“I want to start right away,” I replied, my voice tinged with desperation. “Please, I don’t mind if I’ve missed a few classes.”
“You’ve already missed nearly half of them. And I don’t know if I’m allowed to prorate your enrollment fee. I guess I could ask my manager tomorrow.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I said, already fishing my Visa card from my wallet. “I’ll pay full price. When can I start?”
“Classes are Wednesday nights at eight.”
“Wednesday? That’s tonight.”
“Do you want to sign up or not?” The woman on the other end of the phone sounded needlessly exasperated.
“Sign me up. I’ll be there.”
By the time Paul arrived home at seven thirty-five, the children had been fed, Chloe’s homework had been done, and I was standing in the grand entryway, clutching a SpongeBob Squarepants notepad (with the cover torn off), and three HB pencils held together with an elastic band. “Hi,” I said brightly. “I’m going to an art class tonight.”
“An art class?” Paul responded, as if I’d just told him I was off to have my head shaved. “Since when do you like art?”
“Like art?” I retorted. “Of course I like art. Who doesn’t like art?”
“I mean, since when are you interested in taking an art class?”
“I’ve been wanting to for ages,” I replied defensively. “I need a creative hobby—something to feed my mind and nourish my soul.”
“Okay,” he said skeptically. “Have fun.”
As I raced down the highway toward the LoDo home of the Wild Rose Arts Center, I fumed at my husband’s lack of support. Why couldn’t he just get behind me and my newfound hobby? It was true—my sudden passion for drawing had come out of the blue, and I had never shown any proclivity for sketching before, but I wasn’t entirely without creativity. This was typical of Paul. I took a deep breath and let my angry feelings dissipate. But once they were gone, I desperately tried to summon them back. My fury had been a good distraction from the acute anxiety I was feeling at the prospect of meeting Javier.
Twenty-two minutes later, I pulled into the darkened, potholed parking lot of the arts center. With my sketchbook and pencils tucked under my arm, I entered the aging two-story building and began searching for my class. Although it was eight o’clock sharp, the reception desk was vacant. Thankfully, I was greeted at the doorway by a small, round table holding a stack of flyers. Flicking frantically through the pages, I found my class.
DRAWING THE HUMAN FIGURE—Allan Drury—ROOM 16
This class is suitable for all levels of artistic ability and will address composition, line and form, using pencil and charcoal.
Okay… I hurried down the fluorescent lit hallway, looking for room sixteen. It was already two minutes past eight. I wasn’t late late, but I wasn’t setting a very good first impression. Finally, I reached the doorway. Peering inside, I hesitated a few moments before entering. About ten of my fellow artists were surrounding a raised platform, straddling these bench thingies, with sketchbooks clipped to angled boards before them. Taking in their composed and relaxed manners, their obvious familiarity with these contraptions, I suddenly felt completely out of my element.
“Welcome!” The instructor, Allan, called, sensing my hovering presence. “Come on in.”
“Uh…” All eyes turned to me. Was it my imagination, or did they all look very nourished of mind and soul? Besides, I was on a mission. “Sorry I’m late. I’m new.” I stepped inside.
“Grab a drawing horse,” Allan said. He had unkempt gray hair, and was wearing dark brown corduroys, a soft, faded flannel shirt and small wire-rimmed glasses. His deportment was calm and serene. “As I was saying…”
He continued to talk—something about line and form and negative space—as I found an available bench… I mean, drawing horse. Unfortunately, I was positioned very close to the central platform, giving all my classmates behind me an excellent view of my laughable lack of sketching ability. Glancing surreptitiously at my neighbor’s set up, I clipped my SpongeBob pad of paper to the drawing board, chagrined to find it was about half the size of everyone else’s pad. Okay. I was ready: ready to see the real Javier.
“In a moment,” the instructor was saying. “I’ll invite our model in to join us.” He looked directly at me. “Some of you may be new to drawing from live models, but there is no need to feel uncomfortable or embarrassed. This is the human body in its most pure and honest form. Our model is a professional, who is entirely comfortable providing you with a form to sketch. Any questions?”
Someone asked something about depth of focus, which was way over my head, while I mentally prepared myself. I would have ample time to study Javier undetected—although, as a model, he would probably wear a vacant, expressionless mask, keeping his true feelings of guilt, remorse, or just plain loss well hidden. But after class, I could approach him… maybe even invite him out for a coffee. I hadn’t yet decided if I would reveal my identity as Karen’s friend or pretend to be a naïve stranger. I would play it by ear.
“Class, please welcome Javier,” Allan was saying. My heart beat loudly in my chest as a dark haired man in his late-twenties wearing a baby blue bathrobe moved to the center of the room. Javier positioned himself on the raised platform, turning to face the class. He had hooded, sexy eyes, a chiseled jaw and a slightly off-center nose that appeared to have been broken. It wasn’t a classically handsome face, but it was compelling. Karen had been right, it had character… lots and lots of character. In fact, I found I couldn’t look away.
The instructor spoke again. “Javier would like to start tonight’s class with a two-minute standing pose.”
I tore my eyes from his face and stared at the paper before me, pencil poised to begin. Two minutes wasn’t very long to draw the complete human figure. Javier dropped his robe. I dropped my pencil.
“Whoops! Uh… Sorry.” The pencil rolled across the floor, finally coming to rest at the foot of the platform where Javier stood… stark naked Jesus Christ. I hadn’t been prepared for stark naked! In a crouched position, I scurried to retrieve my pencil. “Sorry about that,” I muttered again, preparing to rush back to my station, but suddenly, I froze. It was probably only for a second or two, but to me, time had slowed perceptibly. Squatting at the base of the platform, I had just realized that I was mere inches away from the most attractive naked body I had seen, in person, since… well, since Paul had an attractive naked body back in the early nineties. At that moment, I had completely forgotten that Javier was quite possibly Karen’s murderer. I felt nervous and fluttery. I could almost feel the heat emanating from his golden skin, hear the blood pumping through his veins, his heart beating… Okay, don’t look up, I instructed myself. Keep your head down, and slink back to your drawing horse. But it was like some kind of compulsion. I raised my head.
I had a perfect view of two solid, muscular legs, reminiscent of a carved marble statue. And of course, dangling right above me was… his impressive, uh… well, to borrow a term from Spencer, his wiener. That snapped me back to reality. I turned quickly, and duck-walked, in my squatted position, back to my spot.
Get it together woman! I chided myself as I raised my pencil to the paper. You are here on a reconnaissance mission, not to ogle the prime suspect. What are you, fifteen? You’ve seen a hundred penises! What’s so different about this one? Okay… maybe not a hundred, but probably ten or twelve—if you counted children. The rest of the class was focusing intently on drawing the human figure. They seemed oblivious to the fact that this was quite possibly the most perfect, muscular, sexy human figure on the planet.
I drew a light, sloping line, which could easily represent a shoulder… or possibly a tricep. I hadn’t actually had the courage to look at Javier again, lest I collapse into childish, nervous giggles. God! What was wrong with me? When did I become such a perv?
“Two minutes are up,” Allan announced. “Javier, please select another pose.”
But just as I was about to make my first mark on the page, all the hair on my body stood on end. A palpable tingling sensation, like an electric current, traveled through me, and my heart began to race. What was wrong with me? Was I having a stroke? An anxiety attack? My eyes shifted back to the platform and that’s when I realized the source of my irrepressible reaction: Javier was staring at me. I mean, he was really looking at me, and not in an “I just need somewhere to look while I crouch here naked” kind of way. Our eyes locked, like two magnets and—Oh my God! His were smoldering—really smoldering! I couldn’t breathe. What was happening to me? Oh my God! Was I having a moment with Javier?
With an impressive force of will I ripped my eyes from his and focused on the blank, white page before me. Did that really just happen? Was I experiencing an intimate connection with that incredibly gorgeous, naked, possible head bonker? It had been so long since I’d had a real moment of my own that I wasn’t sure my instincts could be trusted. My mind traveled back to Carly’s encounter with the Diet Coke man, and I mentally conjured her checklist:
· Our eyes met. (check)
· Time stood still. (check)
· It felt like we’d known each other forever. (check)
But this was all wrong. I was married! A mother of two! I was thirty-eight years old with two popped balloons hanging off my chest! I didn’t have moments with gorgeous creatures like Javier. Besides, I was working a case. I had to regain my focus.
Sensing the instructor’s presence behind me, I began to draw frantically—long, sweeping lines that in no way resembled a human body. For the rest of the hour, I sketched without really looking at my subject again. I imitated the movements of my neighbors: long, smooth pencil strokes, followed by short, quick bursts for shading. The results of this method were several Picasso/stick figure hybrids, but Allan didn’t comment, other than a murmured, “Interesting.” Either he was not paying attention, or he thought I was more of an impressionist.
Finally, the end of class was announced. As I gathered my pencils, I could see the baby blue robe being draped around Javier’s nakedness. Now was my chance. I would stroll up casually and say: “Nice work.” When he responded with a “Thank you”, I would say: “Do I detect an accent? You’re from Spain! I love Spain. How about I buy you a coffee so we can talk about Spain?” Or, I could take a more direct approach. “Hello Javier. I’m a close friend of Karen Sutherland’s. I was wondering if we could talk privately—about Karen?” Yes, the direct approach would work best. No more of this insane eye contact and sexual chemistry. I would come right out with my reason for seeing him. Although… I didn’t want to scare him off. Maybe we could have a friendly chat about Spain or art or something, just to break the ice? Then, when I’d put him at ease, I’d bring up the real reason for our meeting.
Allan’s voice interrupted my internal dialogue. “Thanks everyone! See you next week.”
My head snapped up and I looked around. Other than Allan, I was the only one left in the classroom. Everyone, including Javier, had gone.
Chapter 13
I blew it! I completely blew it! For the next few days, I couldn’t stop berating myself. My first serious attempt at getting to the bottom of Karen’s death had been a huge failure. Well, I guess my initial conversation with Doug had been my first attempt—and that had bombed, too. I was no closer to finding out what happened to my friend. And I was more than a little concerned that I had acted like some crazed nymphomaniac with Javier.
I blamed Paul for that—Paul and my hormones. If my husband had been more responsive to my resexualizing attempts, it would have been easy to keep my desires in check. If I were a sexually satisfied woman, I would have been able to look at Javier as nothing more than a model, an extremely muscular and sensual object. But no! Instead, I had sat there like some horny teenager, leering and salivating at the sight of his smooth, golden skin and rippling muscles; quivering from the intensity of his smoldering gaze. It was disgusting: I was disgusting. I should have been looking at Javier as Karen’s ex-lover, potentially the father of her unborn child, and quite possibly, her murderer.
But next Wednesday, I would be ready for him. I would not squander another chance to meet with Javier. My nerves would be steeled, my sexual instincts in check. Just to make sure, I planned to spend Tuesday night having earth-moving sex with Paul. I would be completely satiated, entirely uninterested in Javier’s chiseled pectorals and washboard abs. Those hooded, sexy eyes would have no effect on me, whatsoever. Oh, I’d have eye contact with him all right. I’d play along with his sick little game, but only to gain what I really needed: his trust. And then, when he felt completely at ease, close and connected to me, I’d bring out the big guns. “I know about your passionate affair with Karen Sutherland,” I would say. “Would you like to tell me about it?” … Maybe I should also have sex with Paul Wednesday evening, right before I left for class?
My doorbell rang, startling me from my plotting. It was 2:30 in the afternoon, only twenty minutes before I had to leave to pick up the children, an odd time for visitors. Opening the door, I was slightly startled to find two unfamiliar men on my doorstep. The first appeared to be in his early forties, a little overweight but with an attractive face and full head of thick brown hair. He wore a dark blue suit, with a crisp, white shirt and blue patterned tie. The other one was in his midfifties, with soft, non-descript features and sparse blonde hair, wearing wire-rimmed glasses and a gray suit.
“Mrs. Atwell?” The younger one said.
“Yes?”
“I’m Detective Portman. This is my partner, Detective Conroy. We’d like to speak to you for a few moments about your neighbor, Karen Sutherland.”
“Uh… of-f course,” I stammered. “Please come in.” They wiped their feet meticulously before stepping into the grand entryway. I had known the police would come eventually, but I was ill prepared. What happened next? On Law & Order, the people who had nothing to hide were always friendly and cooperative, offering cool drinks or coffee. “Would you like some coffee?” I asked, because, really, I didn’t have anything to hide—nothing tangible anyway. And when I did have something more concrete to tell them, I certainly planned to. They should be thankful, actually. I was doing some of the legwork for them.
“No thanks,” Conroy remarked. “Would it be all right if we came in and sat down?”
“Sure… yes, of course.” I lead them into the formal living room, where they each perched on opposite ends of Grandmother Maple’s chintz sofa. Seating myself across from them on a slightly worn brocade chair, I said, “I have to go pick up my kids in about fifteen minutes.” And then, in case that remark had been construed as uncooperative, I quickly added, “Could I get either of you a cool drink—or a snack? I have Rice Krispies squares?”
“We’re fine,” the older one muttered.
Portman, with the cute face, spoke. “So Mrs. Atwell—”
“Ms.” I interrupted.
“Sorry…” he smiled, kindly. “Ms. Atwell.”
“It’s no big deal, really,” I said, with a laugh and a wave of my hand. “I just prefer Ms. I always have. I don’t know why. Not so old fashioned, I guess. But please… call me Paige.”
Detective Conroy, at the other end of the couch, did not find me charming. “We understand you were close friends with Karen Sutherland?”
“Yes. We
were… very close friends.”
“Her death must have come as a shock to you.”
“A huge shock!” I said, eyes wide to reinforce my point. “It was so sudden… so unexpected.” I leaned forward. “Have you found some clues as to what happened to her?”
“We can’t discuss the particulars of the case with you ma’am,” Conroy continued. “This is just a routine interview. At this stage, we’re still eliminating possible suspects.”
Portman clarified his partner’s cryptic explanation. “We found several sets of prints at the scene. We’re trying to identify people who would have had a legitimate reason to be in your friend’s garage, before she died.”
“Oh, okay. Well… my friend Carly Hillman spent a lot of time with Karen. I suppose she might have been there.”
The cops’ expressions remained blank. Portman jotted Carly’s name in a small notebook. “Anyone else?”
“I borrowed a bicycle pump from her before… the accident, so my prints could be there. Maybe Jane McKinnon… or Trudy Young.”
“We’ll need to take your fingerprints,” Conroy said.
“…If you don’t mind.” Portman added. “It would eliminate you as a suspect.”
“Sure, of course, but I have to pick up—”
Conroy interjected. “We’ve got a Live Scan in the car. It just takes a few seconds.”
“Okay, then.”
“Would the Sutherlands have had any male visitors?” Portman asked.
And there it was: The perfect opportunity to tell them about Karen’s affair with Javier. Obviously, they knew she was pregnant by now. Once they were aware of the other man, they could interrogate him properly. I would no longer have to embarrass myself with my ridiculous lack of artistic ability at that sketching class. I wouldn’t have to face Javier again after that silly “moment” we shared. It would be such a relief. The police could investigate Doug, too. I wouldn’t have to poke and pry into my neighbor’s business. I could go back to being a sweet and supportive friend, instead of Aberdeen Mist’s own Jessica Fletcher—a much younger version, of course.
The Secret Desires of a Soccer Mom Page 11
