The Secret Desires of a Soccer Mom

by Robyn Harding

  Chloe shrugged. “You look like you think you’re going to the Academy Awards or something.”

  “No, I don’t!” I cried. “It’s not like I’m wearing a sequined ball gown. Sheesh!” Paul’s key in the lock distracted me from Chloe’s criticisms. I hurried to greet him.

  “Wow,” he said, taking in my appearance. “Where are you off to?”

  “I’ve got my drawing class tonight, and then after, there’s a cocktail reception for all the artists.” I hated lying to my husband and daughter, but I was working a case, and it wouldn’t be prudent to involve them.

  He helped me into my long, winter coat. “Well, have fun.”

  “I will,” I said. And with a quick kiss for the children, I was on my way to meet Javier.

  Somehow, I found myself in the arts center’s parking lot, twenty-five minutes later. The drive had been a blur, a swirling collage of erotic fantasies starring a certain nude model, punctuated by pragmatic pep talks about getting to the bottom of Karen’s death. When I turned off the ignition, I felt prepared, steeled for what was ahead. Javier was a suspect in my best friend’s murder, not my potential boyfriend… or one-night stand… or passionate, slightly rough encounter in the arts center’s boiler room. He was not, as Karen had said, irresistible—at least not to someone as sexually satisfied and strong-willed as me. No, I had a job to do. I was to interrogate him, using all my feminine whiles and intuition. If I could get him to break down and confess - great. If not, I would watch his every move, each gesture and subtle tic. CSI had taught me that there were several physical manifestations of guilt: darting eyes, dry mouth, fidgeting hands. One dart! One fidget! One urgent sip of water and I would be on the phone to Detective Portman.

  I strode confidently into the classroom and found a vacant drawing horse. I was obviously overdressed, but I planned to casually mention that I was off to a cocktail party after class. There was no need to feel insecure or conspicuous. Clipping my pad of paper to the drawing board, I prepared to straddle the bench. Unfortunately, swinging my leg over in the fitted skirt was proving impossible. Shit! What was I going to do now? I could sense my composure slipping and a nervous, jittery feeling taking hold. I took a deep, calming breath. Okay, this had to be achievable. I couldn’t be the only art student to show up in a short, tight skirt and high heels, could I? I looked around the room at my largely bohemian classmates. Could I?

  Finally, I managed to mount the drawing horse by standing behind it and shimmying myself forward with small, hopping movements. Not a very elegant or sophisticated approach, but at least Javier wasn’t in the room yet. Once in place, I clasped my bare knees tightly to the piece of wood between them, my high-heeled feet splayed out beside me for balance. It was tricky, but if I didn’t make any sudden movements, I felt sure I could hold my precarious position for the full hour.

  As we waited for the class to begin, I leaned over to my neighbor. “I’ve got a cocktail party after this,” I pronounced loudly.

  “Oh.” The woman with long, gray hair, a hand-knitted sweater and Birkenstock sandals did not seem interested.

  Soon, our instructor, Allan walked to the front of the room. “Good evening class. Tonight, we’re going to focus on contouring and shading. Whether drawing still life, landscape or portraiture, light and darkness play…”

  I tuned out. This didn’t apply to me: I was on a serious mission.

  “And now,” Allan said, drawing my attention back to the platform. “I’d like to bring in tonight’s model.”

  Despite the fact that I was on a serious mission, my heart began to pound like a frightened rabbit. Calm down… I told myself. You can do this. Do it for Karen… your dear friend… your dear, dead friend…

  “Class, this is Amanda.” A dark-haired young woman clad in a white robe, padded in her bare feet to the platform.

  What?! Where was Javier?! Who the hell was this… tart?! Somehow, I refrained from jumping up and screaming it audibly. This was probably because my knees remained in a vice grip on the drawing horse, lest I provide Allan and the model with an excellent view of my transparent, red G-string panties. But no matter how dejected I felt, I could not fall apart. Instead, I swallowed the lump of disappointment in my throat and breathed deeply to stop the slightly panicky feeling in my chest. Hopefully, no one had noticed the dismayed flush in my cheeks and the thin veil of perspiration covering my forehead. It was highly unlikely, as Amanda had now dropped the robe to reveal her annoyingly perfect human form. She had obviously not breast-fed anyone.

  “All right artists,” Allan announced. “Amanda will begin with a one minute, seated pose.”

  There was nothing I could do. I couldn’t flee—at least not quickly given my impractical outfit. I was forced to sit there, sketching the perfect curve of Amanda’s stupid, perfect back. But by the end of the hour, I had several half decent sketches—maybe not very good compared to my classmate’s, but a huge improvement over last week’s drawings of Javier. And more importantly, I had come up with a “plan B”. When I left the house tonight, I was intent on a meeting with Karen’s former lover. The evening had definitely thrown me a curve ball, but I was flexible, capable, working my case… I was not going to give up that easily. When Amanda had covered her flawlessness, and most of the artists had packed away their accoutrements, I approached our instructor.

  “Hi, Allan.” I smiled warmly and extended my hand. “I’m a new student, Paige Atwell.”

  He took my hand. “Hi, Paige. You started last week, didn’t you?”

  “Yes. I’ve been … out of town so I started late.”

  “Great. Well, welcome. Do you have an artistic background of some sort?”

  I took this as a compliment. “No, actually, this is my first art class ever. I didn’t even take it in high school.”

  “It’s good to develop new interests, later in life.”

  I took this as an insult, but decided it was time to get to the point. “So… I had been hoping to see Javier here tonight.”

  He gave me a knowing smile, as if he heard this from a lot of his “later in life’ female students. “Javier and Amanda both pose regularly for the class. Javier was working tonight.”

  “Right… right…” I said, as if Javier had told me he’d be at his other job. “What’s the name of the coffee shop he works at again? It’s slipped my mind.”

  “The Old Grind.”

  “Right. That’s it, The Old Grind. Yeah… The Old Grind in uh… ?”

  “Cherry Creek.”

  “Of course! The Old Grind in Cherry Creek… right, right, right. I might pop by there—before the cocktail party I’m going to,” I added, indicating my outfit with a sheepish grin.

  Allan continued to nod and smile. It was difficult to discern whether he was just a nice, friendly man, or if he found my pursuit of Javier amusing. I had to admit, it did not look good: a woman my age, dressed to the nines, ferreting out information on the whereabouts of a gorgeous nude model. I decided to do some damage control. “It’s just that I have a message for Javier… from a mutual friend… from Spain. She just called me yesterday—from Spain—and she asked if I’d be seeing Javier. I told her I’d be seeing him at art class, and that I’d be happy to pass on the message… which is fairly urgent, and… y’know, all the way from Spain.”

  “Well…”Allan said. “That’s very nice of you to take the message to him.” His smile was confusing. He was either impressed by my kindness, or found my story comical.

  “I’d better be off,” I said. “See you next week.” I already knew I’d probably be too embarrassed to show up.

  I drove to Cherry Creek like a woman possessed. I had to get there quickly, or I’d chicken out and head home. My mind raced, a multitude of thoughts playing in my head like a tape on fast forward. …Must find Javier… Must interrogate him… get to the bottom of this whole mess… he’s not that good-looking… certainly not irresistible… After much driving around the neighborhood in aimless circles, I finally
found The Old Grind. Parking the SUV a block and a half away, I hopped out and tottered briskly toward the coffee shop. It wasn’t until I was mere steps away from the building that I paused. Did I really want to do this? Was I getting in over my head? My cell phone was in my purse, as was Detective Portman’s card. I could call him right now, apologize for not mentioning it before, but tell him there was someone he should speak to—a person of interest, I think they called it. I would tell him about Karen and Javier’s affair, and ask him, very sweetly, not to tell Doug unless it was absolutely necessary. He seemed like a nice guy. We’d had some sort of rapport. I’m sure he’d understand my efforts to protect my friend’s reputation.

  My hand dug inside my bag and searched fruitlessly for the phone. This moment of difficulty gave me pause to reflect. Would Portman even be at the office at this hour? A glance at my watch told me it was almost nine thirty. And what about that jerk Conroy? Portman might keep Karen’s dalliance under wraps, but I doubted he’d be as sensitive. My hand stopped its frantic search. No… I couldn’t call for backup just yet. I would have to do this on my own.

  Chapter 15

  The coffee shop was on the corner, attached to a number of trendy shops and restaurants. I entered the long, narrow space and was immediately assaulted by a blast of warm air and the pungent aroma of coffee beans. The room was nearly deserted, save for two tables near the front window occupied by a well-dressed middle aged couple and a college student and his laptop. I stayed near the door at first, unbuttoning my coat in the sudden heat. It had been stupid not to rehearse my next move, but I also knew it wasn’t wise to over-think it. Even at this moment, I was seriously considering turning around and running back to my car.

  But I didn’t. I slowly entered the room, heading systematically toward the counter. I hadn’t seen Javier yet, but I knew he was there. The sounds of cups rattling and an espresso filter being banged free of its contents signaled his presence. Even if he had been silent, I would have sensed it was him. It was like his being gave off some kind of an electric current that found its way to me. I approached the counter and stopped. My heart was beating loudly in my throat. Javier looked up, probably alerted by my audible pulse. A slow smile of familiarity spread across his sensual lips.

  “Hi.”

  “Hi.”

  “Can I help you?” His accent was to die for! Not that he was irresistible or anything.

  “Yes…” I cleared my throat. “I’ll have a… hmm…” I decided to order something time-consuming to allow me to compose myself. “I’ll have a decaf, soy milk, cappuccino… dry please… and extra hot.”

  “No problem.” His eyes twinkled at me.

  Resist! I ordered myself. Don’t succumb to his sexy accent and smoldering eyes! Think of Karen… think of Karen lying in a pool of her own blood… likely put there by the very hands that are currently making your coffee!

  “I know you, don’t I?” Javier’s voice over the coffee machine interrupted my internal ranting.

  “Umm…?” I leaned forward, as if looking at him closely for the first time. “You do look familiar…”

  “You’re an artist.” It was a statement, not a question.

  “Well… yes, I’ve been taking a class…” I paused, feigning sudden recognition. “Are you the model I was drawing the other week?”

  “Yes. That’s me.” He put down the milk he had been steaming and extended his hand. “Javier.”

  I took it. It was warm and strong and calloused just enough. Dammit! Okay, okay… visualize Karen lying dead in a pool of blood… “Paige,” I managed to croak

  “You live near here… Paige?” Oh, the way he said my name.

  “No… I have a… umm cocktail party to attend in the area. I thought I’d pop in for a quick caffeine jolt to keep me awake. You know those boring, formal cocktail parties.”

  “You ordered decaf, no?”

  Shit! “Oh, I don’t think so. Did I? I meant to order regular espresso. I’m sorry. Oh, you’ve already made it. I’ll drink the decaf. No problem.”

  “No. I can make another.”

  “Really? I don’t want to be any trouble.”

  “No trouble. I don’t want you to fall asleep at your party.”

  “… Thanks.”

  Javier tipped the decaf down the sink and began tamping grounds into the filter for another cappuccino. I knew this replacement coffee would keep me up all night, but something told me I wouldn’t be able to sleep anyway. At least this had bought me a little time to converse with him. The Old Grind did not have stools at the coffee bar where you could sit and chat with your friendly barista. Once my drink was ready, I’d be relegated to one of the small, wooden tables near the front, and my opportunity would be over. I had to act fast.

  “So… I was just thinking…” I said, over the whir of the steaming milk.

  “Yes?” He looked at me, his eyes playful.

  “I think we have a mutual friend.” Even as I said it, I knew it sounded contrived.

  “Really?” He turned off the steam. “Who?”

  “Karen Sutherland.”

  There was no reaction. He turned his face away and focused on preparing my beverage. After a long silence, he slid the coffee toward me and looked me in the eyes. His were dark, unreadable. “I was very sad when I heard of her death.”

  “Me, too.”

  “She was a beautiful young woman. It’s always sad when someone dies too soon.”

  “It is.” I could feel myself softening under his gaze and I knew I was no longer being a fair and impartial investigator. I had to snap out of it. “Did you know her well?” I asked, forcing a casual tone.

  “Not too well. She was in the drawing class. We talked… We had coffee a few times.”

  “She talked about you… to me.” I lowered my voice to a whisper. “Only to me…”

  His face remained impassive.

  “I was hoping we could talk… about Karen.” With this statement, I was completely erasing the façade of just popping in for a caffeine jolt on my way to a nearby cocktail party—but he may have figured that out when I ordered the decaf, anyway. Before Javier could answer, the college student approached the counter.

  “Hey man,” the scruffy young guy said. “Can I get a refill and one of those scone things?”

  “Sure.” He looked at me. “You will wait?”

  “I will.”

  I found a table as close to the counter as possible, but facing out toward the front entrance. I sipped my coffee, staring at the darkened streetscape, intensely aware of Javier’s presence behind me; his every move as he poured the coffee, heated the scone thing, and loaded some cups into the dishwasher. My initial feeling was that he was innocent in Karen’s demise. He was calm when questioned about her: no fidgeting, swallowing or blinking. And his sadness at her loss seemed sincere. But was my intense physical attraction to him clouding my judgment? I mean, if Johnny Depp murdered someone, would I instantly believe his story too?

  It was imperative that I retain my focus. I took a deep, calming breath and did a visualization exercise: Karen in a pool of blood… Paul’s face on our wedding day… the children, laughing and eating popsicles… Paul’s love handles and back hair—oops!

  The sound of Javier pulling out the chair across from me brought my attention back to the room. When he was seated, facing me, I noticed that his features had turned cold and stony. God, maybe he was capable of murder?

  “So…,” he said. “You came here to talk about Karen?”

  I decided to take a direct approach. I cleared my throat. “Yes. Karen told me about… your relationship. I felt I needed to meet you… to talk to you…”

  “Why?”

  To figure out if you killed her. Obviously, I couldn’t be that direct. “Karen loved you,” I said.

  “Well,” he leaned back in his chair. “Karen was a very nice woman, but she was confused.”

  “How?”

  “She didn’t love me. She thought she loved me.
”

  “Uh… what’s the difference?”

  “She was unhappy with her husband. She said he was boring and… —what is the word?—predictable.”

  “Yeah…”

  “I spent time with her. I listened to her…” He shrugged, as if drawing an incredibly obvious conclusion. “She thought she loved me.”

  I was confused, flustered… “So, you’re saying that you and Karen didn’t have a… physical relationship?”

  “No.”

  “You were not having wild, passionate sex with her?”

  “No. We were friends. I think that the sex was, maybe, her fantasy.”

  Well, who could blame her? It was mine, as well. But had Karen really made up the whole affair? Could she have really been that delusional? She had been so convincing. I mean, she was considering leaving her husband for this guy, this… friend. I looked at Javier. The kindness had returned to his face as he sensed my inner turmoil. He reached out and took my hand in his rough, manly one.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “It hurts you to hear this.”

  “I just… She said…”

  His fingers stroked the back of my hand in what was intended to be a soothing manner. Unfortunately, it was turning me on. “I know that women can sometimes be very lonely,” he said. “My mother, in Spain, she was a very lonely woman. My father left us when I was a little boy. She was sad for a long, long time. She had only my sisters and me to love.”

  Oh God. He cared about his lonely mother. He was becoming irresistible. I could almost see myself concocting a rich fantasy where Javier and I were carrying on a passionate affair and would soon runaway together to live on love and canned spaghetti.

  “When she died,” Javier continued, “I came to America. But I always remember that look in her eyes. I saw that look in Karen’s eyes. I wanted to help her, to make her feel happy. I did not want to…”—he paused for a moment, searching for the phrase— “To led her on?”

  “Lead her on.” I corrected his grammar out of maternal habit.