Page 41 of A Love Song for Ricki Wilde

“Anything you need to say, you can say it in front of Bruce,” announced Tuesday.

“Pleasure’s mine, Bruce.” Ezra offered his hand, and Bruce shook it with gusto.

“I apologize on behalf of my lady,” Bruce responded sheepishly.

“Nah, you good, fella,” he said amiably. “Well, I best skedaddle. Y’all have a good night, now.”

Ezra glanced once in Ricki’s direction. Something torrid flashed in his eyes, and then he headed for the door. She watched him through the window, unable to resist, as this enigma disappeared around the corner to God knew where. For someone who wasn’t scared of the things she didn’t understand, Ricki was shaken.

Bruce was also watching Ezra, brow furrowed. “Did he just say ‘skedaddle’?”

“There’s something off about that kid,” said Tuesday. “He looks retro. He has the face of a person who’s never ordered Door-Dash or been on Microsoft Teams.”

“Haveyouever been on Microsoft Teams?” asked Ricki. Heart pounding, she was barely following what Tuesday was saying. She was still reeling from the way Ezra seemed to understand the parts of her she was used to hiding. She’d never found that in a man, and she’d never expected to.

“WAIT,” continued Tuesday, swaying a bit. Bruce steadied her elbow. “You told me that Ezra claims he bought the painting because he likes to support young artists. But does he even knowwho painted the portrait? Has he ever mentioned Ali’s name? Even once?”

No, he hadn’t. Ricki tried to remember who had paid her for the portrait. Someone had given her the cash and Ezra’s phone number… Who was it? She sort of remembered a person entering Sweet Colette at the end of the party, but it was blurry, like an image reposted over and over, progressively losing clarity over time.

Ricki couldn’t hold on to the thought.

And days later, she’d forgotten that she’d forgotten there’d ever been a person at all.

CHAPTER 10

NIGHT COMPANY

February 15, 2024

After closing the next day, Ricki went straight upstairs to Ms. Della’s for their weekly tea. She’d missed last week due to Ms. Della’s doctor’s appointment, so they hadn’t had quality alone time in a while. As Ms. Della was her therapist, emotional touchstone, and sole voice of reason, Ricki was sorely missing her.

The elder woman knew everything about everything, and what she didn’t care to learn about, she dismissed as inconsequential. Ricki thought this was an extremely anti-stress way to live. Why let something insignificant occupy space in your brain? The woman was born in 1927. She’d seen almost a century of human nature. She could not be convinced of an air fryer’s value, nor did she care to discern the difference between AOC, RBG, TMI, and an IUD. Which was fine. She had a beautiful home, mental clarity, and the energy (and muscle tone) of women half her age. What else was there?

Ricki needed to inject some of this no-nonsense practicality into her veins.

Wilde Things was revving up, slowly but surely. The day afterValentine’s Day was notoriously brutal on florists, candy shops, and department stores, but after Ricki’s stunning arrangements at the wedding, she’d clocked five orders—expensive ones. Even still, she had in-store bouquets that she couldn’t sell, which she was learning was a sad reality of floral retail. Per her new tradition, Ricki laid her bouquets at Old Harlem addresses and kept it moving. She left a bouquet at 224 West 135th Street, the original 1909 offices of the NAACP, which were now a beauty salon, then another at 2227 Adam Clayton Powell Jr. Boulevard, formerly Lafayette Theatre, once showcasing world-famous vaudeville acts, now under construction for condos.

Each new flower post, brilliantly art-directed at a long-dead landmark, was garnering her a thousand more likes than the one before. They weren’t simply flower shots; they were odes to slices of Black history. The posts were starting to get reposted on every social platform. Selling the flowers would’ve been ideal, of course, but Ricki told herself that the social media marketing was invaluable.

And as her following steadily grew, she pushed herself more and more, designing until her eyes crossed.

A part of her hoped that the harder she worked, the more distance she’d place between herself and the gnawing ache to solve the mystery of Ezra. To know him. It was a sickness with a cure teasingly, maddeningly out of reach. She hated getting this worked up over a man who wasn’t even her man. But there was no denying it. She had it bad.

“Ooh, you’ve got it bad,” announced Ms. Della, confirming Ricki’s suspicions.

“I know,” she sighed, sinking into her favorite armchair. She took a sip of chamomile tea from Ms. Della’s elegant Wedgwood cup. “And I don’t even know him. All I know is he’s intense, mysterious, and… really kind.”

“Look at you! Grinning like a possum.”

“He has beautiful manners, a true old-school gentleman. And Ms. Della, he’sfine.” Her eyes went hazy a little, then she frowned. “Maybe I’m just ovulating.” She paused. “But even though we’ve only spoken in-depth twice, each time it’s like three conversations in one. I’ve never revealed so much to a man so quickly. You know when you’re up late at night, reading, and the lines between reality and the book get fuzzy, time becomes elastic, and you fade into the story?”

“Lord, chile. What books are you reading?”

“That’s what it feels like, talking to him. Like a hazy, heightened experience. And afterwards, my head is spinning. I can’t figure any of it out.”

“Maybe he’s not someone to figure out. He’s someone toexperience.” Ms. Della winked. Her pink hair color had been a brilliant decision. The woman looked fantastic, except that she really did seem to be trembling more than usual. She raised her hands to adjust the shoulders of her caftan, and her hands shook so much, the movement sent ripples down the fabric.

“Are you feeling all right, Ms. Della? Do you want a straw, maybe?”

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