The Secret Desires of a Soccer Mom (18 page)

“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.

“Yes, lead her on. I didn’t want to do that.”

“Well”
—
I managed to slip my hand
from his grasp
—
“she told me you were in love. She told
me she was thinking of leaving Doug for you.”

He did not blink or twitch. “No. If she left her husband, it
would not be for me.”

I didn’t know how to respond. He was basically telling me
that one of my closest friends had lied to me, that Karen had concocted an
elaborate, imaginary life to battle the suburban doldrums. When I had decided
to meet with Javier, I wasn’t sure what to expect: a vehement denial? A
confession? But not this bizarre explanation! This virtual stranger was asking
me to doubt the sanity of my close friend. And the most disturbing part was: I
believed him. I stood up. “Thanks for taking the time to talk to me.”

He stood, too. “You’re welcome.”

“I’ll let you get back to work.”

“There is no problem. I make you another coffee?”

“Oh, no, no.” I waved my hand. “I’ve got to get going.”

“To your party?” There was a twinkle of amusement in his
eyes.

“I think I’ll skip it.”

“Well… It was nice to see you again… Paige.”

I wished he would stop saying my name like that. “Yes… you,
too.” I busied myself buttoning my coat.

“Will I see you next week, at drawing class?”

There was no need for me to go. My attendance had only
confirmed the fact that I had very little artistic ability. I had met with
Javier, and though I had yet to form a conclusion about his guilt or innocence,
I had completed my mission. I also knew it was a very,
very
bad idea to
see him naked again. “I don’t know…” I said. “I don’t think so.”

“I hope you will come. Or, come have coffee with me again.”

“Oh my goodness!” I started. “I didn’t even pay you for the
coffee. I’m sorry.” With trembling hands, I dug in my purse for my wallet. A
comb and a tampon spilled out onto the floor. Dammit! I bent to retrieve them.
God, I had to get out of here. I righted myself and proffered Javier five
dollars.

He shook his head and smiled, sexily. “It is my treat… if
you promise to come back?”

“Maybe.”

“I was sad about my friend,” he said. “It makes me feel
better to talk to you.”

“Okay… maybe.” I turned on my heel and hurried out of the
café.

I maneuvered the SUV through the darkened city streets and
finally onto the highway. Alone in the darkness of the vehicle, I battled a
heavy feeling of malaise. Meeting with Javier was supposed to bring clarity,
but instead, I felt more confused than ever. I had also expected to feel some
sense of accomplishment: I had met with Karen’s lover and could now report my
findings to the police. But what was there to report? Karen had coffee a few
times with a sexy barista and then imagined a passionate affair with him. I
couldn’t let that get out. It was more embarrassing than having a
real
affair.

But as I gained more distance from The Old Grind and neared
Aberdeen Mists, a new, niggling feeling surfaced in my mind: doubt. Had Javier
just played me for a fool? Was he well aware of his power over women? Could he
make us believe anything he wanted with stories of his lonely childhood in
Spain and his sad-eyed mother? Maybe Karen and Javier really had been lovers?
Maybe he had actually killed her? Maybe I had just been duped?

I slept fitfully that night. When I did get to sleep, I had
disturbing dreams starring Karen wearing a large blond wig and smeared, red
lipstick. But most of the time I lay awake, listening to Paul’s annoying,
regular breathing and thinking about what Javier had told me. In the stillness
of the night, my confusion seemed almost unbearable. I hoped things would look
clearer in the morning.

They didn’t, but thankfully, there was little time to dwell
on the subject.

I had slept late, which meant a frantic scramble to get my
children dressed, fed, washed and loaded into the car for the commute to
Rosedale. As we sat in our driveway, the SUV idling, I did a quick, mental
checklist: lunches were packed, Spencer’s field-trip form was signed, Chloe’s
homework was initialed and in her bag… We had done quite well considering the
time constraints. And despite my foul, sleep-deprived mood, I hadn’t even
raised my voice. I put the vehicle into reverse and began to back out of the
driveway.

“STOP!” Chloe shrieked from the backseat.

I slammed on the brakes in panic, thinking I was about to
run over the neighbor’s dog or small child. “What?” I screeched.

“I forgot the Jessica Simpson CD I was supposed to bring to
lend to Alexandra!”

“Chloe!” I whirled on her. “Do you really think a friggin’
Jessica Simpson CD warrants a scream like that?”

“God,” she pouted. “You don’t need to swear at me.”

“What are you talking about? I didn’t swear.”

“You said
frigging
. Like, duh?”

“
Frigging
is not a swear word, young lady,” I
retorted. “It is a swear
replacement
. Now, if you want to get the
friggin’ CD, I suggest you hurry up.”

She scurried into the house and was back within minutes, but
we were already going to be late. I had just reached the wrought iron gates
exiting our community when Spencer said hesitantly, “Ummm… Mom?”

“Yes?”

“I forgot my friggin’ reader.”

Finally, after depositing my offspring at school, albeit
twelve minutes late, I returned to the solace of my empty house. I felt
exhausted, irritable and still confused about last night’s conversation. A cup
of tea, some couch time and a little mindless
Food Network
viewing seemed
to be in order. I desperately needed a break from contemplating Karen’s real or
imagined affair and her accidental or homicidal death. As I filled the kettle,
I checked the phone messages. There was one from Jane. Putting the kettle on
the burner, I called her back.

“I want you to come over for coffee,” she said. “I’m going
to invite Trudy and Carly, too.”

“Now?” The soft and welcoming couch seemed to beckon me.

“At around ten,” she said. “It’s about time we all got
together like we used to. Karen wouldn’t have wanted our friendship to fall
apart because of her accident.”