The Secret Desires of a Soccer Mom

by Robyn Harding

  Amidst the throng of familiar faces milling about, I sought out Doug. We hadn’t spoken since the day after Karen’s death (I’d sent Paul over with Janet’s slightly squished orange poppy seed loaf). I didn’t relish seeing him after my past behaviour, but decorum demanded it. And I wanted to give my condolences to Karen’s mom and brother, whom I had met one Christmas years before. With Paul’s hand supportively at my back, we went to the grieving widower.

  “…Doug,” I said hesitantly. He appeared to be in deep conversation with Karen’s brother’s wife.

  “Oh, hi Paige,” he said. Was it my imagination, or had a scrim of detached coolness descended over his eyes?

  “We just wanted to give you our condolences… again.”

  “Thank you.”

  I let Paul take over, and moved on to kiss Karen’s mother and immediate family. But I was not up to small talk. Emotionally, I was exhausted, and yet mentally, my mind was racing. If only I’d had a few minutes to talk to Javier, to get a feel for the kind of man he was. Was he capable of killing Karen? Or was he so distraught by her death, that he would risk attending her funeral just for a chance to say goodbye? If that turned out to be the case, then I’d have to interrogate Doug further. Although, he already thought I was a complete weirdo. I didn’t see how I could gain any further information from him without him taking out a restraining order.

  And then, I saw him. I had to blink my eyes to ensure they weren’t playing tricks on me, but there he was. Javier had not sneaked off. He was just across the room, pouring himself some coffee from the stainless steel upright urn. “I’m going to get a cup of coffee,” I mumbled to Carly, who was standing closest to me. I made a beeline for Karen’s lover.

  Thanks to my swift movements, he was still stirring the sugar into his coffee with one of those tiny brown plastic straws when I approached. “Hi,” I smiled pleasantly, as I reached for a Styrofoam cup.

  He looked up briefly. “Hi.” It was not an overly friendly greeting, but not dismissive either. I was going to have to approach my subject very carefully, play it cool… If I was too aggressive, I might scare him off.

  “So…” I smiled at him as I reached for the minicreamers. His face really was full of character. “Did you know Karen well?”

  “We had gotten close… over the last few months.”

  “Oh.” I had expected more of an accent. In fact, if he had one, it was undetectable to me. But maybe Karen had been exaggerating his Spanishness for effect? Besides, love was blind. One woman’s smouldering, sensuous Latin-lover was another woman’s averagely pleasant guy. “It was such a shock,” I continued. “Her… accident.”

  “Terrible,” he replied, taking a drink of his coffee. “She was still pretty young.”

  Pretty young? Karen hadn’t mentioned Javier’s age, but it was now evident that he was only in his mid-twenties. Wasn’t that the most passionate and impulsive time of life? A young man of twenty-five would be much more likely to violently lash out at his lover than a more seasoned, fortyish guy, like Doug, right? I had to engage Javier further.

  “Do you know many people here?” I asked, innocently.

  Javier picked up a date square and stuffed it in his mouth. “Not really.” He mumbled.

  “Well, I’ll stay here and keep you company, if you like. I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable.”

  “…Sure.” He gave me a bemused smiled. He had nice eyes, but I wasn’t really picking up any smoulder in them.

  “I was really close to Karen, too.” I said, leadingly. “She told me a lot of things…”

  “Yeah?” He reached for a butter tart. Maybe the poor guy had stuck around because he was starving?

  “Yeah… she told me things that no one else knew.” I leaned in and whispered in his ear. “Secrets…”

  He looked at me for a second, and then nodded slowly.

  “Look, I understand if you don’t want to talk here. Maybe you could give me your number?” I began to dig in my purse for a pen.

  “Well…” Javier said, looking around nervously. “I don’t know if that’s such a good idea…”

  “I can be very discreet.”

  “… Okay.”

  “What’s going on here?” The woman who spoke was about Javier’s age, several inches shorter than me and very curvaceous. She had long, wavy dark hair, and wore bright red lipstick.

  “Oh… hey babe,” Javier said, putting his arm around here quickly.

  I was stunned! I could not believe that Javier brought a date to Karen’s funeral! Had he gotten over her so quickly? Had he been involved with someone else all along? Did that raise or lower the probability that he had killed my friend? “I was just talking to this lady—a close friend of Karen’s.”

  “Yeah,” she snapped, glaring at me. “So I see. Hands-off, lady. He’s taken.”

  “Oh, no, no, no!” I said. “I’m married.” I pointed furiously at my wedding ring. “I’m not interested in Javier—that way. I just wanted to talk to him about—”

  “Javier?” She gave a humourless laugh then turned to her boyfriend.

  “First you turn up late, and now I catch you playing some kinky game with this… woman. God, you didn’t even tell her your real name!”

  “I didn’t tell her any name,” Javier said, his voice full of fear. “I don’t know what she’s talking about. She just came up and started making moves on me.”

  “Making moves on you?” I was outraged. “I wasn’t making moves on you. I was…” I stopped mid-sentence. Oh shit. Oh shit, shit, shit. “Your name isn’t Javier?”

  “George.”

  His girlfriend spoke. “I’m Leslie, Karen’s cousin from Montana. We just moved to Denver a few months ago. Karen and I were just reconnecting when… she had her accident.”

  “I—I’m sorry, Leslie…” I stammered. “I wasn’t making moves on George.” I turned to him. “I wasn’t George. Honestly. I thought that you were a friend of Karen’s who didn’t know anyone else here. I was trying to be friendly.”

  “Whatever,” Leslie held up her hand. “It’s pretty pathetic trying to pick up a guy at a funeral.”

  “I wasn’t,” I cried. “It was a misunderstanding!” But they turned and walked away from me. My cheeks burned with humiliation.

  “Everything okay?” Paul appeared at my side.

  I turned to him. “Fine. Fine. I’m just a little… upset, that’s all. Would it be rude if we left now?” I suddenly felt overwhelmingly weary, sad and confused. It was more than I could cope with, this knowledge of Karen’s affair. I wanted to be blissfully ignorant, naïve to Karen’s duplicity like everyone else was. I wanted to make butter tarts and photo collages and grieve for my friend properly. Instead, I was consumed by the mystery surrounding her death. Trudy was right. I was having a really hard time dealing with this.

  Paul took my arm and kissed the side of my hair. “It’s okay. Let’s get you home.”

  Chapter 12

  As the days passed, I grew stronger. If there was one thing my humiliating encounter with George had provided, it was a new sense of determination. I had to meet the real Javier. I had to talk to him, to gain an understanding of his feelings for Karen. I’d let too much time pass to confess to Paul or Jane or Carly: I would have to handle the situation on my own. I would meet with Javier, and if he sparked even one iota of suspicion in me, I would go to the police. But, if he seemed genuine in his grief, I would let the whole thing go, chalk Karen’s death up to a tragic, freak accident. It was decided. Of course, I’d keep a close eye on the way Doug spent the life insurance money. Any new sports cars or hot tub installations would definitely signal cause for concern.

  I turned my attention back to the deserted stretch of highway before me. A light snow was beginning to fall, tiny flakes whipping through the air and landing on the windshield with small, wet plops. I flicked on the wipers. They dragged against the largely dry surface of the glass with an unpleasant squeak. From the backseat, I heard the muffled so
bs of my daughter. While my words of consolation had previously fallen on deaf ears, I decided to try again.

  “Honey,” I said sympathetically. “Your new glasses look great. You look really beautiful and so grown-up.”

  “I look like a nerd!” she screeched.

  Mr. Dennison had been right. Chloe was having a really difficult time accepting her new, bespectacled appearance. Unfortunately, I was too embarrassed by my previous flirtatious behavior to take him up on his offer of support. But it was okay. I was fairly sure I could handle this on my own.

  “No, you don’t,” I said, cheerfully. “You look smart.”

  “Mom, I don’t want to look smart. I want to look cool.”

  “Well… glasses are cool.”

  “Oh, really?” She snapped. “If they’re so cool, why don’t any singers wear them?”

  “What? Of course singers wear glasses,” I said, somewhat nervously. “Lots of singers… like…”

  “Who?”

  “Well… Elvis Costello.”

  “I don’t care about the guys.”

  “Okay… umm… Nana Mouskouri.”

  “Who?!”

  “You don’t know her?” I said. “Oh, she’s very popular… a beautiful voice. A really great singer.”

  “What is she like, eighty?”

  “No…” I chuckled awkwardly. “Well… maybe. But there are others.”

  “No there aren’t,” Chloe sulked. “Britney doesn’t wear glasses. Neither does Christina, or Jessica… or Beyoncé.”

  There was a long silence while my mind scrambled to think of some cool singers who wore glasses. “Lisa Loeb!” I said triumphantly. “Lisa Loeb wears glasses, and she is very hip and cool. And she’s not eighty. She’s probably around my age.”

  “I don’t care about the old people!” My daughter shouted.

  I sighed heavily. “You can get contacts in a year or two.”

  “I want the surgery.”

  “The surgery? You want laser eye surgery?”

  “Yes.”

  “Kids can’t get laser eye surgery.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because,” I said frustration evident in my voice, “your eyes are still growing. If you had the surgery now, you’d need glasses again in a few years.”

  “Then I’d get the surgery again. I don’t care!”

  “Chloe, you’ll have to be satisfied with contacts.”

  “You’re so mean! Lynn would never make Britney walk around looking like a complete dork!”

  “What? Who?”

  “Lynn Spears—Britney’s mom!” she shrieked. “They are best friends! Lynn supports her and believes in her and would never embarrass her like this!”

  “You’re probably right,” I said resignedly. “I guess it’s just your tough luck to have such a horrible mother who will only buy you a two hundred-dollar pair of designer glasses that look really cute and stylish and then offer to get you contact lenses in a year or two.”

  “I hate my life!” she wailed, sinking back into unintelligible sobbing.

  “Yeah, well mine’s not so hot either,” I muttered, steering the SUV through the large wrought-iron gates marking the entrance to Aberdeen Mists. Some days, motherhood felt like a real chore. Between Chloe’s hostility and Spencer’s toilet talk, it wasn’t really the most rewarding of career choices. And with the impact of Karen’s sudden death gradually fading, Paul was once again, immersing himself in work, leaving me to cope on my own. This was not easy—especially given the fact that I had a possible murder to investigate.

  When I pulled into the driveway, Chloe barrelled out of the car before I’d even had a chance to turn off the ignition. “That’s dangerous young lady!” I called after her, but she was already stalking toward the house. I suppose she didn’t care if she was crushed under the wheels of a Ford Explorer. In fact, it was probably a welcome relief from the pain of going through life looking like a hideous, bespectacled circus freak. When I unlocked the house, she stomped silently to her room. Spencer, at this point in time by far my favourite child, tugged at my hand.

  “Could I watch a kids’ show? Pleeeeeeeeeeeeze! I haven’t watched any TV all day, or yesterday either.”

  “Go on.” I caved in. “Kiss first.” With a peck, he scurried to the family room. I sighed heavily as I followed his path toward the back of the house. Once in the kitchen, I poured myself a glass of merlot, and began dinner preparations. We were having Chloe’s favourite, spaghetti, a meal I had planned before our trip to the optometrist. I had hoped it would cheer her up, but it was now apparent that a delicious bowl of pasta was not going to help my daughter deal with the trials of vision correction. If she didn’t snap out of it soon, I would have to break down and call Mr. Dennison for some professional advice. Perhaps if I acted very businesslike, brusque even, he might think he imagined my previous suggestive behaviour?

  As I chopped the onion and celery into minute pieces (in hopes of rendering them undetectable to a certain six-year-old), my mind slipped back to Karen’s case. Yes, I had begun to think of Karen’s love triangle and untimely death as a “case’. It was very Nancy Drew of me, but I couldn’t help it. And just as I had been consumed by Karen’s affair when she was alive, I now found myself completely obsessed with finding answers to her early demise. In some ways, I felt I owed it to her: she had trusted me and confided in me. But I had to admit, solving the mystery had started to feel crucial to my sanity.

  I dropped the veggies into the pot, drizzled them with olive oil and turned on the heat. Okay… I had to meet Javier—the real Javier. But how? I knew virtually nothing about him: no last name, no address, not even a neighbourhood… All I knew was that he was Spanish, sexy and worked as a barista. What—was I going to drive to every coffee shop in Denver looking for hot Latin men? Obviously, that wasn’t logistically feasible—and I was jittery enough these days without going on a caffeine binge. With a discouraged sigh, I plunked a pound of ground beef into the saucepan and stepped back as it sizzled dramatically. No… there had to be another way to find him.

  That’s when my eyes travelled to the fridge, home of various alphabet magnets, school notices and children’s art projects. There, affixed with a green letter M, was Spencer’s latest masterpiece. It was a pencil sketch, enhanced by water color paint in shades of gold and blue. Of course, I knew this was supposed to be a pee fountain, but if I forgot that for a moment, it was really quite lovely. If I imagined that the yellow paint represented water, backlit by a setting sun, instead of actual urine, it was an impressive effort for a first grader. Then it struck me. Karen had met Javier at an art class! He was an artist’s model! That was the answer! I would sign up for art classes.

  Unfortunately, I couldn’t remember the name of the studio Karen had attended. Grabbing the cordless phone, I called Carly. She wasn’t home. I tried Jane, who answered, but couldn’t remember the name, either. Finally, I tried Trudy. “It was called Wild Rose Art Studio,” she said, helpfully. “I didn’t know you had an interest in art.”

  “Well… I’ve been meaning to take up a hobby,” I said, my cheeks turning pink despite myself. It’s not like I was lying: I had even written “Find creative hobby” on my life makeover list. I was just omitting the fact that my new found artistic bent was due, in large part, to a need to check out the model. “The kids are both at school now… and with Karen gone… I guess I need a distraction.”

  “I think it’s a great idea.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I’m embarking on a new project of my own.”

  “Oh?”

  “Carly and I are setting up a charitable trust in Karen’s memory.”

  “Wow. That’s wonderful.”

  “Well, you remember how much Karen wanted a baby. We’ve decided to make a donation in her name to the Alternative Infertility Clinic of South Denver. And we’re setting up an ongoing trust so that her friends and family can pay tribute to her by donating to the cause.” She paused for a moment. �
��I think it would make her happy to know that, thanks to her, fewer women will have to suffer a barren existence.”

  Ah yes… Karen’s barren existence… The secret of her pregnancy weighed heavily on me, but I managed to muster the appropriate words. “I think it’s really great Trudy. Karen would be so pleased.”

  “Thanks, Paige.” She sniffled.

  “You can count on my support,” I said. “Oh! Better run. My spaghetti sauce is bubbling over.”

  The sauce was actually simmering nicely, but I felt an urgent need to sign up for a class at the Wild Rose Arts Center. A glance at the digital oven clock indicated that it was 5:07, unlikely that a receptionist would still be there. But I hurriedly looked up the number in the phone book, and hopefully, dialed.

  “Wild Rose Arts Center.” A bland, female voice answered.

  “Oh! Great! You’re still there.”

  “The office is open until eight on Wednesdays and Thursdays,” she replied, mundanely. “Can I help you?”

  “Yes,” I cleared my throat. “I’d like to sign up for a drawing class, please.”

  “Do you have the course number from our flyer?”

  Dammit. “No—I don’t actually have a flyer.”

  “We have a number of drawing classes,” she explained in her bored voice. “I can have a flyer mailed out to you, or you can look it up on line. Then you can call back when you know the class you want to take.”

  “I know the class I want,” I said hurriedly. “A friend of mine took a great drawing class there. I can’t remember what it was called… but she was drawing people… uh, models… male models… I think it was.”

  “That would probably be Drawing the Human Figure,” she said. “But the session started in September. The next one isn’t until January.”