”Well, you’ve basically been like a mother to Annie for the past five years-when you’re here, at least. But she’s getting older now, Caitlin. She’s nine. She needs more than you’ve been giving her. And I honestly don’t know if you’re ready to give her more.“

I see traces of moisture in Caitlin’s eyes, but she doesn’t speak.

”I’m not saying it’s your duty to give more. I know you want to. But there’s a difference between wanting to do something and actually committing the time and effort to do it.“ God, I sound like my parents. Caitlin is watching me intently, but still she doesn’t speak. ”I mean, you’re actually getting to the age where if you want to have kids of your own, it’s time to get started.“

She closes her eyes, and a tear slides down her left cheek.

”Am I crazy?“ I ask her. ”Tell me. How do you feel about all this?“

She opens her eyes, then reaches across the table and takes my hand. ”I love you, Penn. And I love Annie.“ She looks as though she’s about to continue, but then she stops. I’ve never known Caitlin to be at a loss for words.

”I know you love us,“ I say softly. ”But you’re gone for very long periods. I mean, you’re the publisher of the Examiner, but you’re working as a reporter fifteen hundred miles away. And not even for your father’s chain. I don’t understand it.“

”I’m not sure I do either. I never really thought about it, but maybe it’s because I’m not working for my father that I enjoy these assignments so much.“

The waiter sets an exquisitely browned crab cake before her, and another before me.

Caitlin looks up at him. ”Thank you.“

”Are you ready to order?“ he asks.

We haven’t even glanced at the menus.

”I’ll have the blackened catfish,“ Caitlin says, withdrawing her hand from mine.

”The duck,“ I tell him.

”Very good. Anything special on the side?“

”Surprise us,“ Caitlin says with a smile.

”Yes, ma’am.“

When the waiter leaves, she says, ”Penn, I’m taking these assignments because it’s what I love to do. It’s the rush, it’s where it’s happening. It’s a big story and they want me. And I like it that they want me.“

”I understand that need. When I worked as a prosecutor, even though I was in a big city, only a few people really knew what I did. What I was accomplishing. But after I became an author, I started getting feedback from hundreds of people, then thousands. That kind of affirmation is a powerful thing.“

She nods as though I’m getting it.

”But you won your Pulitzer for a series of stories you wrote right here in Natchez, about events that happened right here.“

”I know. During weeks like this one, Natchez is a great place to do what I do, as cold as that may sound. But fifty weeks out of the year, it’s Little League games and aldermen meetings that are mired in racial crap that got solved elsewhere twenty years ago.“

The resentment in her voice is palpable. ”I don’t think that’s true,“ I reply. ”Race is a problem everywhere. It’s just more in the open here.“

”Let’s don’t even go there,“ Caitlin says with surprising irritation. ”Let’s talk about Annie. You said no sugarcoating, right?“

”Right.“

”The schools here are atrocious, Penn. The public schools, I mean. They have the lowest ACT scores in the nation. And thirty-five percent of their seniors don’t even take the ACT.“

”Actually, the ACTs in Washington, D.C., are lower,“ I correct her. ”The only ones.“

”You want to guess why that is?“

”I know why.“

Caitlin taps the table to emphasize her points. ”This is the most illiterate state in the union. It’s number one in single-mother homes. And Natchez is number two in the state in those rankings. Forget the political implications of that. What does it mean for Annie?“

I start to point out that Annie doesn’t attend a public school-and that she has a single father -but Caitlin pushes ahead before I can say anything. ”St. Stephen’s does a decent job, I know. Smart kids like Mia and Kate still go on to the Ivy League. But for most kids, St. Stephen’s doesn’t compare to what’s available elsewhere.“

”Like Boston?“

She shrugs. ”Sure, Boston. Or New York, or even Wilmington. Any major city, you know that. And I’m not talking about elite private schools. Here you pay through the nose to get an average education. I’m talking about cities where the public school systems actually function, where there’s not racial segregation accomplished by high tuition.“

”And that would be where, exactly?“

She closes her eyes and sighs. ”It’s not just the schools. It’s extracurricular opportunities. And what about diversity? I mean, kids here are either white or black. There’s no other major demographic group. A couple of Indian kids, a few Mexicans. One or two Asians.“

”You want to be honest?“ I ask. ”All right. Is Annie’s education really your main concern here?“

Two pink moons appear high on Caitlin’s cheeks. ”I’m concerned about it, yes. But I have my own issues, too, I’ll admit. I love this town, Penn, but I also see what we’re missing by being here. There are no real art galleries or museums, no-“

”Is that what you spend your time in Boston doing? Going to museums and art galleries? Or are we really talking about restaurants and clubs?“

”That’s not fair,“ she says, looking genuinely hurt. ”But now that you bring it up, there isn’t even an Olive Garden or an Appleby’s here, for God’s sake. Forget truly exotic cuisine. There’s one cineplex with four screens, and I don’t think they’ve ever booked an art film.“

She’s right, but that doesn’t make me glad to hear it. ”Caitlin, you talk about Boston like it’s the best of everything, beyond the reach of people here. Well, Drew Elliott, our murder defendant and small-town doctor, just passed the Massachusetts state medical boards, and he scored in the top five percent. So don’t act like you’re coming down to Hicksville, USA, to preach the gospel of urban enlightenment.“

Caitlin looks stunned. She’s realized that Drew taking those boards means he was planning to move north with Kate when she went to Harvard. But she doesn’t comment on that. ”Drew is an exception,“ she says. ”And so are you.“

”Am I?“

”You know you are. You’re not like the other people here. Not anymore, anyway. The irony is, you can do your work here and still stay connected to the larger world. But I can’t. To work at the highest level in my business, I have to be in a city. Not Boston, necessarily, but some major city. Penn, the simple truth is that you don’t have to give up what I would to live here full-time.“

At last we come to the truth. ”You’re right,“ I admit. ”I know that.“

”Do you want me to give up my work?“ There’s a note of challenge in her voice.

”No. Not when I think about it intellectually. But if you ask me what I want in my heart, I want you to be with us more. All the time, actually.“

Caitlin smiles, but I see pain in her eyes. ”I do, too. And that’s the crux of our problem.“

”How so?“

She lays her hands flat on the table and looks deep into my eyes. ”I know you’re seriously considering running for mayor. Penn, if you do that-and you win-you’ll be tying us to this town for a minimum of four years.“

”Tell me how you feel about that possibility.“

She takes a slow sip of wine, her eyes on the candle at the center of the table. ”I’m afraid you’re about to make this town your personal crusade. You may disagree-you may believe you’re simply running for mayor. But what that job really means is playing referee in a race conflict. I’ve covered Natchez for nearly five years. Every single vote by the board of aldermen is decided along racial lines. Every one. And if Shad Johnson gets in, they’ll be decided on the black side, regardless of what’s right, ethical, or even legal.“