sizzled, the fresh herbs inside giving a hint of floral fragrance to the kitchen, but the primary sensation in the air was heavy and cloying, the kind of feeling you get when you know something is being fried.
“I don’t understand why you and your cousin have to be at war over this,” I said. “Your actions were obviously reasonable and Kevin was in the wrong. How could anyone trust a kid like that to be a responsible firefighter, for God’s sake?”
“Most of the family is on my side, Clare. Kevin even forgave me for not doing more to get him off the hook. But Michael never did.”
“Why not? If what you say is true—”
“It is. But my cousin’s told his version of that story for so many years now he actually believes it. And that’s the tragedy.”
I turned back to the burner. Mixing and forming crab cakes was simple enough, but cooking them was not. For one thing, there wasn’t much keeping the patties together (not if you wanted to taste crabmeat instead of bread crumbs and binders), so poking them was a bad idea. Flipping should be done only once. And turning them was tricky. Anything held together this precariously had to be handled with finesse.
I glanced over my shoulder at Mike, tried to keep my voice light and casual. “How many years ago did all of that happen, anyway?”
“I don’t know. Twelve or so, I guess . . .”
“Is Kevin okay now?”
“Kevin’s doing just fine for himself, Clare. He’s an engineer, married with two kids, and makes a perfectly good living. Until last summer, he had a great job at a firm in the city.”
“But he had to move to Boston, right?”
“That’s right . . .”
Mike’s voice trailed off, and I let it go, focusing on the completion of his meal. Using a spatula I slipped four of the hot crab cakes onto a large dinner plate, placed three colorful mounds of my homemade condiments around them: lemon-garlic mayo; dill-laced mustard sauce; and avocado, gherkin, and roasted pepper relish. Finally, I piled a generous side of my Thai-style coleslaw into a small salad bowl. (In my opinion, the sweet heat and bright astringency of my Thai slaw was the perfect accompaniment to the unctuous richness of the pan-fried seafood.)
Mike picked up his fork and dug in. “Oh, man, this is good . . .”
I made up my own plate and sat down.
“So . . .” I carefully poked. “Boston?”
“Yeah,” Mike said, pausing to chew and swallow. “Kevin was downsized recently—just last year—and he had to relocate for a new job, but I hear he’s happy in Massachusetts. And the last time I checked, he no longer touches alcohol.”
As Mike inhaled his dinner, I ate my two warm cakes in silence, trying my best to enjoy the freshly fried flavor of lightly breaded seafood, the complementary notes in the tricolored accompaniments. But I still wasn’t satisfied.
“Are you sure there isn’t anything else between you and your cousin? Just the incident with Kevin?”
Mike looked down, suddenly focusing his attention on the last little bits on his plate. “The thing with Kevin, Clare . . . that’s what Michael won’t forgive.”
“You know, it sounds to me like your choosing your words carefully again. There’s more to this story, isn’t there?”
“That’s all I can tell you . . .”
“You mean that’s all you want to tell me.”
Mike looked up then, finally met my eyes. “Sweetheart, I’m going to ask you one more time to stay away from my cousin. Will you do that?”
“Yes.”
“Promise me, Clare.”
“Mike—”
“Promise me.”
I sighed. “I promise you, Mike.”
“Good, let’s change the subject, okay? Mind if I watch the headlines?”
“No . . . I’d like to see them, too.”
Mike flipped on the small television in the corner of the counter, turned it to NY1, our local twenty-four-hour news channel.
“I’ll make more coffee,” I said.
Obviously, Mike was done talking about his cousin, but I couldn’t stand having secrets between us, and I was determined to get this one out of him.
As I measured out our Breakfast Blend, I considered how to reopen the subject. For about twenty seconds, the noisy gears of my burr grinder drowned out the dulcet tones of NY1’s morning anchor. Then the grinder stopped and Pat Kiernan’s voice came back.
“. . . a three-alarm fire in Long Island City. The coffeehouse was part of a popular international chain . . .”
“Coffeehouse!”
I turned quickly, just in time to see last night’s recorded footage. I recognized several members of