He was expressionless. “What do you want?”
I held out the bag. “Your groceries.”
I’d surprised him, and he took the bag carefully, as though it were full of fish guts.
“I’m sorry about yesterday,” I added. He still said nothing, so I took a step backward and prepared to go. “If anything’s missing”—I nodded at the bag—“just leave a message for me at Cipher and I’ll replace it. And, I’m sorry about your date last night.”
Oliver frowned and looked at the grocery bag in his hand. “My date?”
“Dinner for two?” I caught a glimpse of confusion on his face, so I elaborated. “Two steaks?”
He shook his head. “One for dinner and one for lunch the next day. It’s easier.”
Huh. Not what I’d expected.
“Well,” I said, turning to go. “Enjoy your dinner.”
I walked away quickly, but not before I heard him resume his phone conversation. “Just some weird stalker chick who can’t stay away from me.”
Charming.
* * *
The vacation rental I’d found when I got back to Chicago from Mexico was part of a duplex in the Humboldt Park district near the actual park. I’d chosen it for its proximity to the outdoor space and because the owner, a former college professor named Sharon, lived in the other unit.
I was one of the few close protection agents at Cipher who didn’t have a husband, wife, or partner, so I took all the out-of-town and live-in jobs. When I did need a place of my own, I booked a vacation rental on a weekly basis, which I could leave the next time a job came up. The apartments were always furnished, and each time I came back, I deliberately chose parts of the city and styles of architecture I hadn’t experienced before.
This one was my favorite so far, probably because Sharon was an artist and she’d decorated it in a bohemian style that reminded me of the extravagance of the Orient Express or the inside of a pasha’s tent. It felt like walking into a warm hug when I stepped inside and peeled off my coat.
The walls were white, and the floors were blond hardwood, but everything else, from the explosion of rugs on the floors, to the invitation of low cushions for living room seating, and even the hearty hand-thrown pottery, was a riot of color.
The apartment had been carved from a parlor and the butler’s pantry of the original Victorian house. It was a studio with a front entrance, but it was more conveniently entered from the rear of the building. The pantry, with its built-in cupboards and shelves, had become the mudroom and kitchen, with more cupboards than I had things to keep in them. The large main room was both a sitting and sleeping place, and the big windows and tall ceilings allowed light to reach all but the far corners. When I’d moved in after spending two months in Mexico with my last client, Jennifer Jones, and her family, the light was gray and the mornings so cold I could see my breath. I had never been cold in this apartment though—there was just too much color to feel any chill.
I set my backpack on the low bench in the mudroom and kicked off my boots, shoving them against the wall with one foot. My auntie had knit the socks I wore, and I appreciated the thick, soft, orange wool most when I padded around my apartment after a long day.
I grabbed the computer from my bag, hit the electric kettle on my way through the kitchen, and then settled onto the big Turkish rug with the divan cushions at my back. I set my laptop up on the coffee table, opened it, and messaged my sister. She sent back a single word—video—and a moment later, a video call came through.
“Hey, Christi,” I said when I answered the call.
She was in the kitchen of the Vancouver apartment she shared with three to five roommates at any given time. Her phone was propped against something on the counter, so I mostly had a view of her from the neck down as she stirred a pot on the stove.
“Hey. What’s Grandpop’s recipe for moose?” She dipped the wooden spoon into the pot and smelled its contents, then wrinkled her nose in concentration and grabbed a handful of something green from the counter and began tearing it into the pot.
“It’s not moose season,” I said with a frown.
She actually looked at me then, just long enough to make a face. “I know that. Robbie found some moose from last season in his freezer. Grandpop’s recipe is better than anything I can find on the internet.”
“You’re going to have to ask him for it. I only know Mom’s, and it’s definitely not traditional.”
She made another face, but this time it wasn’t directed at me. “They must have just had a storm because the cell tower’s down again. Give me Mom’s and I’ll try to figure his out.”
I gave Christi the simple, slow cooker version of moose roast that our mom taught me to make in the mornings so there’d be hot food when we got home from the private school in Alberta where I was a student and where she worked in the admissions office so I could go there. Packaged onion soup as a dry rub for the meat, then put the meat in the slow cooker with a cup of apple juice until the meat fell apart with a fork. It definitely wasn’t traditional, but it was easy enough for a six-year-old to make. My mom and Christi’s dad had gotten married when I was eight, so Christi never had to learn Mom’s shortcut recipes because I’d been there to make them for her.
The irony was that Christi was now a way better cook than any of us, and she would probably be able to figure out our grandpop’s recipe on her own.
“Mom said I can’t bring Robbie to fish camp this year,” Christi said, annoyed.
“Is he the one?” I asked, looking around the kitchen behind Christi for clues to how she was living. This batch of roommates seemed to be pretty clean, but it looked like the Italian guy had moved out and taken his strings of garlic with him.
Christi made another face. “No,” she said, as if that were obvious.
“You know the rule. No one goes to fish camp until it’s time for a trial by fire.”
Christi scoffed, but I could hear the affection in it. “Trial by fish guts and smoker, you mean. He’s strong enough to be decent help.”
“Fish camp is for family,” I said automatically.
“You say that like it means something to you,” she groused.
“Hey, that’s not fair,” I answered, knowing that it was but flinching anyway. “I’m there every year.”
“I know,” she said, “sorry. I just get stuck doing all the other stuff during the year when you’re not there. But even when you are there to do most of the work, fish camp is hard,” she whined.
“Suck it up, Buttercup,” I said, guilt making my insides twist. But as Mom’s baby, Christi had gotten away with doing the easy chores a lot longer than any of the rest of us had, at least until my cousin Rori was born. I’d never minded the hard work though, because it meant time spent learning skills from my grandfather. “When you reach Grandpop, tell him you want to learn his bear sausage recipe.”
She wrinkled her nose adorably. “Ewww. No, thank you. The parasites are too hard to kill and the intestine casing is gross. I’ll stick to moose.”
I chuckled and looked again for whatever she wasn’t saying. “You okay, Sis? What’s the real reason for wanting Robbie at fish camp?”