Anna Pitoniak - Necessary People

“Oh, it will,” Jamie said. “It’s the kind of story that makes careers.”

Stella leaned over. “But you can’t say anything about it,” she said. “Right?”

“Right,” I said.

“So I guess we’ll have to wait and see.” Stella smirked.

“I think that’s work.” Jamie pulled his buzzing phone from his pocket and stood from the table. “Would you excuse me for a minute? I should take this.”

A few minutes later, I excused myself, too. In the hallway en route to the powder room was Thomas’s study. The door was ajar, and Jamie was inside.

I pushed the door open. “What are you doing?” I whispered.

“Come here,” Jamie said. “Look at this.”

I hesitated. “Thomas wouldn’t want us in his study.”

“I came inside to take my phone call but then I got distracted. Here, look.” He pointed at a framed photograph on the bookshelf. “Do you recognize that man? At the edge of the group. Gray hair, blue tie.”

I peered at the picture. “Gray hair, blue tie, that describes every guy in this group.”

“This one,” Jamie said, pressing his finger against the glass, leaving an oily smudge.

“He looks familiar,” I said. “But why?”

“Remember when we were looking up the executive team on Danner’s website the other day? That’s where you’ve seen him before. This is the CEO of Danner Pharmaceuticals.”

“Whoa.” I squinted. “You’re right.”

“I Googled it. Looks like this was a dinner given by the pharma lobby. There was some industry recognition award, excellence in leadership or whatever.” Jamie rolled his eyes. “Both Thomas Bradley and the Danner CEO were among the recipients.”

“So they don’t necessarily know each other,” I said. “Maybe they do, or maybe they just happened to be in this picture together.”

Jamie paused, turned to me. “Have you told Stella about the story?”

I laughed. “Do you think I’m an idiot?”

“I’m sorry, Violet, I have to ask.”

I put my hands on my hips. “Have you told her about it?”

“Oh, give me a break.”

“You’re the one sleeping with her, James. You never slip up during pillow talk?”

Jamie shook his head. “I’m being paranoid, I know. I just—I don’t like how murky her loyalties are.”

“Well, it’s a good thing she’s not working on this story.”

“Imagine after it breaks. Do you think we’re really going to be welcome here, in the Bradley household?”

“You’re being dramatic,” I said.

“Am I?” Jamie said. “This is big, Violet. You can’t predict the ripple effects.”

A few weeks later, Willow finally agreed to meet me in person. She wasn’t saying yes to an on-camera interview yet, but this was the most important step before that.

Eliza looked pleased when I told her. “Good,” she said. “I knew you’d get there eventually. How soon can you meet her?”

“The day after tomorrow, it looks like.”

“And you and Jamie will both go? Where does she live?”

“Florida,” I said. “The Panhandle.”

“So if you can get her on the record, we’ll have”—Eliza started counting on her fingers—“George, Willow, the hotel employees, the voice mail from George’s boss, the guy from Bayer. What am I forgetting?”

“We’re working on the other girl, the BMW girl. And one of George’s old friends from Danner. He’s on the verge of quitting. I’m telling him that he should get out ahead of this.”

“The right side of history. No one can resist that line.”

“So what do you think?” I said. “Do you think we have it?”

“Just about,” she said. “Get Willow to commit to an interview, and we’ll start putting the package together when you’re back.”

Jamie and I were on a flight to Panama City the next afternoon, the sky already darkening as the plane took off from JFK. As I watched the fading ribbon of sunlight across the western horizon, I was aware of a vague panic gathering underneath my rib cage, my pulse and breath quickening. The airplane was climbing a steep trajectory into the sky. The engine revved and slowed, the cabin rattled in the thinning atmosphere. I closed my eyes and tried to breathe through my nose. A moment later, I felt Jamie’s hand squeezing mine.

“You okay?” he said.

“I don’t like flying.”

“Is that really what’s going on?”

I opened my eyes just long enough to see Jamie’s look of concern. Then the plane gave another violent rattle and I shut them again.

“When was the last time you went home?” he continued.

We can talk about it some other time, Jamie had said, years ago. That meant now, apparently. “It’s been a while,” I said.

“But you must think about it,” he said. “Isn’t this right around where you grew up?”

The plane was bouncing like a kite in the wind, my hands gripping the armrest. “You really know how to pick your moments,” I said.

“Maybe if we have some time tomorrow, we can take a drive and—”

“ Jamie, ” I said. “Jesus. Just leave it alone, okay?”

It had been cold in New York, sterile and chilly on the plane, so when we stepped outside in Panama City, the warm humidity came as a relief. It washed over me like a familiar greeting: the pudding-like night air, the glow of sodium lamps in dark parking lots, the constant buzz of mosquitoes. Jamie heard my sigh and turned to me.

“You okay?” he said.

“Yeah,” I said. “Sorry I snapped at you.”

He spread his arms wide. “Who can stay mad when you’re in the South? I love this place. I’m sick of winter and it hasn’t even started.”

“Does Florida count as the South?” I said, dropping my bag in the trunk of the rental car.

“The Panhandle does,” he said.

When we checked into the Marriott, Jamie asked the woman at the front desk where we should eat. “Well,” she said, hesitating. She knew we were from New York; I was wearing black and had just asked if the hotel had a gym. “The only thing nearby is an Applebee’s.”

Jamie slapped his palm against the counter. “Applebee’s it is!”

“Really?” I said, after we turned from the desk.

“Oh, come on,” Jamie said. “Let’s live a little.”

It was across the highway from the hotel, glowing like a beacon, in a strip mall that included a Piggly Wiggly, a Hobby Lobby, a bank with a drive-through ATM, and several vacant storefronts. “Is it bad that I’m perversely excited for this?” Jamie said, as we walked across the mostly empty parking lot. “I haven’t had a blooming onion in years.”

“That’s Outback Steakhouse,” I said. Why did I know these things?

“Good God,” he said, grabbing my arm in mock horror. “You’re right.”

“You’re becoming one of those obnoxious New Yorkers we hate so much.”

He grinned. “I suppose it takes one to know one.”

Jamie goaded me into ordering half the menu with him: fried things, cheesy things, several sugary cocktails with names like Bahama Mama. After two hours, we were drunk and happy. Our waitress was an older woman with bleached hair who kept giving us freebies. “I like you kids,” she said, with a smile that lit up her whole face. Jamie called her “ma’am” and exclaimed “God almighty” whenever she delivered a new dish.

“Your accent has suddenly gotten a lot stronger,” I said. “Is it the booze or the zip code?”

“Both,” he said. “This feels like home.”

“Coronaries and alcoholism,” I said, picking up a French fry. “I’d say so.”

He grinned. “You’re having fun. I can tell.”

Of course I was. This feeling of nowhere else to be, so might as well have another drink—it was more fun than I’d had in months. But that was only the first layer. A deeper part of me was watchful and wary, unsettled by how close we were to my hometown. What if I ran into a high school classmate? It wasn’t inconceivable. What would I do? What the hell would I say?