Spy Another Day Prequel Box Set: Spy Noon, Mr. Nice Spy, and Spy by Night in one volume (Spy Another Day Prequels clean romantic suspense trilogy)

by Jordan McCollum

  I put the pot on the burner and brace myself. As long as I follow the recipe, I should be fine. Fish isn’t that hard to cook. No reason to get worked up. With Campbell out on a date — on a Wednesday — this is my chance to screw up without an audience. Not that I’m planning to screw up.

  I’m prepared. I make sure I have all the ingredients set out, arranging them on the counter by my laptop. I check the recipe again, inventorying once more: bag of fish fillets, head of garlic, jar of peppercorns, bunch of parsley and canister of bay leaves. Buying all this stuff makes this meal twice as expensive as it would be in a restaurant, but that would defeat the purpose. I’m supposed to create something. Other than a mess.

  The recipe only uses some of the garlic, so I take it apart and peel off the papery skin. I count out the right number of peppercorns — man, I love the precision of this recipe. Clearly it was written for an engineer.

  The lineup’s looking more like a meal than a grocery list. I rearrange the ingredients on the stove around the pot in the order I’ll need them: cloves of garlic, handful of peppercorns, sprigs of parsley, bay leaf, bag of fish. Yep, prepared.

  Awesome. Doing good. I turn the knob, but the ancient stove makes an electric zapping sound from the burner. Not good. I test to see if it’s heating up. Nope.

  Great.

  I change the pot to the next burner and switch it on as I read through the other half of the recipe: what to do with the fish after I’ve cooked it. I get the ingredients for round two before I get the stove started. Once again, I set aside the ingredients by the waiting plate: salt shaker, olive oil, jar of capers, lemon. Just have to wait for the pot to boil, add the flavorings and the fish for five minutes, and I should be in business.

  While the water heats up, I’ll work on the side dish. Should’ve gotten canned green beans, but I was already in the freezer section for the fish — wait, is the fish supposed to be thawed? I pick up the bag and read the back. No answer. I return the bag to the stove and scan the recipe again, but it doesn’t say, either. I have to ask “Chef Google.”

  I scan the first three results. If it’s frozen, just have to cook it a little longer. Can do.

  I get out the frozen green beans, pour them in a bowl and throw them in the microwave. I consult the pot. Barely a bubble. Plenty of time.

  What else would go well with this? Rice? Do I have rice? I search the tiny pantry and come up empty-handed. As soon as I turn back to the room, an acrid smell hits me, like an industrial accident happened in my kitchen while I wasn’t looking. I know this smell: burning plastic, and something else.

  I hurry to lift the pot off the burner. Nothing on the burner underneath. I examine the bottom of the pot. Clean.

  I set the pot aside, but the fumes are growing stronger. The stove knobs — oh, no no no. I snatch the bag of fish off the “broken” burner, and the plastic melts away, stuck to the burner. Frozen fillets clatter onto the stovetop, and two plop into the poaching water. I fish the fish out of the water but I have nowhere to put them, and they’re freezing to my fingers.

  And then the garlic cloves burst into flames.

  I shake my hands, flinging the fish across the kitchen, then grab the garlic off the burner.

  I swear I had a plan when I picked this up, but now I don’t know what to do, and it is burning. So I drop it in the nearest water — the poaching liquid.

  Where was I the week we earned the Don’t Pick Up Things That Are On Fire merit badge? Apparently the same place I was when we earned the Cooking Without Inviting The Fire Department merit badge.

  The recipe made it clear that the fish would pick up any off flavors in your water, for example, blackened garlic. I stifle a groan, throw out the ruined liquid and gather up the fish filets from the counter. I can still do this. I am an Eagle Scout. I am an engineer. I am an adult. I can cook a simple dinner.

  Dinner, take two. I triple check which burner I’m using and where I’ve put the refilled pot. I prep a few more cloves of garlic and add those to the pot with the peppercorns, parsley and bay leaf before I turn on the heat. This time I switch on the right burner and watch the water.

  After a minute, I remember the green beans in the micro-wave. I open the door and take them out. Too late, I realize once again I picked up something really hot. The pain receptors send the message to the brainstem first, and my hands jerk away instinctively.

  The bowl of green beans drops into the poaching pot. A wave of lukewarm water and hot green beans splashes onto my shirt.

  It takes a few deep breaths and a few minutes of clenched teeth — and a change of clothes — before I’m back in the kitchen, psyching myself up to give this one more shot.

  Engineer. Eagle Scout. Adult. Top of the food chain. Not going to let frozen fish fillets defeat me.

  Dinner, take three. I finally get the poaching liquid to a boil, turn down the heat, and add the fish fillets. It’s been almost an hour since I started cooking, so I’m starving. The promise of perfect, tasty fish in a couple minutes is making my stomach growl.

  More than a couple minutes. Have to add time for them being frozen.

  I’m watching the stove clock when my phone rings. Mom. I answer. “Hi.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  That’s a mom for you. “Nothing’s wrong.”

  “You sound annoyed.”

  “I am annoyed.” Recounting the pratfalls of one simple meal will only make me more annoyed.

  “What are you up to?”

  “Poaching fish.”

  Silence. “That’s illegal.” She’s not kidding; she’s horrified.

  “Not that kind of poaching.”

  Again, she hesitates before she answers. “Oh, right. The cooking kind.”

  “Yep.” This is where I got my chef genes. I check the stove clock. Two more minutes. Plus frozen time? I make sure the slotted spoon’s handy to remove them from the pot.

  “Anyway, I was calling to apologize.”

  I instantly perk up. “You were?”

  “Yes — I think I came across wrong this weekend, and I wanted to say I’m sorry.”

  “That’s okay.” I turn around and lean against the stove. Are there new strings?

  “I didn’t mean to upset you,” she says. “About Kendra.”

  I manage to keep the wince mostly mental. What am I supposed to say? “Thanks.”

  “And I hope you’re not still mad at me.”

  I sigh. “I’m not mad, Mom.”

  “You’re not annoyed with me?”

  “No, with dinner.”

  She laughs. “Then you’re probably doing it wrong.”

  “Believe me, Mom, I’ve done everything I could wrong tonight.”

  “Aw, honey, I’m sorry.”

  It’d be nice if she shared a story of how she ruined dinner once — I know it had to have happened, but like I was ever picky about what she fed us. “So,” she continues. No funny stories. “About the money.”

  I let my hopes rise a centimeter. The cash isn’t what I care about — it’s Mom admitting I can run my own life. “Yes?”

  “Your father and I do want you closer.”

  After a few seconds of silence, clearly she thinks she’s finished. “That’s it?”

  “Excuse me? What do you mean, ‘that’s it’? I think that’s quite a bit.”

  “So you’re calling to say, ‘Sorry I made you mad, stop being mad, but I’m still not giving you this “gift” unless you give up your life and move home with Mommy and Daddy’?”

  “Danny,” she says with a warning in her tone. Bet she regrets not naming me Daniel.

  I pull back on the attitude. I’m not fifteen. “Listen, it’s really nice of you to offer, but —” I’ve got nothing.

  “I have an idea,” she finally says. “A compromise?”

  I should say no. If she doesn’t want to give me this “gift,” that’s fine, but I can’t move back to Michigan, no matter what she wants.

  Still, how can I slam the do
or on my mom? I have to listen. “All right, let’s hear it.”

  Then I remember the fish. The two nice fish fillets that were poaching a minute ago are now ten thousand little fishy bits. “Crap,” I mutter. Shifting the phone to my shoulder, I grab the slotted spoon, like it’ll salvage this mess.

  “We’d like you to get preapproved for a loan,” Mom says. “It’d give you a budget amount, and you could see how far our gift would go toward a down payment.”

  “Uh huh.” Yeah, I’m at my most articulate as I’m scooping up my ruined dinner with the phone at this awkward angle. This would be why speakerphone was invented, genius.

  “Is that an ‘uh huh, that’s true’ or an ‘uh huh, I’ll do it’?”

  “There’s a difference?”

  “Of course there is.” Mom’s voice verges on exasperated.

  “Okay, sorry, a little distracted here.” I need her off my case — I can say yes, and for all I know, they’ll reject me for a loan, and that could be the end of it. She’s giving some; I can too. “I’ll look into it.”

  “Great. I’ll let you go. Love you.”

  “You too.”

  The front door of my apartment swings open. I whirl around to see who’s there before I remember I have a roommate now — and my phone slips from between my shoulder and my cheek. It lands with a plop. In the poaching water.

  “Hey,” Campbell says. He’s alone, carrying a box to the counter. “Why don’t you have any music on?”

  I barely contain my frustration with him, my mom, my phone, the fish, the whole freaking night and turn back to the pot. I scoop out my phone, covered in flaky bits — and it’s off. Bad sign.

  “Okay,” Campbell practically chirps, apparently unaffected by my non-answer. He plugs his phone into the speakers he left on the counter. Are they supposed to be a permanent fixture there? He flips on something loud and upbeat I sort of recognize from the radio.

  “I don’t know why you only own two plates —” Campbell’s observation is enough to trigger a memory, or maybe a flashback, all the rest of that set crashing and breaking. And when I tried to stop Kendra — I grip my phone tighter just to keep me tethered to the present.

  “But I got some more.” He pats the box he carried in and heads to his room.

  Awesome. I set my phone on the counter. Is there anything I can salvage from this? I barely dare to taste one of the watery fish flakes. It’s like eating bland fish soup with a fork. Plus my phone won’t turn back on.

  Dinner, take four. I nuke a frozen burrito. Not sure what flavor it’s supposed to be, but it tastes suspiciously like they were going for freezer burn. I reach for my pocket to text Talia to remind me why I’m doing this — but my phone’s dead. And I might’ve just lost Talia’s number.

  Full. Of. Win.

  Things I’ve cooked for dinner: a plastic bag. Two cloves of garlic. My phone.

  Things I’m throwing away: the fish. The poaching water. Possibly the ruined burner.

  Things I may or may not keep: trying. Dignity. Hope.

  Not sure which I’m dreading more: this meeting with my boss Carol or my next attempt at cooking tonight. The logical side of my mind has spent the last week arguing that cooking failed as a psychological reset button. But that rational side also hasn’t come up with a better plan and — I’ve let the past rule my life long enough.

  First I have to make it through this status update. “And de-icing?” Carol asks.

  Is this her pet project? “Going well. I think Lucas has a full report ready for you.”

  “Already? Hm.” She doesn’t seem impressed. “AeroTechCanada’s wingtips?”

  I open up the last model she approved on my monitor, complete with its testing results. Carol leans over me, frowning at the failures. “It did make it all the way to the testing phase this time,” I try, like that helps.

  “Well, I guess that’s something.” Her tone makes it obvious it isn’t.

  Okay, we’ve run out of standard options. Time to show her what I’ve been working on for months. I’ve run the math about eight thousand times, gone over every spec and angle, getting everything ready for modeling and testing. If she approves it.

  “I do have one more idea.” I switch to view my hybrid wingtip design. I’m not 100% clear how much Carol knows about aerospace design, so I don’t know how much to delve into the details. I point to the upper section of the wingtip device. “Obviously, this is akin to the winglet, how it flips up at the end of the wing.” I trace to the bottom of the sideways V. “And then it’s like a fence, extending above and below the wing. Also combines some of the sweep from the raked wingtip design we started with.”

  Carol stares at the computer model and puffs out a breath.

  “Ready for modeling, testing and Transport Canada.”

  When she straightens instead of expressing the tiniest amount of approval or suggesting the next direction we might go — I could name four, easy — that’s probably enough humilia-tion. I close the window.

  Leaving up my browser, on a mortgage rate search. “Looking for a home?” Carol asks.

  “Sort of. Need to get prequalified for a loan.”

  For the first time since she came in, Carol doesn’t look like she wants to fire me. “You know, my husband’s a real estate agent. He has a guy who does prequalifications. They could get you a letter in a day or two.”

  Easy, convenient — though I don’t know if a Canadian loan approval will please my mom. But the way Carol offers makes me want to say yes. Like it’s my last chance to do something to impress her and keep my job safe for another week.

  “Sure,” I say. “That’d be great.”

  “I’ll have him email you tonight. And I’ll think about your wingtip.” She actually smiles before she leaves.

  Yeah, that’s only a true victory for one of us. I definitely need something to move this day to the “win” column for me, too. I finish up at work and hit the grocery store.

  This time, I’m going even less ambitious than poaching frozen fish. I’m only doing a side dish. Supposed to be foolproof, and it’s bacon. I think I’ve challenged the definition of “fool” when it comes to cooking.

  Not totally sure “creating something” is helping.

  Once I get home, I lay out my ingredients, just six of them: asparagus, bacon, balsamic vinegar, olive oil, pepper, and a lemon. After watching a video courtesy of Chef Google — wish there really were such a thing — I’m ready to try.

  How did I let the Internet talk me into eating asparagus? I glance at the bacon and remember. That’s how.

  I restart the video and follow along, snapping off the end of one asparagus stalk and using that as a guide to cut off the tough parts of the others. Not slicing my fingers feels like cheating the cooking gods. They’ll probably exact vengeance soon.

  The next step is easy, too: wind half a piece of bacon around each asparagus stalk, and set them on a foil-covered pan. Some pieces of bacon or asparagus aren’t as cooperative, but within a couple minutes, each stalk is encased in a spiral of bacon goodness. I drizzle on a tablespoon each of the vinegar and olive oil. A little black pepper and they’re ready to go in the oven.

  Oh. Except I forgot to preheat the oven. Could that really be my only kitchen disaster?

  Once the oven’s hot, it does take twenty-seven minutes to get them nice and crispy on both sides, but that seems to be the only mishap tonight. No fire, no change of clothes, no bloodshed.

  And no one to celebrate with. Even Campbell isn’t around, with his constant companions, friends and music.

  I try an asparagus spear, and it’s surprisingly good. The tang of the vinegar, the salty crunch of the bacon, and the heat from the pepper actually make asparagus worth it. Maybe not a whole pound of asparagus, but . . . it does feel really good to say I made this.

  Not as good as saying it to someone other than myself. I could get away with a platonic text — if I hadn’t broken my phone and lost her number in my last attempt. L
ike Arjay told me weeks ago, her number’s wrong in our church directory.

  Is there a “platonic” way to ask for someone’s digits? Without using the word “digits”?

  Wait a minute. I know exactly how to get ahold of her.

  I’m finishing up at the office (Terfort & Sutter) Friday night when I get a text. In Urdu. Where have you been? When are you and Danny getting married?

  My stomach dips automatically — but yeah, pretty sure that’s out of the question. (Whew.) I missed you too, Arjay.

  Where are you?

  Work. I check my email once more, double-check my court robes are ready for Monday (you have no idea what a big deal it is to appear in federal court as an articling student, even if I’m only there because I studied all the depositions for this witness), and triple-check my phone. I haven’t heard from Danny since our “unbreakup,” and . . . I miss him. I barely know the guy, but I’ve had to stop myself from texting him kitten photos four times a day.

  Which is for the best, right?

  I’m at Danny’s, Arjay replies. Thanks for asking. Why aren’t you here?

  Does he want the real reason? How do you say “baggage” in Urdu? No need to get specific about whose.

  You don’t want to see him?

  For a second, I worry Arjay’s reflecting this conversation back to Danny, going from wingman to puppeteer, but then he’d text in English, right? I don’t mind seeing him, I reply. We’re just not dating.

  Baggage. Gotcha.

  Hope he drops it. But at the same time, I hope he doesn’t drop it.

  Great. Even more issues.

  He doesn’t text again until I’m at my car. Come on, it’s my last week of freedom.

  Freedom? Then my heart sinks — right. Because Arjay will be a missionary soon, which means no TV, no video games, no un-churchy books, no Internet, no dating, no nothing. You find other ways to have fun, and it’s worth it, but yeah. I have to say goodbye.

  But wait. Your last week of freedom and you’re at Danny’s?