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Eli's the family intellectual. He already has the all the answers -- even to questions that have yet to be asked. He considers himself a short grown-up and is offended he can't get into "R" rated movies. His number one goal in life right now is to see a real, live naked woman that's not related to him.
Then there's Alan, my husband. He teaches at the local college. Nice guy. Loves football, hates taking out the garbage. Doesn't understand why I just want to climb in bed and go to sleep after an evening of getting the kids through homework, soccer practice, ballet and piano lessons, a quick trip to the grocery store, fixing dinner, cleaning up afterwards, supervising showers and pajamas, pulling them apart when they fight, picking up the mess in the bathroom afterwards, wading through all the papers the school sends home, writing out the bills, packing school lunches for the next day, making coffee, ironing and checking all the backpacks to make sure they don't leave anything home or take any contraband, while he sits in the recliner playing with the remote control.
One of these days he'll get it. Until then, well, he probably won't.
And that leaves me. I used to be a cop. That's what I was doing when I married Alan, but I quit when the twins were born. Breast-feeding and law enforcement are really strange bedfellows. So I stayed home and started doing a little freelance writing. I was a journalism major in college.
I take assignments for magazines and newspapers. But they're the kind you never hear about: mostly in-house, trade publications with names like "The Pipe-Fitters Monthly". So it's not McCalls. But the pay's decent and I can work here, which is why I've gained 25 pounds in Little Debbie Snack Cakes. On the whole it's been a pretty good life. Or maybe I should say it was a pretty good life until Blake showed up.
It started with a knock on the door after I'd gotten everybody off to school. There he was: my old partner from the police force, the man who kept me in hot water for nearly a decade. I hadn't seen him in at least a year.
"Eileen!"
"Blake. Don't track mud on my floor. I just mopped it."
"My feet are clean."
"They'd better be. I can still shoot the center out of a bull's eye."
He checked his shoes.
"You sound like my mother."
"You sound like my children."
"So, my feet are clean. Can I come in? Do I get a cup of coffee?"
I fixed the coffee and pointed to a chair at the kitchen table.
"Ah, my old friend. Great coffee."
"Ah, bane of my existence. What do you want?"
"I'm hurt."
"I doubt it."
"Do you really believe I'm here just because I want something?"
"Yes."
There was a long pause. Blake regrouped.
"OK. Maybe I do."
"I'm so surprised." I poured myself another cup of coffee.
"I need a big favor. No, make that the world needs a big favor."
The world? What does he want me to do -- go out and save it?
"I need you to go out and save it," he said.
"What kind of trouble are you in?"
"Make some more coffee and I'll tell you."
Looking back, I should have kicked him out. Blake is trouble. I know that, yet I let him in my house and listened to him. And the story he told me was ridiculous.
But true.
Blake left police work about a year before he came to see me. A former Navy SEAL, he'd finally realized his dream of working in the espionage field and was hired by some agency I'd never heard of called the World's United Specialized Service. I thought for a second.
"WUSS? You work for something called WUSS?"
"We don't use the acronym," he said.
I snorted.
"We use the "Service" for short."
"I guess so. So what does this WUSS do?"
"I told you, we don't use that. The Service is a multi-national organization dedicated to furthering world peace and eliminating threats that could destroy the planet, such as terrorists, heavy-handed dictators...that kind of stuff."
"And you're James Bond?"
He shifted in his chair.
"Well, yes, as a matter of fact. And I need your help."
"So what do you want me to do? Wash your Aston-Martin? Fix you a dry martini -- shaken, not stirred?"
"Could you use some extra money?"
"Are you kidding? I have three kids who need braces."
"How does five grand hit you?"
'Five grand?" I tried not to choke on my coffee.
"We can do better. Ten?" He misinterpreted. For five thousand dollars I would have hung naked upside down over the interstate in rush hour traffic.
"Who do you want me to kill?"
"No one. You just have to work as a nanny for a couple of weeks."
"A nanny? Are you nuts?"
"Look, you're the only one I know who can handle this particular job. We need someone with your uh, skills with no ties to the agency. That's important."
"And what do I tell my husband?"
"That you've got a new job as an editor for a big magazine. We'll cover that end of it."
"And who's going to clean my house and take care of my kids?"
"Glad you asked. We'll put one of our agents in here as your housekeeper. Got just the one for you: Agnes. She's a great cook, speaks seven languages and is a martial arts expert."
"Agnes?"
"Yeah. Come on. You know I wouldn't ask if I really, really didn't need your help."
I threw common sense to the wind. After all, our orthodontist was counting on us to help make the down-payment on his new yacht.
"OK," I said.
And that's how I, Eileen the ordinary, Eileen the average, Eileen the forty-something mother of three with more stretch marks than sense, became Eileen the Spy. I was afraid I was making a big mistake, but then I met Agnes.
And I was sure of it.
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