Page 4 of Poison Wood
“I’ve told you how many times? I’m fine.”
“My mom used to sayfinestood for ‘fucked up, insecure, neurotic, and emotional.’”
“Ha ha,” I say.
“You haven’t slowed down a day.” He pauses. “You almost died.”
“What do you think about a possible Emmy nomination in July?” I say, diverting us to a safer topic.
“A few at the party last night even mentioned an Oscar nod next year.”
“I don’t want an Oscar,” I say. “Even Pete Major has one of those.” I sit back against my barstool. “I’m thinking bigger.”
“Yeah, I know,” Carl says.
And he does know me, but he doesn’t know what’s been rattling around in my mind since hearing from Laura Sanders. The memories, the articles, the mementos I packed into a suitcase and tucked away in my childhood bedroom at my father’s house. Articles about a missing girl named Heather Hadwick. Ones I’d cut out when I was in J-school, learning how to be a journalist. Articles about a man sent to Angola despite his recanted confession and a plea from his sister for leniency. A sour taste fills my mouth. As much as I’d love to keep all of it packed away, at the same time, I don’t want some other journalist coming in and unpacking it.
With chaos comes opportunity ... if you’re brave enough.
“Rita?” Carl says.
“I want a Pulitzer,” I say.
Carl chokes. “Jesus, Rita. What happened to wanting the George Polk?”
I bite my bottom lip, then say, “The Polk is mashed potatoes. I want the fucking steak.”
Carl clears his throat, and I can picture him doing his signature eye roll. The one I’ve seen dozens of times. “Have you ever heard the phrase ‘Careful what you wish for’?”
I look down the ivory bar and make eye contact with the bartender. “Nope, never heard that one,” I say to Carl. “I’ll let you know how it goes tomorrow.”
I end the call and swig my scotch as a headache blooms behind my eyes. I reach for my tote, pull out my migraine prescription, and shake out the last pill. I look at the label: no refills. I’ve stretched this one out for six months. I knock back the pill with my remaining drink.
I tell myself I haven’t lied, to Dom or to Carl. I’m just waiting to tell them everything. Laura Sanders could turn out to be a crackpot. This whole thing could be a waste of time. But the fine hairs on the back of my neck say otherwise.
The bartender makes her way back to me. “Anything else?”
Her smile is effortless and tells me she hasn’t been at this job long. Her long hair is as dark black as her top and pants, and I don’t see any indication on her young face that she’s jaded. Maybe she’s just a good actress.
“Actually there is,” I say. “Ever heard of Marshall Sanders?”
I’d done a deep dive on Laura’s husband. He is a prominent analyst at a private equity called Grey Wolf Capital. He has a splashy social media presence, unlike his wife.
“Of course, everyone around here knows him.”
She studies me, but so far she hasn’t recognized me. Not surprised. I’m not wearing makeup, and I’m in jeans. Without my war paint and expensive clothes, I look like any other woman sitting at a bar. Although, considering this clientele, maybe I should have opted for the expensive pantsuit.
I debate about my next question but decide it’s safe.
“What about his wife, Laura?”
“What about her?” She wipes the bar in front of me and seems unfazed by the question. Good.
“I follow her charity work, and I’ve tried to reach out to her about an auction I’m hosting, but it’s hard because she’s not on social media.” I take a chance and add, “I saw on his social that they were here recently, so I took a chance and thought I’d run into her here.”
“Yeah, she’s not really the bar type. When they’re here, it’s usually to eat or meet up with friends at the pool. They have a standing cabana available. All the VIPs do.”
“Oh well, guess I should have gone to the pool,” I say, then take a sip and smile.
