Silver Fox (Bridge to Abingdon Book 4)

by Tatum West

  …and most of the time I hate it.

  By the time the roasted, crispy duck arrives, I’m contemplating all the ways my life has gone wrong. Aside from Fox – which was pure happenstance – I’ve made no genuine friends in LA. This town is about contacts, not friends. I have plenty of contacts; people who will help me if there’s something in it for them. I can’t leave my house without being descended upon by paparazzi. I second guess every new person I meet, wondering if they’re going to screw me over in some new, creative way.

  Even the idea that a place like the Soho House exists as a refuge is evidence that what I do – what all of us do for a living –is a form of self-imposed imprisonment.

  I glance across the dining room at Jodie Foster with her kids. She’s lived inside this bubble her entire life. The paparazzi and the stalkers are like family to her; part of who she is. She doesn’t know anything different. But I do.

  I’m scheduled to appear on the Ellen show tomorrow morning, and The View in the afternoon. I’m on SNL Saturday night, and doing a lengthy interview with E! on Monday. After that, I’ve got nothing—a few appearances here and there, nothing I can’t cancel.

  “Let’s go to Abingdon early,” I offer. “We can fly out Monday night and stay as long as you want. I don’t have anywhere to be until late January.”

  Fox’s head cocks slightly sideways. “You’d do that?” he asks. “What about your folks?”

  I smile. “My folks will be thrilled,” I assure him. “They’ll give us the attic room. It can be chilly up there, but there’s some privacy. You won’t have to sleep in my bedroom, complete with Justin Bieber posters and a wall of talent show awards collected since sixth grade.”

  Fox smiles. “I’d like to see those awards.”

  “Mom will show you. No way out of it. She shows everyone.”

  I try to imagine what it will be like having Fox in Abingdon, traveling with me in that world. There’s no Soho House or Rodeo Drive. Our version of Wilshire Boulevard is the stretch of Main Street between the Jackson Academy and the Martha Washington Inn. The best restaurant in town was opened in seventeen-eighty-something and the menu hasn’t changed much since.

  “If relaxation and clearing your head is what you need,” I say, “Abingdon’s the place to do it. It’s boring. There’s nothing at all going on. A few weeks spent there, and you’ll be good as new, and dying to come back to civilization.”

  “WE’RE ALL DONE,” the reporter for E! says, turning off her audio recorder. “We got some great video earlier. We’ll mash it all up into a fantastic edit, promise.”

  I don’t doubt it for a minute, mostly because my publicist will make sure of it.

  “Off the record, can I ask you a few questions?”

  Huh?

  She nods toward Fox who’s hanging in the shadows, waiting for me to finish.

  “Is it true you and Fox Lee are an item?” she asks. “He’s taken a leave of absence from his firm. Does that have anything to do with the shooting of your former security…”

  “As you said, I’m done,” I tell her, sliding the mic off my collar, laying it on the cloth seat of the chair I’ve patiently occupied for the better part of an hour.

  “But…”

  “No buts,” I tell her. “I’m here to talk about my record, not my personal life, and certainly not the criminal activities of former employees; I’m done.”

  This interview is my last obligation. Our bags are packed and Fox and I are bound for LAX to board a charter that’ll take us as far away from LA as we can get, both literally and figuratively.

  I haven’t been home in several years. I can’t imagine much has changed; nothing ever does. That said, I’m looking forward to it. Fox is excited too. He’s already planning hikes and day-trips for us.

  He’s excited to see the redbuds and dogwoods in bloom, to walk through the mountains with the world waking up green and new and beautiful. I explained the hazards of pollen to him, but people who live in Southern California don’t know its evils, even if they did spend summers on the East Coast. I might have to buy a gas mask just to return.

  Fox even asked me if it snows when it’s winter. It might not be such a bad idea to go back there when the season rolls around again. I could afford a house there with all the assets he’s freed up. It might not be such a bad idea…

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  FOX

  M ain Street is lined with blooming cherry blossoms and crepe myrtles just beginning to show their buds. Every shop has bright flowers out front and spring wreaths on every door and window. Giant purple and green bows are tied around the bases of street lamps and mail boxes. Spring has taken over in the mountains of Virginia. California has plenty of paradise to go around, but the life in bloom here is another thing entirely.

  “That’s where I went to school,” Nikki says, pointing to a collection of large old buildings on a hill about a quarter mile away. The ancient structures are imposing and stately, looming over Abingdon with a grandness the rest of the town can’t match. “That’s where it all began.”

  “Oh, and I can’t wait to take you there!” he cries as we pass a shabby, squat little brick building piled on top of a slab of broken concrete. The sign by the road advertises Chick-N-Little Family Restaurant, with Homestyle Cooking.

  Rugged grass grows between the cracks in the concrete parking lot.

  “The best French toast on the planet!” he assures me, eyes laughing. “And the most popular cheeseburger in three counties.”

  “I’ll take your word for it,” I say, watching the little town roll past my window.

  It’s a beautiful day, clear with stunning blue skies, and a sweet breeze rolling across the land. When we got off the plane, I was stunned by the feeling of it. The air here smells different; clean with a slight perfume of pine.

  Like Ocracoke—the only other place I’ve been that no one’s ever heard of—Abingdon appears to be a minor tourist destination. The main drag has a few art galleries and antique shops, some restaurants, and boutiques. There’s a nice inn, a few lesser motels, and a bunch of fast food places. There seems to be a church on every other block.

  “Turn left here,” Nikki instructs James, who’s driving us. Troy follows behind in another vehicle.

  Nikki wanted to leave the security detail at home, insisting he didn’t need them here. I wasn’t having it. Even though Sal and Derek are cooling their heels in the LA County lock-up, I’m not convinced he doesn’t still need protection. He’s got the hottest album in the country right now. He’s on heavy rotation on every pop radio station in the western hemisphere. His face is plastered across the covers of Rolling Stone, People, Entertainment Weekly, GQ, and Out magazines. His social media mentions have exploded. All of that is great, except there are still some crazies out there who want to be more than just his biggest fans.

  Nikki directs James down a tree lined residential street. The neighborhood is an explosion of green and blooming flowers.

  “That one right there,” he says, nudging James toward a blacktop driveway terminating at a massive, two-car attached garage. The house is nondescript, painted beige with barn-red shutters. A line of tightly clipped boxwoods sit squat along the foundation line in front. The small porch boasts a swing and a chair, without much room to walk around either.

  The whole scene is dead-stiff with conventionality. It’s so far from what I imagined Nikki’s childhood home might be like (A castle on a hill? A gingerbread house? A mansion like Tara in Gone with the Wind?), I can’t quite reconcile how this place produced him.

  “Not exactly Beverly Hills,” Nikki quips, squeezing my hand. “But Mom’s cooking is worth coming home for.”

  Finally, food Nikki looks forward to consuming! I look forward to a culinary lesson or two. I’m determined to make him comfortable with eating.

  “You guys are off duty,” Nikki says to James. “Have a blast. Don’t eat at the Taco Bell or the Tastee-Freeze. They’re both toxic.”


  “Thanks for the advice. I think we’ll go to that chicken place later,” James chuckles, glancing at me. He knows they’re not actually off duty. He’s just humoring Nikki.

  James and Troy are staying down the street at the Martha Washington Inn. This was a concession I made to Nikki to get him to agree to bringing them along. They’re just a few minutes away but not under foot. Nikki doesn’t want his parents to think he still needs twenty-four-seven protection. I suspect they know better. He was willing to let them come if James was the leading member of the team. And James didn’t object. He adores Nikki like a brother, and I find myself not even a bit jealous of their friendship. I’m not sure James likes me all that much, but I think I’m slowly gaining his approval.

  The front door of the house opens and Nikki’s parents rush out, all smiles.

  “You’re right on time!” Mrs. Rippon says, wrapping Nikki in a bear hug. “Oh sweetheart! I saw you on Saturday Night Live. You were brilliant!”

  Mr. Rippon grabs two of Nikki’s bags, while James helps me with the rest. We exchange pleasantries as we get inside, closing the door against cool air. James nods in my direction, lifting his hand in the universal symbol for telephone.

  “Call if you need us,” he says. “I’ll check in periodically.”

  He hands me the car keys and backs out the door, leaving me standing in the foyer surrounded by beige walls and carpets, neatly framed prints of world-famous paintings, and tasteful pottery and knickknacks. I’ve seen places like this on television, but I always thought the set designers were making a statement on the banality of middle class, rural life. I guess not.

  It’s lovely, homey, and comfortable. It’s clean and somehow kind. I can see why Nikki is so proud to call this place home.

  Mrs. Rippon takes our jackets, hanging them in the foyer closet, while her husband disappears up the stairs carrying our bags two at a time.

  “I’m going to help him,” I say to Nikki, grabbing two heavy suitcases, following Mr. Rippon up the steep, narrow steps.

  “We’re putting you two in the attic,” he says with a chuckle. “It’s a little chilly up here because the HVAC has a hard time getting the air circulated, but we installed electric logs which keeps it cozy enough. It should be warm by the weekend. But you know what they say about Virginia—”

  “If you don’t like the weather, wait a few hours,” Nikki says, laughing. He touches my arm. “The first of spring in Virginia doesn’t know if it’s winter or spring or early summer. Sometimes its blazing hot and you’ll get a sunburn if you’re out for more than an hour. And sometimes it’s cold and cozy like this.”

  “I can handle that,” I say, smiling as we climb the stairs.

  ‘The attic’ is a bonus room tucked into the eaves of the roof. By the looks of it, it was finished after the rest of the house. The carpet and paint look a little brighter. The king-sized bed and furnishings are straight out of a big-box showroom, right down to the pseudo-artsy pedestals holding up massive, pillar-style candles that have never been lit. The only art on the wide expanse of eggshell colored walls are small, tasteful illustrations of flowers.

  “It’s nice,” I say, looking about.

  “It’s not Beverly Hills,” Mr. Rippon says. “Nikki’s tried to get us to sell this place and upgrade forever, but we’re fond of it. We’ve been here almost thirty years. It’s paid for. I can’t imagine living anywhere else.”

  Thirty years. That’s a long time.

  He punches me on the arm, grinning wide. “Speaking of houses, just wait ‘til you see what Molly’s gone and done. After dinner we’re going to take a ride and show you.”

  Nikki’s mom makes good on his promise that her cooking is worth coming home for. For a Wharton Business School educated forensic accountant with a stint at the Justice Department, she’s an amazing, old-school, southern cook. Over dinner I learn that Molly Rippon is from a tiny, one-stoplight town in eastern North Carolina where she was raised by many generations of genial southern women.

  “They were fine with the idea that I excelled at math,” Molly jokes. “To them that guaranteed I’d be able to measure ingredients for the perfect biscuit, and never make a mistake when cutting the pattern for a new dress. I mean, they were right. But there was no reason I couldn’t be an accountant and make biscuits when I felt like it.”

  Nikki beams when his mom talks about herself. She rarely does, preferring to quiz everyone else.

  “When I got the scholarship to Duke, my grandmother was thrilled because she knew in her bones I’d land a wealthy husband there!”

  Mr. Rippon laughs. “Thank goodness that plan didn’t work out.”

  Nikki’s folks met in Chicago where they were both in grad school. After she finished her PhD., she went to work at the Justice Department in Washington, D.C.

  “I didn’t have a plan,” Mr. Rippon says, grinning with a gleam in his eye. “I just knew she was the best girl I ever met, and I wasn’t going to let her get away that easy. Lucky for me, it’s not hard for a lawyer to find a job in D.C. It took me three years to convince her to marry me, but eventually I broke her down.”

  Molly Rippon rolls her eyes. “I got him the job in D.C,” she says. “And I said ‘yes’ the first time he asked me. It took him three years to work up the courage!”

  “I wanted to make sure I had enough cash in the bank to buy us a nice place and take you on a decent honeymoon,” he says. “Your mother already thought I was a mountain redneck. I wasn’t about to let her know I was a broke mountain redneck!”

  They get a big laugh out of their recollections, with Nikki just shaking his head, laughing along, downing forkful after forkful of creamy chicken dumplings and seasoned greens. It occurs to me as I listen to this banter that for all the plain banality of their home, there’s an awful lot of love here. I don’t recall ever hearing my parents speak to one another nostalgically of their courtship. My father never complimented my mother. My mother barely spoke except to inform us of something pragmatic, like when the microwave had finished cooking dinner. They were nothing like these two warm, jovial people seated before me.

  “What precipitated coming to Abingdon?” I ask. “Do you have family here?”

  “That was my fault!” Nikki blurts out, laughing. “Mom got knocked up and they didn’t want to raise a kid in the city. In retrospect, they should have stayed!”

  Mr. Rippon nods. “I was born and raised here. My parents were still alive when Nikki came along,” he says. “They helped us a lot when he was young. As much as he complains about growing up here, he loved it – mostly.”

  I can tell.

  “You would never have gotten the opportunities in D.C like you had here,” Molly reminds her son. “From the drama club at Jackson to the crew at the Barter Theater taking you under wing, to the nearly free piano lessons Mrs. Baldwin gave you just because she loved you! And you made so many friends. You were so popular in school!”

  Was he?

  Nikki’s rolls his eyes. “Popular is one word for it,” he states. “Infamous is another.”

  After a dessert of banana pudding that’s perhaps the richest, most sinful delight I’ve ever tasted, Molly Rippon clears the table, announcing, “Go get your jackets. We’re going for a drive. I want to show you a few new things going on around town. Including something you might just be really interested in.”

  “What kinds of things?” Nikki asks.

  She pauses in the doorframe between the kitchen and the dining room, holding dirty plates in both hands.

  “Do you remember I told you that you were going to have a serious tax issue if we didn’t do something to mitigate it?”

  Nikki nods, a question furrowing his pretty brow.

  “I’m mitigating it,” she says bluntly. “You’re a real estate mogul and Abingdon is your empire. Or well, you can be.”

  What?!

  Abingdon, Virginia seems small, so I’m shocked by just how many properties are (or were) for sale in and around the comm
unity. It seems Molly Rippon has determined it’s better to tie up Nikki’s excess cash in derelict commercial buildings and questionable residential properties than it is to pay taxes on it as income. There is some logic behind her decision, but it also might just be completely insane.

  She slowly drives us by one unremarkable ranch house after another, explaining what’s being done to rehab the house or update the kitchen and baths, telling us about how many people are employed on various contracting projects. She names a few people who Nikki recognizes, causing him to nod in approval.

  After an hour of driving from one end of town to the next, I realize this undertaking is as much about reinvesting in the community as it is avoiding a tax liability.

  “Universal Fibers and Mid-Mountain Foods laid off almost two hundred people between them this fall,” Molly says as Nikki’s dad looks out the window, taking in the lights arranged beside one of Nikki’s new acquisitions. “I’ve got one contractor managing all the residential work, and another managing the commercial. They both have instructions to hire local labor, giving preference to people who were recently laid off. It’s not permanent work, but it’ll get some families through the end of the year, at least.”

  The obvious question is, with all these people getting laid off, who is going to move into the residential properties, and who is going to lease the commercial ones? It doesn’t look like Abingdon is exactly hopping.

  “My plan is to Air B&B the houses for the tourist season,” Molly adds without prompting. “We’re renovating the commercial places for mixed use, hoping to lure some of the young people from the community college to move downtown.”

  Molly drives us by more homes, all of them with gardens in full bloom, heading away from town into a subdivision with larger lots and bigger homes..

  “I saved this one for last,” she says, “because I think you’re going to approve. If you don’t, I’ll sell it to someone who does.”