by Tatum West
“We just got here,” I remind him. “There’s a whole menu of good things to sample first.”
Because Ocracoke doesn’t see many actual celebrities, and even fewer this time of year, the chef decided to pull out all the stops for our visit. After the oysters, we are treated to a roasted red pepper and blue crab bisque served with authentic oyster crackers and hot sauce on the side (to taste). It’s lusciously silky and loaded with chunks of sweet, pristine white claw meat seasoned with just enough fire to leave an impression. After the bisque, we’re blessed with three different entrees to sample. The first is fresh caught Mahi-Mahi wrapped in prosciutto, served over a bed of delicately sautéed spinach, tomatoes, mushrooms, and goat cheese, draped with a rich glaze of lemon and butter. The next is a plate of the plumpest, most succulent sea scallops imaginable, over red and yellow pepper coulis, with creamy risotto and steamed asparagus spears. The last entrée is possibly my favorite, and the one that recalls me to my childhood out here on these banks. It’s the southern coastal staple of shrimp and grits, seasoned with smoked bacon, hothouse tomatoes, sautéed scallions and mushrooms over a twice-cooked bed of creamy, cheesy, crispy grits. Finally, we’re treated to several a la carte menu items: roasted potatoes, green beans with pan-seared tomatoes, and steaming hot hush puppies. It’s more food than we can possibly eat in one sitting, a point Nikki makes to our server with emphasis.
The young man, dressed in a sharply pressed white shirt, black slacks, and a starched white apron, just smiles knowingly. “Chef is well-aware,” he says. “He’s already preparing your take-away boxes with desserts and extra sides. Since it’s inconvenient for you to get out often, he wants to make sure you eat well while you’re on the island.”
Can’t argue with that.
“Okay,” Nikki concedes, gesturing at our bounty. “Tell the chef to make up another batch just like this, with extra desserts. We need to feed the security guys and they can probably eat this much, and then some. I don’t want to give them leftovers.”
The young man breaks out into a huge grin. “Absolutely sir,” he beams. “I’ll get that order to the kitchen right away.”
Nikki sets aside his picayune habits for the evening, sampling everything with enthusiasm.
“I’ve never tasted anything like this,” he says of the shrimp and grits, his eyes rolling back in his head dramatically. “I’ve had shrimp and I’ve had grits, but this is other-worldly.”
He gushes over the scallops and the elaborate Mahi-Mahi concoction as well, while consuming an extra helping of the crispy, garlicky, buttery green beans.
“It’s good to see you eat a full meal,” I tell him. “It makes me happy to see you happy like this.”
He smiles, popping another green bean in his mouth. “This is good, healthy, fresh food,” he says. “It’s a little rich, but it’s not toxic calories like the shit I was surrounded with back home. Sal and Derek and the rest of the crew were always eating pizza and burgers, or crappy fried food with lots of carbs. I just got used to abstaining.”
“You didn’t have to eat like that,” I say. “Why not just hire a housekeeper or a chef if you couldn’t do it yourself?”
Nikki smiles awkwardly. “It never occurred to me,” he admits, forking a scallop. “A lot of things never occurred to me. I think what happened is fame came out of nowhere – so fast – that I got overwhelmed and stopped thinking things through. I let Sal make all the decisions, and he decided to keep me under wraps. I didn’t have much access to the world. I worked, constantly; I’ve been working so hard, for so long, I forgot what it’s like to live.”
I nod, sighing. “That’s not an unusual thing,” I tell him. “It happens to a lot of people in your situation. Celebrities can be some of the most isolated, loneliest people in the world”
He shrugs again. “I need to figure out a lot of stuff.”
“Like what?” I ask, putting down my fork, listening to him with all my attention.
Nikki blinks, wary of my question.
“I don’t know,” he says. “Maybe like if I really want to be famous or in this business at all? If I want to l stay in LA?”
This is an interesting turn.
“What would you do if you weren’t a recording artist?” I ask, curious.
“Maybe something behind the scenes. I can write hit songs. I’ve proven that. I’m a good producer. I’ve got tons of stage and screen experience from back home, plus the soundtrack work I’m doing now.”
As interesting as the idea of Nikki not being a pop star is to me, he’s always going to have some level of celebrity as long as he’s in LA, and it would be tough for him to be a working producer or writer if he lived elsewhere. Plus, I don’t want him living any farther away than across the spread of my king-sized bed. I want him right next to me.
“All this is speculative,” Nikki says, brushing off the subject. “Asylum is trying to get me to re-up my contract and I’ve been dragging my feet. Plus, I have the show with Netflix, so I’m solidly booked as ‘Nikki Rippon, celebrity’, for the foreseeable future.”
All that’s very true. Still, there are ways to calm his life down, claiming space for his sanity.
“We’ll think on it,” I say, reaching across the table, taking his hand in mine. “We’ll figure out how to get a handle on things, how to bring some sanity and balance back to your world. It may start with something as simple as getting you a good housekeeper who can cook.”
Nikki listens, but I can tell by his doubtful expression he doesn’t see his life improving anytime soon. I hope he’ll let me help him find a better way forward. We’re just starting this thing, and I don’t want to scare him off with my ideas for his future – our future – but I have a lot of ideas on how to make things much better in his world, and in my own.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
NIKKI
If I had a dollar for every good thing I got a taste for that was cut way too short, I’d be a millionaire on that money alone.
As it stands, I’m still a millionaire, but that doesn’t mean I’m not keenly aware of all the things my money can’t buy, beginning with a relaxing, drama-free vacation at my boyfriend’s home in Ocracoke.
The Paparazzi were fooled when we pulled the decoy deception at the restaurant . This morning, when we loaded up the SUVs to go to the airport, they fell for it again. They didn’t follow us. Instead, they followed the short-term security detail James brought in as back up. They followed them all the way to the ferry, got on with them, departed Ocracoke with them, expecting to see me pop out any minute. They were badly disappointed when all they got was a bunch of tough guys dressed in Under-Armor and 511 tactical pants.
We flew back to LA. I was not happy Fox was heading to his place by himself, but he’d been stuck with me and my drama for days. I know he must need a break, no matter what he said.
James and the guys came home with me, all of us settling back in to our routines.
I’ve been thinking a lot about what Fox and I discussed at the Marina restaurant at Ocracoke. The one thing I’m painfully aware of is I’m a working entertainer without professional management. My former manager is about to be indicted for embezzlement, along with a list of other offenses against me and the IRS.
Fox had a few suggestions for management, but after everything I’ve been through, I just can’t see trusting a stranger with that much responsibility, not to mention all the money that passes through ‘Nikki Rippon, Inc.’ Mom took the lead in digging deep into my finances and Sal’s. At this point, I doubt anyone else has a clearer picture of my income, expenses, and obligations. My father has reviewed every contract I’ve signed since I got to LA. He knows who I’m obligated to better than I do.
My folks are in their late fifties, both still working full-time with plenty of clients of their own to tend to. I’m not sure how well the offer I’m about to make is going to be received, but I need to try before I go to a stranger and subject myself to more angst than is necessary. I call Da
d’s cell, hoping Mom is nearby. When he answers, I’m not disappointed; I can hear Mom murmuring in the background..
I give them the highlights of my few days at Ocracoke, including too many details about my outfits and the food. Dad appreciates the descriptions of the food, and Mom always loves to hear about my adventurous wardrobe. She makes me promise to wear the blue silk suit when I come for any holiday. It’s been a long time since I’ve shown up for any such celebration, but this year’s going to be different.
After we get past those trivialities, I tell them why I’ve called. I begin with the meeting with Sal in just two days, and end with my hope they’ll drop everything and agree to step in as my management team. At least, temporarily.
“Of course, we will!” my father says without a second of hesitation. “I’ve got all your contracts backed up to my cloud. I’ll review everything and get up to speed on the flight to LA.”
“I’ve already put together an accounting of your actual business income and expenses as a comparison to the records Domenico kept. We’ll start with that to get your finances in order,” Mom says. “Nikki, did you know you have the top selling single in the world right now? And you’ve had five number-one singles this year? You’re on track to be the highest paid recording artist of the year.”
My heart flutters. No. I had no idea.
“That’s great,” I say, a bit taken aback. “What does that mean for my finances?”
Mom laughs a little. “It means you need to invest in something expensive to avoid paying too much in taxes. When we get out there, we’ll talk about that.”
We talk a while longer; my parents assure me everything will get better, and they’ll be right by my side when we meet with Sal. Despite their reassurances, I still feel untethered and very much alone after days spent holding hands, laughing, and sleeping with Fox. He’s the brightest light to come into my life since my first Grammy. He may be even brighter.
I type out a text as quickly as my thumbs will move over the tiny, digital keyboard. “I miss you already.”
Fox responds a moment later. “I miss you too. Did you call your folks?”
On the plane home, Fox had said he thought it was a great idea, not just for the practical aspects. He knows that they are a fount of moral support for me.
“Yeah. They’re flying out in the morning. Booked their flight while we were on the phone.”
“Perfect,” Fox texts back. “I’m looking forward to meeting them.”
A moment later my phone rings; it’s Fox. I pick up quickly, anxious for the sound of his voice.
“Hey,” I say. “I thought we were texting.”
“We were,” he says. “But I wanted to talk.”
“Okay.”
“You know how I feel about you,” Fox says. “I hope you do.”
Do I?
“I guess,” I say. “Yeah.”
“I think you’re incredible,” Fox says. “I love being with you. You take my breath away. You make me laugh, and you constantly surprise me.”
Really?
“You too,” I tell him, feeling like a silly kid who doesn’t have words for everything I feel. Tears build behind my eyes, threatening to spill out. I’ve never had someone care about me like this before, and in the years I’ve been in Cali, I never sought it out. I’ve been so alone--and it’s gloriously strange to feel so connected to someone.
“But let’s not tell your parents about us just yet,” he says, and I feel my heart sink to my gut. “Let them at least meet me and get to know me a little first. Let’s feel them out. Okay?”
“My folks are great,” I respond, defensively. “They’ve always been supportive of me and my decisions.”
“I know,” Fox says. “But they’re coming here because you’re in some trouble with people you trusted who you shouldn’t have. They’re going to be on alert for more of the same.”
“But you’re not like that,” I say. “You’re the one who…”
“I’m almost twenty years older than you, Nikki,” he interrupts. “It won’t look good to them. If I was in their situation, it wouldn’t look good to me.”
“But they know we went to Ocracoke together,” I say.
“And that can just be explained away by saying you needed to get out of town and I had a way. Unless you’ve already told them about us?”
“I haven’t,” I say. “I was going to when they got here.”
“Let’s just play it by ear?” Fox asks, nearly pleading. “I want them to know me at least a little before they start forming opinions about me. I don’t want them to hate me before they see who I am.”
He doesn’t know my parents. They’re not that kind of people.
“Okay,” I agree. “But before they leave to go back home, we’re going to tell them. Mom asked me to come home for Easter, for the big holiday parade. I haven’t been in a few years. I want you to come with me.”
Fox doesn’t respond right away. When he does, his response breaks my heart.
“They may not want me, baby,” he says. “It’s one thing to accept you, because you’re theirs, and adorable, and fabulous, but I’m just me. They’ve got no reason to want me at their table, or in their town. Let’s just see how things go.”
“It’s the biggest springtime celebration you’ll ever see in your life. I swear, things are changing there… It’s vibrant and beautiful and crazy—”
“I’ll just bet it is. And if we’re there, it might be the gayest Easter the town has ever seen.”
I laugh. “Might be. Maybe they need a few extra gays sprinkled into things. I think every small town in America does.”
“They just might. But let’s reevaluate in a little while.”
I keep my mouth shut after that—I’m not one to push the issue. But everything about Fox makes me want to share my life with him, the real part. The part before this insanity took over my life.
After Fox and I are off the phone, I realize I’ve told him a lot about my life: growing up in Abingdon and my early start as an amateur performer at school and in the local theater. He knows about Gil, Zane, and Dillon, and all my other friends from home. He knows about the school I went to, and the years I spent on stage and behind the scenes at the Barter Theater. About working with big name actors doing summer stock in the outback of our little town. Abingdon: whose only claim to fame was an incredible theater and supportive community.
I know almost nothing about Fox’s upbringing. His parents are gone, I know that, but I know nothing about them. I saw a photograph of his mom at the house at Ocracoke, and I commented on it, but Fox had nothing to say. At the time I didn’t think anything of it, but now--
There’s a story there that I missed because I was so preoccupied with my own drama. It’s becoming clear to me based on Fox’s spoken and unspoken concerns about my parents, that he has family issues he hasn’t disclosed.
Whatever his concerns are, I need to take them seriously. Not everybody is blessed with the open-minded, supportive family I’ve been blessed with. That’s a damn shame, because without my folks, I couldn’t have accomplished a fraction of what I’ve done, and I’ve done a lot.
FOX’S LAW firm offices on Wilshire are swanky. The walls are frosted glass, with lights brightening and dimming as we move down the corridors; doors slide open silently as we approach them. With my parents flanking me—and James and Troy: Sal Domenico waiting down the hall—I feel safe, despite the unfamiliarity of the space and who I’ve come to see
“Can I get you anything?” an administrative assistant, who looks like a runway model, asks. “Sparkling water? A soft drink?”
I ask for a Pellegrino. She disappears to fulfill my request, but not before informing us, “Mr. Jackson and Mr. Lee will be here in just a moment.”
True to her word, Stephan appears, looking every bit the high-powered LA lawyer in his two-thousand-dollar suit with an open shirt and no tie. His hair is perfectly coiffed.
He shakes hands with my parents, smi
ling.
“This should be an interesting meeting,” he remarks. “I’m interested to see what Mr. Domenico has to say.”
As are we all.
It occurs to me in that instant I don’t know quite what to think about Stephan Jackson. He lacks something Fox possesses; authenticity. Stephan reminds me of a thousand people I’ve met in my time in LA. He’s plastic, malleable; being – he believes – just what he needs to be in the moment. That’s not quite what I need. I need someone real.
My parents spot the failing immediately. They settle in at the conference room table, looking across at him as if he’s an alien, unsure whether he’s friend or foe.
“My partner, Fox Lee, is on his way,” Stephan says, unawares, shuffling papers in front of him while a few assistants gather at his flanks. “He’s observing and consulting.”
My parents’ glance at me with question. They know I started with Fox, not Stephan.
It’s going to be hard to honor Fox’s request. They already suspect something’s up.
A moment later Fox appears, looking like the answer to everyone’s question. He’s dressed in a dapper, dark suit with a crisp, pale blue shirt, and a silk tie knotted perfectly at his throat. He introduces himself, giving my mother special attention, thanking her for all her efforts relating to the forensic investigation.
“I had my doubts when Nikki suggested you,” he admits. “But you have more than proven your own worth. You provided us with mountains of evidence that are going to go a long way once this thing gets to court.”
Mom smiles, taking her compliments with grace. My father—on the other hand—takes Fox’s measure. He studies him, trying to discern his motivations.
I wish Sal would just show up so we could all be on the same side. I don’t have long to wait.
The same leggy administrative assistant appears, this time with Sal trailing behind. He saunters in confidently, not even attempting to conceal the fact that he’s checking out her ass. He looks around the room, his eyes finally settling on me.
“So, this is what it’s come to, Nikki? You need an army of lawyers—and your mom and dad —to face me?” he asks, his tone dripping with condescension.
