The Secret Desires of a Soccer Mom

by Robyn Harding

  “Uh-huh,” I said, breathlessly.

  “She said if I told Doug she’d call me a liar. She’d tell him that I was psychotic, that I was secretly in love with him. She’d tell everyone in the neighborhood that I was a bitter old maid who couldn’t get a man of her own so I made up horrible stories to try to ruin Karen’s happiness.”

  Carly looked at me then, tears streaming down her cheeks. “She was walking to her car—probably off to see her lover.” She spat out the word. “I needed her to stay and talk to me, burt she wouldn’t. She was so angry. I… I grabbed her arm but she pulled away and… she fell and hit her head on the toolbox.”

  My voice was barely audible. “Oh God.”

  “It was an accident, Paige. I didn’t want—” Her sentence was cut short by a painful sob.

  I gave her a moment to compose herself before I pressed on. “And the letter?” I asked, when she had blown her nose loudly. “Why did you write the letter to the police?”

  “Because…”—her voice had suddenly turned angry—“Javier was getting away scot-free. I mean, if anyone should be punished, it’s him. He was using her, and abusing Doug.”

  “That’s true… Then why didn’t you write a letter naming him as the killer? Why pretend that he wrote the letter and claimed it was an accident?”

  She held up the novel, still clasped in her hand. “A letter accusing someone of murder is too obvious. You knew right away that Annabelle was trying to frame Patty. It didn’t take much for the cops to figure it out. I thought if I cast just a little suspicion on Javier, made it seem like the letter was written by an immigrant, the cops would find out about the affair and assume he was responsible for her death.”

  “Oh…”

  “He’s the villain here, not me. What happened was just an accident.”

  “But… why didn’t you call nine-one-one when Karen fell? Why didn’t you try to save her?”

  “I panicked,” she said, coming toward me. I involuntarily jumped back a little. “I heard her head hit the toolbox. I saw the blood. I knew there was nothing I could do. I just… I just ran home. Please, Paige.” She was close to me now and her hands reached out to grasp mine. “You don’t need to tell the police all this. They won’t understand and it won’t bring Karen back. She’s our angel now, our precious angel. Please…,” She squeezed my fingers, uncomfortably hard. “Let’s just keep this between us. We’re friends. I love you.”

  Tears were now pouring down my cheeks as well. “I love you, too,” I managed to mumble. “I have to go.”

  “Paige,” she said again, as I opened the door. Her voice was cold and devoid of emotion. “If you love me, don’t destroy my life.”

  I stepped out into the chill night air and stopped on her doorstep. “I won’t,” I said, turning to face her. “You’ve already done that.”

  Paul met me in the grand entryway upon my return. “Where the hell did you go?” He took in my ensemble. “What the hell are you wearing?”

  “I need the phone,” I said wearily, brushing past him.

  “Why? What’s happened?”

  But I was too overwhelmed to explain. With the cordless in hand, I turned to my husband. “Do you have a cell phone number for detective Portman or Conroy?”

  “Yes… but, can’t this wait until morning?”

  “It can’t,” I said, tears spilling from my eyes. “I have to talk to the police… now.”

  “Oh, God,” Paul said softly, and somehow, he knew. “I’ll get the number.”

  Chapter 30

  Carly was charged with first-degree manslaughter. There would be a trial and I would have to testify against her, but that was months away. For now, I would focus on my grief: there were now two lost friends to mourn. Trudy and Jane and I pulled together. In the days following Carly’s arrest, we clung to one another, talking endlessly of Karen, of Carly, of what went wrong… It was all out in the open now: the affair, the baby, and Carly’s unhealthy obsession with a life she so desperately wanted, but couldn’t achieve.

  To be honest, I had briefly considered Carly’s request to keep her role in Karen’s death a secret. She hadn’t intended for our friend to die; that much I believed. But that night as she confessed, I saw in her a rage and desperation that frightened me. Who knew what could provoke her to another act of violence? Catching Doug and Jackie Baldwin out on a date? (They had recently brought their relationship out in the open.) Witnessing the Diet Coke man handing out a free beverage to some other single office worker? She was a loose cannon! Besides, I was done keeping secrets.

  The fact that my mother-in-law arrived a few days later turned out to be a blessing in disguise. Given my current turmoil, Pauline was more than happy to step in and take over the Christmas festivities. “There’s no need for Paige’s melancholy mood to ruin this occasion for the rest of us,” I heard her tell her husband. “I’ll do my best to salvage the holidays—for the sake of Paul and the children.” Normally, this would have irked me, but under the circumstances, I just felt grateful. I wanted my family to have a great Christmas, and I knew Pauline would do a better job than I could this year.

  I rested. I took long walks where I cried until my eyes hurt. I played with my children and had deep conversations with my husband. When Christmas was over and Paul’s parents left, I felt renewed. Yes, Carly’s role in Karen’s death had been another staggering blow to suffer, but for the first time, I had closure. There was no more doubt, no more suspicion… Karen’s ghost no longer hovered above me pleading: Solve my murder! Solve my murder! Not that Karen’s ghost actually ever did that, but I had kind of imagined it to justify my obsession with the case. In a few months, I would have to go to court and send one of my closest friends to prison, but I found solace in the fact that I was doing the right thing. Finally, after so many lies and deceptions, I was being truthful.

  There was only one loose end left. I don’t know why it bothered me so much—God knows I tried to dismiss it—but it lingered. No matter how satisfied I was with the current state of my life, I couldn’t let it go. Despite his creepy, stalking gifts; his corny love notes; and his out-and-out lie regarding the nature of his relationship with Karen, I couldn’t stop thinking about Javier. I felt bad for him, even a little guilty. He was an innocent man, and yet, he had been treated like a murderer. He’d been interrogated by the police, rejected by me, and slapped with a restraining order by a process server. All he had done was love my friend—my married friend, mind you, so, it wasn’t like he was an angel or anything, but that didn’t make him a killer. I finally knew that my instincts regarding him had been correct. Javier wasn’t dangerous. He was never a threat to me. In fact, he had lost someone he loved, just as I had. It was normal for him to seek comfort from me, to reach out to a friend who could understand what he was going through. He was alone, so far from home… And I had turned the cops onto him.

  The restraining order was still in effect, but I had to contact him. I decided a letter was the most prudent way. I didn’t want to show up at The Old Grind hoping for a conversation and have him run screaming from me. I also didn’t want my husband to know I had unresolved feelings about my stalker. So when Paul was at work and the children occupied with their recent Christmas presents, I sat at the kitchen table and drafted a note.

  Dear Javier,

  I felt the need to contact you. I’m not really sure why. I guess I feel I owe you an apology. You lost someone you loved—at least, I hope you loved her. Karen was a really special person and we were both lucky to have her in our lives for even a short time. It must have been hard for you to mourn her all alone, trying to keep your secret. I suppose my slapping you with a restraining order didn’t make it any easier.

  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 after
noon.

  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, J
avier 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.

  Chapter 31

  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.