Anna Pitoniak - Necessary People

The police were performing a full forensic workup, but the boat was badly degraded by saltwater and wind and rain. The best they could do was guess at what had happened. If Stella had made it to her intended destination, the boat would have made it, too. But the drifting boat—at sea for several months, based on its condition—pointed to a simpler explanation. Over three thousand Americans die from drowning every year. That’s what they told the Bradleys. Almost every single day, someone dies in a boating-related incident. As time went on, it seemed the most likely answer.

Anne had crossed the hemispheres of the world, searching for the crack through which her daughter had slipped. And here it was: an accident. The crack turned out to be ordinary and commonplace. There was some comfort in this. Even though the police were suggesting that Stella was finally, conclusively, inescapably dead, at least they had dropped their theory about the burner-phone mystery man, about the drugs, about Stella getting mixed up with a bad crowd. Drowning was tragic, but it was dignified. If Anne had to resign herself to losing Stella forever, at least her daughter could remain as perfect in death as she had been in life. Closure, perhaps, was possible.

But Anne wasn’t the person I had to worry about.

It was almost two weeks later, on a Friday, when I arrived to a strange tension in the newsroom. There were several interns whispering in the corner. Eliza, who on a good day barely acknowledged the interns, beckoned one to her office and closed the door.

Rebecca’s assistant studiously avoided my gaze as I walked past her desk. “What’s going on?” I said, but she shook her head without looking at me.

All morning, Jamie’s desk was empty. His computer was off. No jacket, no bag, no coffee cup and muffin wrapper in his trash can from his usual coffee cart. He hadn’t said he’d be late. When he had to field-produce, he always told me ahead of time. I felt a ripple of unease. In the past two weeks, since the police concluded that Stella was dead, Jamie had been miserable with a new bout of guilt. Miserable enough to do something drastic.

Later, when I went to the kitchen for a cup of tea, there were two assistants hovering, with low voices and furtive whispers. My heart began to race. Act normal, I thought. When I went to the refrigerator for milk, one of them grabbed my wrist and hissed, “Stop!”

“Seriously, what? ” I snapped. “Why is everyone acting so possessed?”

“You have to make sure the coast is clear,” one of the assistants said. She leaned over, looking toward the door. “Okay,” she said, “but make it fast.”

The middle shelf of the refrigerator had been cleared to make room for a large tray with a clear plastic lid. Inside was a cake, with white frosting and lilac roses. The script across the top read, “HAPPY BIRTHDAY REBECCA.”

“Oh my God,” I said. “Is this why everyone is so jumpy?”

“It’s a surprise,” the assistant said. “For after the show tonight.”

Jamie was finally back at his desk, looking frustrated and rubbing the side of his neck. “I think I pulled something,” he said. “I knew it was too heavy to carry.”

I was so relieved that I almost laughed. “Something for the birthday girl?” I said.

“Twenty-four bottles of Veuve Clicquot. Eliza wouldn’t even let me take an intern to help. She has them all working on decorations.”

In that morning’s meeting, Rebecca swept into the conference room with a smile on her face. But the glow dimmed when we failed to greet her with anything beyond an ordinary hello. “Nice of you to join us,” Eliza said, looking at the clock.

“Well, ex- cuse me,” Rebecca said. Her hair was freshly blown out. She was wearing a new dress, a particularly flattering red sheath. An outfit to defy the gravity of a fortieth birthday.

After the meeting ended, with Rebecca flouncing out and saying that she had to meet her husband for lunch at Jean Georges because today was a very special day, Eliza loosed a gale of laughter. “Oh, she is pissed,” she said. “She is going to waste that three-hundred-dollar lunch yelling at her husband about how awful I am.”

“I thought Rebecca hated her birthday,” I said.

“She says she does,” Jamie said. “But she hates it more when people forget.”

“Not that she’d believe me if I pretended to forget,” Eliza said. “So I told her last night: ‘Listen, Becks. I know you hate your birthday. So we’ll just do a quiet drink after work. Nothing fancy.’ She was trying so hard to pretend that just a glass of wine and my company would make her happy.” Eliza laughed. “Yeah right. She’s turning forty. This woman wants a fucking party.”

I’d pitched Eliza on a story that morning, but she asked for more information before green-lighting it. By this point, I’d produced several serious pieces. It didn’t really get any easier—pitching an idea in front of a big room, asking Eliza to divert resources to my story, bracing myself for rejection—but I was getting better at bearing the pressure.

Eliza saw me in the doorway and beckoned me inside. There was a voice on speakerphone: Ginny. Eliza said, “So I was planning to say a few words, welcome everybody, and then hand it over to you to make the toast. Sound good?”

“That’s fine,” Ginny said. “I’m going to practice my speech in the car.”

“Where are you, anyways?” Eliza said. Simultaneously she was reading the paper I’d handed to her, circling things and jotting notes in the margin.

“Out on Long Island.”

“For work?”

“No,” Ginny said. “A personal errand. I had to look into something.”

“Got it.” Eliza handed the paper to me, scrawled with notes, and gave a thumbs-up.

“If the traffic isn’t too bad, I’ll be back in a few hours,” Ginny said. “I’m leaving Sag Harbor now.”

“Huh. Sag,” Eliza said, after she’d hung up. “And I always thought Ginny was more of an East Hampton lady. You got what you need, right?”

Maybe it’s a coincidence, I thought. But on the walk back to my desk, my hand had a fine tremor, the paper vibrating like a leaf in the wind.

When Rebecca went down to the studio for the broadcast, the newsroom sprang into action. Space was cleared for tables and tablecloths. The caterers hurried in with platters of crudités and cheese and rows of glass flutes for the champagne. Balloons were inflated, decorations strung up. Someone had made a paper crown from a repeating pattern of golden Emmys. Seven in total, which was the number that Rebecca had won.

As the show drew to a close, with minutes left to go, we turned off the lights. In the darkened silence, we could hear their voices as they walked upstairs—Rebecca complaining to Eliza about how third-rate the guest was in that last segment. When they reached the top of the stairs, Rebecca said, “Oh, good God.”

She looked genuinely stunned when the lights came on and everyone yelled “SURPRISE!” Rebecca wheeled around toward Eliza, who was laughing. Rebecca was laughing, too, as she whacked Eliza on the arm.

Later, Ginny clinked a fork against her glass. It was objectively strange that Ginny was the one giving the toast when Eliza was Rebecca’s best friend, her partner, the only one who could skewer her with affection. But this party was also an exercise in appearances, a way for KCN to show how much it valued its prime-time star. Ginny was the boss, which meant she took the credit. So she spoke platitudes about what an honor it was to work with Rebecca, how she was an inspiration to us all.

After Ginny’s toast, Rebecca lifted her glass. “I have to take a moment and thank all of you,” she said. “And there’s no teleprompter in sight, so forgive me as I wing this.”