The Secret Desires of a Soccer Mom

by Robyn Harding

  “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 again? 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?”<
br />
  “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.”

  “I can’t,” I said. “I’m busy with my kids… and my husband.”

  “But there is something…” he said. “…something between us. You, feel it, too, no?”

  Oh, I felt it all right. I looked at the gorgeous, sensual man staring intensely at me through the window. His dark eyes locked with mine and I felt their familiar, mesmerizing pull. His strong, manly hands were pressed to the glass as he leaned in close. At that moment, I wanted more than anything, to believe in him. I wanted to undo the window and kiss those sensual lips, to invite him into the SUV and have wild sex with him in the backseat. Of course, we’d end up covered in cracker crumbs and raisins but I didn’t care. I wanted him… maybe more than I had ever wanted anyone.

  “No…” I said. “I don’t feel it. I came here for information about Karen. That’s it.”

  He was silent for a long moment. “Okay,” he finally said, stepping back from the window. His posture was dejected, his eyes, as he looked at me, were full of pain. “I guess… I was wrong. Goodbye, Paige.” Then he put his fingers to his lips and blew me a kiss. I didn’t know if it was a Spanish thing or Javier’s own patented move, but it knocked me back in my seat. It felt like his lips had actually touched my face, just gently, just for a moment… I turned to say something, I don’t know what—probably “Get in here and do me you irresistible Spanish stud!” —but he was already jogging back toward The Old Grind.

  Chapter 19

  “Yes, hello,” I said nervously into the receiver. “Is this Detective Portman?” Obviously, it was Detective Portman. He had answered his phone: “Portman?”

  “That’s me. Can I help you?”

  “This is Paige Atwell calling.”

  “Hi, Paige. Thanks for checking in.”

  “Y-you’re welcome. I, uh, have some information for you.”

  “Great… Would you like to discuss it in person?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “I could come out to your place this afternoon?”

  “No…” I didn’t want Troy coming to my house again. The neighbors might start to get suspicious, and word could get back to Paul. “I’d rather meet you somewhere. I don’t mind coming into town.”

  “Okay.” He rattled off the address of a coffee shop near the precinct. “How soon can you get here?”

  “I’ll be there in an hour.”

  Within minutes I was in the Explorer, hurtling down the I-25. No lip gloss or water bra this time. There would be nothing flirtatious or even pleasant about this rendezvous. I had information to give to Detective Portman, nothing more. While a part of me was dreading revealing all to this virtual stranger, I knew it was time. I was in over my head. Last night had confirmed it.

  I made it into the city in good time, but spent several minutes driving around looking for a parking spot. After living in the suburbs for so many years, my parallel parking skills had suffered. And with a vehicle the size of mine, finding ample space in the business district was a challenge. Finally, I paid an exorbitant fee to stow my car in an underground garage and hurried to meet Detective Portman.

  He was already seated at a vinyl booth in the small coffee shop—really, it was more of a diner. I walked toward him, feeling conspicuous despite the fact that none of the other patrons had taken any notice. They all appeared to be cops having coffee with informants—stoolies, I think they were called. I suddenly realized that I was no different: I, too, was a stoolie. Okay, I was a little different - I was far better dressed than the others, most of whom appeared to be homeless. But I was here for the same reason: to rat someone out. I felt like crap.

  “Hi,” Portman said, as I slid into the seat across from him. He looked cute again, back in a suit and tie. His jacket was off and the sleeves of his tan shirt were rolled up.

  “Hi,” I mumbled.

  “Let me get you a coffee. Vera!” He called for the waitress. God, this felt so clichéd. I ordered a black coffee. Obviously, a dry, decaf soy latte would have been out of the question.

  “Thanks for coming down,” Troy said.

  “You’re welcome.”

  “So… what have you got for me?”

  Okay. It was time to lay it on the line, to release all the secrets that had been causing me so much pain and confusion. I took a deep breath, and began. “Karen Sutherland told me she was having an affair.”

  “Really?” He leaned forward, interested.

  “Well… maybe not really,” I said. And then I let the words tumble forth. I told him everything: how Karen had confessed that she was in love with an artists’ model/barista and thinking about leavin
g her husband; how I met Javier (by chance, I said, at my art class) and he denied that they were anything more than friends; how I had been trying to protect Karen’s reputation so I hadn’t shared her secret, until now. I told Detective Portman all of it—except my own attraction to Javier. I refused to give it any sort of validation. And besides, Troy may have felt a tiny bit… jealous, if he knew I had been having adulterous feelings for another man.

  “I know I should have come forward sooner,” I said.

  “You should have,” he replied. “But, I’m glad you did now.”

  “So, what happens next?”

  “Well…” He dug in his jacket pocket, retrieving a notepad and pencil. “We’ll need to speak to this Javier. Where does he work?” He jotted down the address of The Old Grind and the Wild Rose Art Studio.

  “You won’t tell him that it was me who, uh… ratted him out, will you?”

  “No. That won’t be necessary. Are you still taking that art class with him?”

  “No.”

  “Good. It would be wise to stay away from him.”

  “Why?” I slid forward anxiously in my seat. “Do you think he’s dangerous? Do you think he killed Karen?”

  “I don’t know at this point, but until we can rule him out, you’d better keep your distance.”