The name of their restaurant was, not surprisingly, Rosario’s, and it was embroidered in bold letters across red aprons worn by the chefs. Marcello offered one to Mitch, who, as always, declined on the grounds that he could not cook. When they were alone in the kitchen, Abby allowed him to peel and chop vegetables, measure spices under her watchful eye, set the table, and handle the garbage, all grunt work she deemed acceptable for his talents. He had once elevated himself to the position of sous chef but was rather harshly demoted when he burned a baguette.
She asked for a small glass of wine. Marco and Marcello declined, as usual. Mitch had learned years earlier that Italians, in spite of their prodigious production of wine and the presence of it at virtually every meal, actually drank little. A carafe of their favorite local red or white would satisfy a large family over a long dinner.
Due to her knowledge of Italian food and wine, Abby was a senior editor at Epicurean, a small but busy press in the city. The company specialized in cookbooks and published about fifty of them a year, almost all of them thick, handsome editions loaded with recipes from around the world. Because she knew many chefs and restaurant owners, she and Mitch dined out often and seldom bothered with reservations. Their apartment was a favorite laboratory for young chefs dreaming of success in a city crowded with fine restaurants and serious gourmands. Most of the meals prepared there were extraordinary, but since the chefs were free to experiment, there was the occasional dud. Carter and Clark were easy guinea pigs and were being raised in a world of cutting-edge recipes. If the chefs couldn’t please them, their dishes were probably in trouble. The boys were encouraged to pan any dish they didn’t like. Their parents often joked quietly about raising a couple of food snobs.
Tonight there would be no complaints. The bruschetta was followed by a small truffle pizza. Abby announced that the appetizers were over and directed her family to the dining table. Marco served the first course, a spiced fish soup called cacciucco, as Marcello found a seat. All six took a small bite, savored the flavors, and thought about their reactions. It was slow eating and this often bothered the kids. The pasta course was cappelletti, small ravioli in beef broth. Carter in particular loved pasta and declared it delicious. Abby wasn’t so sure. Marco served a second pasta course of risotto with saffron. Since they were conducting research in a lab, a third pasta course of spaghetti in clam sauce was next. The servings were small, only a few bites, and they joked about pacing themselves. The Rosarios bickered back and forth about the ingredients, the variations of the recipes, and so on. Mitch and Abby offered their own opinions, often with the adults all talking at the same time. After the fish course the boys were getting bored. They were soon excused from the table and went upstairs to watch television. They missed the meat course, braised rabbit, and the dessert of panforte, a dense chocolate cake with almonds.
Over coffee, the McDeeres and Rosarios debated which recipes should be included in the cookbook and which needed more work. It was months away from completion, so there were many dinners to follow.
Shortly after eight, the brothers were ready to pack up and leave. They needed to hustle back to their restaurant and check on the crowd. After a quick cleanup and the usual round of hugs, they left with serious promises to return next week.
When the apartment was quiet, Mitch and Abby returned to the kitchen. As always, it was still a mess. They finished loading the dishwasher, stacked some pots and pans by the sink, and turned off the light. The housekeeper would be there in the morning.
With the boys tucked in, they retired to the study for a nightcap, a glass of Barolo. They replayed the dinner, talked about work, and unwound.
Mitch couldn’t wait to deliver the news. “I’ll be out of town tomorrow night,” he said. It was nothing new. He was often gone ten nights a month, and she had accepted the demands of his job a long time ago.
“It’s not on the calendar,” she said with a shrug. Clocks and calendars ruled their lives and they were diligent with their planning. “Somewhere fun?”
“Memphis.”
She nodded, trying and failing to hide her surprise. “Okay, I’m listening, and this better be good.”
He smiled and gave her a quick summary of his conversation with Willie Backstrom.
“Please, Mitch, not another death row case. You promised.”
“I know, I know, but I couldn’t say no to Willie. It’s a desperate situation and it’s probably a wasted trip. I said I would try.”
“I thought we were never going back there.”
“So did I. But it’s only for twenty-four hours.”
She took a sip of her wine and closed her eyes. When they reopened she said, “We haven’t talked about Memphis in a long time, have we?”
“No. No need to, really. But it’s been fifteen years and everything has changed.”
“I still don’t like it.”
“I’ll be fine, Abby. No one will recognize me. All the bad guys are gone.”
“You hope. As I recall, Mitch, we left town in the middle of the night, scared to death, certain the bad guys were after us.”
“And they were. But they’re gone. Some are dead. The firm imploded and everybody went to prison.”
“Where they belonged.”
“Yes, but there’s not a single member of the firm still in Memphis. I’ll ease in and out and no one will know.”
“I don’t like the memories of the place.”
“Look, Abby, we made the decision a long time ago to live normal lives without looking over our shoulders. What happened there is old history now.”
“But if you take the case your name will be on the news, right?”
“If I take the case, which looks doubtful, I won’t hang out in Memphis. The prison is in Nashville.”
“Then why are you going to Memphis?”
“Because the lawyer, or ex-lawyer, works there. I’ll visit him in his office, get briefed, then we’ll make the drive to the prison.”
“Scully has about a million lawyers. Surely they can find someone else.”
“There’s not much time. If the client refuses to see me, then I’m off the hook and back home before you even miss me.”
“Who says I’ll miss you? You’re gone all the time.”
“Yes and I know you’re miserable when I’m out of town.”
“We can hardly survive.” She smiled, shook her head, and reminded herself that arguing with Mitch was a waste of time. “Please be careful.”
“I promise.”
Chapter 3
The first time Mitch had stepped into the ornate lobby of the Peabody hotel in downtown Memphis, he was two months shy of his twenty-fifth birthday. He was a third-year student at Harvard Law and would graduate the following spring number four in his class. In his pocket he had three splendid job offers from mega firms, two in New York and one in Chicago. None of his friends could understand why he would waste a trip to visit a firm in Memphis, which was not exactly in the major leagues of Big Law. Abby was also skeptical.
He’d been driven by greed. Though the Bendini firm was small, only forty lawyers, it was offering more money and perks and a faster track to a partnership. But he had rationalized the greed, even managed to deny it, and convinced himself that a small-town kid would feel more at home in a smaller city. The firm had a family feel to it, and no one ever left. Not alive anyway. He should have known that an offer too good to be true came with serious strings and baggage. He and Abby lasted only seven months and were lucky to escape.
Back then they had walked through the lobby, holding hands and gawking at the rich furnishings, oriental rugs, art, and the fabulous fountain in the center with ducks swimming in circles.