Page 20 of A Love Song for Ricki Wilde

And then Ricki launched into a breathless recount of everything that had transpired at the Sweet Colette party after Della left. To be honest, the tale was a bit hard for Della to follow. Which part had sent Ricki into such a tizzy?

“So, a woman bought Ali’s painting for an exorbitant amount of money,” she repeated carefully. “That’s a blessing. Why so much carrying on?”

“Because the entire encounter was so mysterious. Why did she seem like she knew me? Who’s her boss? I feel like I’m in a ’90s psychological thriller.”

Della tsked at this. “Sounds like you’re looking for trouble. Unexpected money is a gift, looks like to me. Not everything needs investigating.”

Leaning forward in her seat, Ricki responded, “But weird, surreal things have been happening to me lately.”

Weird, surreal things happen all the time, thought Della.

In the months since Dr. Bennett’s passing, she’d been dreaming about family she hadn’t seen in years and friends she’d known a lifetime ago, as a child. Sometimes, in the vague, neither-here-nor-there moments before waking up, she’d imagine seeing her favorite playmate, Jean-Marie, sitting on her bedroom floor in pigtails and a pinafore, with a bandage on her scraped knee, as clear as if it were 1931. No doubt, it was her brain’s meditation on loss, a way to still the current of sadness that had run under her surface ever since losing her husband. It was lovely in the moment, but when she fully awoke, all she felt was emptiness. As sweet as the subconscious reunions were, the one person she’d give anything to see was her Dr. Bennett, but he was never there.

She started to tell Ricki all of this but decided against it. Della was an orderly woman. Everything in her world had a place. Hertea set stayed on the bottom right shelf of her china closet, and her private thoughts stayed in her head. Plus, that girl was fantastical enough as it was. No need to exacerbate her condition with more outlandish tales.

“Speaking of Ali,” Della said, smoothly changing the subject. “Thank heaven you finally broke up with him.”

“Ali might bethemost incoherent person I’ve ever met. What was I thinking?”

“No telling. His corn bread isn’t done in the middle, I know that much.”

“Ha!” Ricki guffawed. But then, slowly, she sank into preoccupation, her brow stormy with concentration. “I just can’t let last night go. It’s funny—before I left Atlanta, my dad said something that stuck with me. He said that I let things happen to me. That I end up in crazy scenarios that I need to be rescued from.” She shook her head. “No. I’m not going to passively accept these odd encounters. I’m going to figure this out, myself.”

Della set her teacup back in its saucer, attempting to steady her trembling hands. “You idolize your daddy, don’t you?”

“No, he’s horrible,” said Ricki, too quickly. “Well, no. I sort of look up to him. Everybody does. I don’t know—I’ve always felt connected to him in an inexplicable way. He’s tough and definitely not… a big talker? But sometimes we share a look, a silent acknowledgment when something absurd or funny happens. He’s not like that with anyone else. Sometimes I feel like he’s on my side. More than my sisters and mom, at least. Who knows? In a different life, or maybe if I wasn’t his daughter, he’d believe in me.”

“Ah. So that’s what you’re doing here, with Wilde Things. You’re creating a different life. So he can see your worth.”

Speechless, Ricki stared at her for a few beats, her always-expressive eyes widened to comical proportions.

I’m so good at this, thought Della.I was born at the wrong time. If I were a modern woman, I’d be a brilliant psychologist. Maybe I’d write a few self-help books. I’ve been told I have the eyewear of an intellectual.

“Listen here,” Della continued, on fire. “You uprooted your whole life. You’re starting over in a new city. You opened the prettiest flower shop I ever did see, and built most of it with your own bare hands. Are these not big risks? Your father seems like an impressive man, but I disagree with him. You arenota woman who lets things happen to her.”

Ricki sat there, seemingly stunned by this information. Della wondered if she’d ever had anyone build her up before. Underneath the twenty-eight-year-old woman, she saw a neglected kid. And Della knew what that looked like. She’d never known her parents, and she was raised by her Reconstruction-era grandma. The daughter of formerly enslaved people, Nana was a rigid, strict woman who worshipped God, cleanliness, and silence. For safety’s sake, kids were to be seen, not heard—though on second thought, they weren’t even meant to be seen. For little-girl Della, Nana’s approval was somewhere beyond a dangerous curve in the road: a route too tricky to navigate.

She wished she could tell her newfound granddaughter that the smartest thing she could do for herself was set her own standards for living. Her father be damned. But Ricki would have to learn that lesson on her own.

“Enough about me,” exhaled Ricki, waving a hand in the air, as if to wipe the conversation away. “How are you doing? I haven’t even asked you how you’ve been coping lately. Is your therapist helping you manage your grief?”

With a resigned sigh, Della slipped her hand into the pocket of her pajama pants, whipped out the TV remote, and turned it off. She swiveled to face Ricki. “I dozed off during our last call.”

“No! Tell me you didn’t.”

“I absolutely did. I might be in Jane Fonda’s shape, but I’m old, after all. Jane could probably tell you that the older you get, the harder it is to stay awake when you’re bored.” Della shrugged. Actually, she was starting to feel a bit drowsy right now. “Besides. How’s a stranger going to tell me how to grieve for my Bennett, my love that she never even met? You can’t cheat grief, Ricki. You have to work with it. Accommodate it.”

Her eyes went misty, and a shadow of a smile lit up her face. “You know, Dr. Bennett was one of the first Black neurologists in the country. He used to go to medical conferences all over the world. He knew I loved silk pajamas, and he’d buy me a pair wherever he went. I’ll have to show you the snake-print ones he got me from Hong Kong; they’re terribly eccentric. Right up your alley.” She sipped her tea. This was a compliment. “I tell you, I’d known him since I was sixteen, and it never occurred to me that one day, one of us would go. And the other would be alone. We were peas in a pod.”

“The kind of love that makes you ignore inevitability, right?” Ricki went and sat next to her, holding her hand. “It sounds so rare, outside of movies or books. I’ve definitely never seen it. My parents act more like coworkers than lovers. The happiest I ever saw my mom was when she was seeing that energy healer.”

Della scoffed. “That foolishness works?”

“No, I mean she wasseeingan energy healer, as in sleeping with him. He worked out of a mall kiosk at Phipps Plaza.”

“Well, I’llbe.”

“When Dad found out, he ran him out of town. Mom’s been drunk ever since.” Ricki sighed and fluffed her hair. “Anyway. You and Dr. Bennett sound like a dream.”

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