “Well, I think that’s great, honey. You’re a…
cute
dancer.”

“Cute dancer?” I cried angrily. “I’m a cool dancer!” Chloe
collapsed onto the floor. Paul lost his battle for earnestness and dissolved
into giggles. I had to leave before my loved ones did any more damage to my
ego. “See you later, John Travolta and Jennifer Beals,” I grumbled.

“Who?” Chloe managed, through her hysterics.

By the time I reached Cherry Creek, I had sufficiently
recovered from my family’s mocking. I parked just down the street and headed to
The Old Grind. It had not occurred to me that Javier might not be working. He
simply
had
to be there. I had steeled myself for this conversation and
my nerves could not handle a postponement. I also didn’t want to have to lie to
my family again—as cruel as they were about my dancing. Hopefully, I opened the
heavy door and made my way inside. Again, there were only a few occupied
tables: a young couple feeding each other muffins and giggling quietly; an
older well-dressed couple (possibly the same one from my previous visit); and a
lone man with a laptop— though this fellow was middle-aged, with wiry grey hair
and small, round glasses—a poet or a writer of some sort. I didn’t linger at
the entrance this time, but moved swiftly to the counter at the back. Tonight,
there would be no silly pitter-pattering of my heart, no flip-flopping of my
stomach, no enjoyable tingling in my genital region … This was serious. I was
here for answers.

When I reached the counter, it appeared to be abandoned. I
peered over the top, hoping Javier was crouched below, stocking the fridge or
scrubbing the floor. He wasn’t there. A sudden sense of irrational panic swept
over me. Where the hell was he? He couldn’t have just abandoned his post in the
middle of his shift. The coffee shop didn’t close for another twenty minutes. I
mean, he couldn’t just walk out while there were customers here. Unless he had
fled? A door at the back slammed, and I knew it was him. That same, strange
electric energy crept through my body. All the hair on my arms stood on end,
before Javier had even entered the room.

“Paige,” he said, a delighted smile spreading across those full
lips. “You came back.”

Pitter-patter. Flip-flop. Enjoyable tingle-tingle.
Outwardly
at least, I was able to maintain my composure. “Hi,” I said, coolly. “I need to
talk to you.”

“Okay. I’ll make you a coffee?”

“No, thank you. … Well, okay.”

“Decaf tonight? Or do you have a boring party to go to?”

“Decaf’s fine.”

“Dry cappuccino, extra hot?” His eyes twinkled at me.

“Yes.” God, he even remembered my high-maintenance coffee
order. But tonight I would not succumb to his charms. Tonight, I needed to get
some answers. My sanity depended on it.

“So,” he said, beginning to make my beverage. “You need to
talk to me?”

I glanced around at the other occupants. “Could we speak in
private?”

“I close at nine. We could talk then?”

“Perfect.”

When my coffee was ready, I insisted on paying. Then, I took
my mug to a small table where I flipped mindlessly through an outdated
magazine. Mentally, I rehearsed what I was going to say, not the exact words,
but the gist of it. This time, I would not be distracted by his intense gaze. I
wouldn’t get flustered looking at those sexy lips, the outline of his pectoral
muscles through his blue T-shirt. I would be mentally and emotionally prepared.

Those final ten minutes seemed to take forever, but
eventually, the other patrons left, and Javier locked the door behind them.
Once again, my heart began to beat frantically. It was a normal physiological
response: I was locked inside an empty coffee shop with a potential murderer.
But I was not afraid of being killed by Javier. I was more afraid of losing my
focus, or worse… losing control.

Javier took a seat across from me. “I am happy to see you
again,” he said, looking deeply into my eyes. “You look very beautiful.”

“Well… thanks,” I said brusquely. “I need to talk to you
about something.”

“What is it?” His voice was warm and full of understanding.

It was time. The question had to be asked. “Did you know…” I
trailed off, suddenly frightened to bring this information into the open. “Did
you know Karen was pregnant?”

I had expected some kind of start, a physical indication of
shock or guilt. But if he was stunned or disturbed by this news, he kept it
well hidden. “I didn’t know. A baby would have made her so happy.”

A baby
would
have made her so happy. I suddenly felt
very sad, but I had to compose myself. In an effort to stifle my emotions, I
turned antagonistic. “Really? You had no idea? I thought you and Karen were
close friends.”

“I told you before, we were not that close.”

“Well… she confessed to you that she was bored with her
husband. Why wouldn’t she tell you that she was going to have a baby?”

“I don’t know.” He was looking at me suspiciously. “Did she
tell
you
she was going to have a baby?”

“Well… no…”

“Why not?”

He was turning the tables on me and I didn’t like it. “This
isn’t about me,” I snapped. “It’s about you.”

“Okay,” he said, patiently. “What do you want to know?”

“Did you write a letter to the police telling them that
Karen’s death was an accident?”

This time, there was a reaction. He stood up, suddenly
angry. “What! Why would I write a letter to the police? I know nothing about
her death!”

I stood, too, matching his ire. “The police got an anonymous
letter. The writer said that he was there when Karen died, that they argued,
but she fell, accidentally, and hit her head.”

“I didn’t write it.”

“Are you sure?” I moved toward him, aggressively. “This
letter was from a man… a foreign man.”

“Well it wasn’t me.”

“Really? I guess it must have been from one of Karen’s many
other foreign boyfriends.”

“It must have been.”

“Cut the crap, Javier,” I said, venomously. “It was you,
wasn’t it?”

He whirled on me. “No!”

“I need to know!” I yelled at him. “It’s driving me crazy!”

“Why?” he said, his voice controlled. We were only inches
apart now, both of us breathing heavily from the outburst. “Why is it driving
you crazy?”

“Because…” I croaked. “Karen was my friend,… and… I need to
know if you were involved in her death.”

“And what about me?” he said, shifting his body, almost
imperceptibly, toward me. “Am I your friend?”

“No,” I said, huskily. “I only came to see you because I
wanted to know what happened to Karen.”

“So, you’re using me?” Again, he moved, ever so slightly,
toward me. His proximity was like some kind of magnetic force, pulling me into
him. I could smell his skin, clean and manly.

“Were you sleeping with her?” I asked, just barely holding
my ground. “Please… tell me.”

“I was not.” He moved in. Our bodies were touching now, just
barely brushing one another. I was frightened: afraid I might collapse, burst
into tears, or jump on him and start humping his leg. I quickly tried to
visualize dead Karen or my cute, Popsicle-eating kids, but I could summon
neither image. Javier reached out, and with one finger, tilted my chin.
Somehow, I managed to remain standing.

“Your eyes…” he said, staring into them. “They are not sad,
like my mother’s.”

“Oh….” I said hoarsely. I cleared my throat. “Well, that’s…
good.”

“They are beautiful.”

“Thanks.”

“So… so… beautiful,” he said softly, moving in for the kiss.

Oh God! Oh no! I was married! A mother! I could not kiss my
dead friend’s lover—real or imagined. I tore myself away. “I have to go,” I
said, shrilly, hurrying to the table to retrieve my coat and purse.

“Don’t leave.”

Without looking at him, I hastily buttoned my coat. “I have
to, but thank you for seeing me,” I said, formally. “Goodbye.” I rushed to the
door, but of course, it was locked. I began to frantically rattle the door
knob, on the verge of some kind of panic attack. “I have to go!” I screamed.
“Let me out!” Silently, Javier came and turned the lock, setting me free into
the frigid night air.

I didn’t look back as I scurried to the SUV, taking huge
gulps of air as if I’d just surfaced from a deep pool of water. I pressed the
remote locking device and the car beeped, its lights blinking to signal that it
was open, ready to receive me. Once inside, I locked the doors then leaned my
head against the leather seat, feeling hot tears pool beneath my closed lids. I
didn’t know why I wanted to cry exactly. There seemed to be a plethora of
reasons: Karen was dead; Spencer was on a slippery slope with that whole
swear-replacing business; Chloe thought I was a lame dancer and Paul
agreed….And worst of all, I had come very close to cheating on my husband. Of
course, I was fully clothed and had had virtually no physical contact with
Javier, but I knew what was in my heart.

God, I was a horrible, horrible person. Not only had I come
very close to cheating on my husband, but I had come very close to cheating on
my husband with the man who may have witnessed my friend’s death… possibly even
caused
it! I was sick! A sick-o! I had a wonderful family at home, and
here I was prancing around in a water bra and G-string, playing Miss Marple.

There was a light tap on the window beside me. I jumped in
my seat, a startled cry escaping from my lips. Turning, I saw Javier, standing
in his T-shirt in the chill, evening air. I could see his nipples through the
thin, blue fabric. Sick! I was a sick-o! Turning the key in the ignition, I
undid the power window an inch and a half. “Yes?” I called through the tiny
crack.

“Paige…” he said, holding his lips to the small space.
“Please… I want to say…” He stopped. “Could you undo the window a bit more?” I
pressed the down button, lowering it another inch or so. Javier continued. “I
want to see you again.”