I was thirty-eight when I met Caitlin, and I’d been a widower less than a year. She was ten years my junior and out to win a Pulitzer before she turned thirty. Her chosen venue was the Natchez Examiner, one of twenty-odd newspapers owned at that time by her father, a North Carolina businessman who cares more about profits than changing the world. During the Delano Payton case, Caitlin and I formed an unlikely partnership that brought us closer than either had expected, and we quickly fell in love.

Looking back on that time, it seems hard to believe we’ve let seven years pass without getting married. The fact is, when you’re both working full-time and enjoying the benefits of marriage without the burdens, it’s easy to let time slip by without looking too closely at things. During those years we suffered one or two periods of cool distance, when Caitlin took extended assignments in Boston and even farther afield, but those were exceptions. Yet no matter how close we grew during the years prior to our engagement, Caitlin kept one last wall between herself and my daughter—probably to protect them both from heartbreak, should things not work out in the end. But ever since we made the decision to get married, Caitlin and Annie have become inseparable. Annie has insisted on helping with the wedding preparations, from the shower and the flowers to choosing the band for the reception. I’ve done little, of course; my most important contribution has miraculously remained secret. But after the events of today, I’m not sure it can remain so.

I must not be doing a very good job of concealing my worries, because before Annie can serve the pasta, Caitlin pulls me into the hallway.

“Where are ya’ll going?” Annie asks, obviously annoyed.

“We need to talk upstairs for a few minutes,” Caitlin explains. “Grown-up stuff.”

“And when exactly do I become a grown-up? Every grown-up I meet tells me how grown-up I am already.”

“When you’re thirteen!” Caitlin calls from the foot of the stairs.

“Twelve!” Annie retorts.

“How about twenty-one?” I shout.

“How about now? This sucks!”

“We’ll hurry!” Caitlin promises.

“Ya’ll better!”

UPSTAIRS, CAITLIN CROSSES HER legs Indian-style on my bed and fixes her luminous eyes upon me with the disturbing concentration I’ve come to know like a third person in our relationship.

“What’s the deal?” she asks.

“What deal? You haven’t told me anything about your day.”

“FEMA trailers suck, end of story. What’s eating you?”

Knowing it would be useless to try to withhold the main story, I give a heavy sigh and prop my ass on the top of my dresser. “Dad’s in trouble.”

Caitlin draws back her head to brace for bad news. “Not another heart attack.”

“No.”

“Thank God. What, then?”

“Legal trouble.”

“Malpractice?”

“I wish.”