The Secret Desires of a Soccer Mom (14 page)

“Well… glasses are cool.”

“Oh, really?” She snapped. “If they’re so cool, why don’t
any singers wear them?”

“What? Of course singers wear glasses,” I said, somewhat
nervously. “Lots of singers… like…”

“Who?”

“Well… Elvis Costello.”

“I don’t care about the guys.”

“Okay… umm… Nana Mouskouri.”

“Who?!”

“You don’t know her?” I said. “Oh, she’s very popular… a
beautiful voice. A really great singer.”

“What is she like, eighty?”

“No…” I chuckled awkwardly. “Well… maybe. But there are
others.”

“No there aren’t,” Chloe sulked. “Britney doesn’t wear
glasses. Neither does Christina, or Jessica… or Beyoncé.”

There was a long silence while my mind scrambled to think of
some cool singers who wore glasses. “Lisa Loeb!” I said triumphantly. “Lisa
Loeb wears glasses, and she is very hip and cool. And she’s not eighty. She’s
probably around my age.”

“I don’t care about the old people!” My daughter shouted.

I sighed heavily. “You can get contacts in a year or two.”

“I want the surgery.”

“The surgery? You want laser eye surgery?”

“Yes.”

“Kids can’t get laser eye surgery.”

“Why not?”

“Because,” I said frustration evident in my voice, “your
eyes are still growing. If you had the surgery now, you’d need glasses again in
a few years.”

“Then I’d get the surgery again. I don’t care!”

“Chloe, you’ll have to be satisfied with contacts.”

“You’re so mean! Lynn would never make Britney walk around
looking like a complete dork!”

“What? Who?”

“Lynn Spears—Britney’s mom!” she shrieked. “They are best
friends! Lynn supports her and believes in her and would never embarrass her
like this!”

“You’re probably right,” I said resignedly. “I guess it’s
just your tough luck to have such a horrible mother who will only buy you a two
hundred-dollar pair of designer glasses that look really cute and stylish and
then offer to get you contact lenses in a year or two.”

“I hate my life!” she wailed, sinking back
into unintelligible sobbing.

“Yeah, well mine’s not so hot either,” I
muttered, steering the SUV through the large wrought-iron gates marking the
entrance to Aberdeen Mists. Some days, motherhood felt like a real chore.
Between Chloe’s hostility and Spencer’s toilet talk, it wasn’t really the most
rewarding of career choices. And with the impact of Karen’s sudden death
gradually fading, Paul was once again, immersing himself in work, leaving me to
cope on my own. This was not easy—especially given the fact that I had a
possible murder to investigate.

When I pulled into the driveway, Chloe
barrelled out of the car before I’d even had a chance to turn off the ignition.
“That’s dangerous young lady!” I called after her, but she was already stalking
toward the house. I suppose she didn’t care if she was crushed under the wheels
of a Ford Explorer. In fact, it was probably a welcome relief from the pain of
going through life looking like a hideous, bespectacled circus freak. When I
unlocked the house, she stomped silently to her room. Spencer, at this point in
time by far my favourite child, tugged at my hand.

“Could I watch a kids’ show?
Pleeeeeeeeeeeeze! I haven’t watched any TV all day, or yesterday either.”

“Go on.” I caved in. “Kiss first.” With a
peck, he scurried to the family room. I sighed heavily as I followed his path
toward the back of the house. Once in the kitchen, I poured myself a glass of
merlot, and began dinner preparations. We were having Chloe’s favourite,
spaghetti, a meal I had planned before our trip to the optometrist. I had hoped
it would cheer her up, but it was now apparent that a delicious bowl of pasta
was not going to help my daughter deal with the trials of vision correction. If
she didn’t snap out of it soon, I would have to break down and call Mr.
Dennison for some professional advice. Perhaps if I acted very businesslike,
brusque even, he might think he imagined my previous suggestive behaviour?

As I chopped the onion and celery into
minute pieces (in hopes of rendering them undetectable to a certain
six-year-old), my mind slipped back to Karen’s case. Yes, I had begun to think
of Karen’s love triangle and untimely death as a “case’. It was very Nancy Drew
of me, but I couldn’t help it. And just as I had been consumed by Karen’s
affair when she was alive, I now found myself completely obsessed with finding
answers to her early demise. In some ways, I felt I owed it to her: she had
trusted me and confided in me. But I had to admit, solving the mystery had
started to feel crucial to my sanity.

I dropped the veggies into the pot,
drizzled them with olive oil and turned on the heat. Okay… I had to meet Javier—the
real Javier. But how? I knew virtually nothing about him: no last name, no
address, not even a neighbourhood… All I knew was that he was Spanish, sexy and
worked as a barista. What—was I going to drive to every coffee shop in Denver
looking for hot Latin men? Obviously, that wasn’t logistically feasible—and I
was jittery enough these days without going on a caffeine binge. With a
discouraged sigh, I plunked a pound of ground beef into the saucepan and
stepped back as it sizzled dramatically. No… there had to be another way to
find him.

That’s when my eyes travelled to the
fridge, home of various alphabet magnets, school notices and children’s art
projects. There
, affixed with a green letter
M
, was Spencer’s
latest masterpiece. It was a pencil sketch, enhanced by water color paint in
shades of gold and blue. Of course, I knew this was supposed to be a pee
fountain, but if I forgot that for a moment, it was really quite lovely. If I
imagined that the yellow paint represented water, backlit by a setting sun,
instead of actual
urine
, it was an impressive effort for a first grader.
Then it struck me. Karen had met Javier at an art class! He was an artist’s
model! That was the answer! I would sign up for art classes.

Unfortunately, I couldn’t remember the name of the studio
Karen had attended. Grabbing the cordless phone, I called Carly. She wasn’t
home. I tried Jane, who answered, but couldn’t remember the name, either.
Finally, I tried Trudy. “It was called Wild Rose Art Studio,” she said,
helpfully. “I didn’t know you had an interest in art.”

“Well… I’ve been meaning to take up a hobby,” I said, my
cheeks turning pink despite myself. It’s not like I was lying: I had even written
“Find creative hobby” on my life makeover list. I was just omitting the fact
that my new found artistic bent was due, in large part, to a need to check out
the model. “The kids are both at school now… and with Karen gone… I guess I
need a distraction.”

“I think it’s a great idea.”

“Thanks.”

“I’m embarking on a new project of my own.”

“Oh?”

“Carly and I are setting up a charitable trust in Karen’s
memory.”

“Wow. That’s wonderful.”

“Well, you remember how much Karen wanted a baby. We’ve
decided to make a donation in her name to the Alternative Infertility Clinic of
South Denver. And we’re setting up an ongoing trust so that her friends and
family can pay tribute to her by donating to the cause.” She paused for a
moment. “I think it would make her happy to know that, thanks to her, fewer
women will have to suffer a barren existence.”

Ah yes… Karen’s barren existence… The secret of her
pregnancy weighed heavily on me, but I managed to muster the appropriate words.
“I think it’s really great Trudy. Karen would be so pleased.”

“Thanks, Paige.” She sniffled.

“You can count on my support,” I said. “Oh! Better run. My
spaghetti sauce is bubbling over.”

The sauce was actually simmering nicely, but I felt an
urgent need to sign up for a class at the Wild Rose Arts Center. A glance at
the digital oven clock indicated that it was 5:07, unlikely that a receptionist
would still be there. But I hurriedly looked up the number in the phone book,
and hopefully, dialed.

“Wild Rose Arts Center.” A bland, female voice answered.

“Oh! Great! You’re still there.”

“The office is open until eight on Wednesdays and
Thursdays,” she replied, mundanely. “Can I help you?”

“Yes,” I cleared my throat. “I’d like to sign up for a
drawing class, please.”

“Do you have the course number from our flyer?”

Dammit. “No—I don’t actually have a flyer.”

“We have a number of drawing classes,” she explained in her
bored voice. “I can have a flyer mailed out to you, or you can look it up on
line. Then you can call back when you know the class you want to take.”

“I know the class I want,” I said hurriedly. “A friend of
mine took a great drawing class there. I can’t remember what it was called… but
she was drawing people… uh, models… male models… I think it was.”

“That would probably be Drawing the Human Figure,” she said.
“But the session started in September. The next one isn’t until January.”

“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.