Page 43 of A Love Song for Ricki Wilde

Ricki squeezed her tighter, overcome with emotion. How could she be Ms. Della’s hero, when Ms. Della had lived such a long, extraordinary life? Ricki felt special, chosen. But she also understood that to Ms. Della, a product of her time, Ricki’s independence and ambition must seem like an extraordinary gift.

“You know, dear, I sometimes wonder what mark I will have left on the world when I go. What was my purpose here? I’m not so sure. I should figure that out soon, I reckon. No one ever knows how much time is left.”

Ricki was silent, grasping for something to say. Why was Ms. Della talking like this? Sure, she was closer to death than not, but Ricki had never heard her speak so candidly about the end of her life.

And then Ms. Della coughed, a racking, painful sound, and Ricki drew away to give her space. She coughed again—one, two, three, four times, into her elbow. “I declare! My tea must’ve gone down the wrong pipe.”

Ms. Della hadn’t touched her cup in at least five minutes.

“Back to what I was saying,” she continued, her voice scratchy. “Don’t misunderstand me; I’ve had a good life. I just wish I’d taken more chances.”

“Had a good life? Why are you speaking in past tense?”

“I’m ninety-six, dear,” she said with a knowing chuckle, sliding her oversized frames up her nose. “I could pass any time.”

It wasn’t until then that Ricki noticed three pill bottles in a wooden bowl on her coffee table. “Ms. Della, is that new medication?”

She waved her hands in a dismissive gesture. “Oh, it’s nothing alarming, just some pills to strengthen my old bones. Prevent osteoporosis, that sort of thing.” She smiled and patted Ricki on the thigh. “Enough about me. You need to find out more about this Ezra.”

Ricki sighed with her entire body. “Tuesday thinks he’s going to kidnap and kill me.”

“Well, now, no one’s ever had fun by actively trying not to get killed.” Ms. Della settled back into the couch. “Everything is a risk. Dr. Bennett and I were watching a horse race once. A dead vulture fell clean out of the sky at remarkable speed, knocking a jockey on the head and breaking the man’s neck.”

Ricki gawked. “A dead vulture?”

“Apparently, the bird suffered a fatal heart attack midflight.” Ms. Della shook her head at the tragedy while Ricki stared at her, wide-eyed. “And don’t you know that horse won the race? Galloped to first place with a dead jockey on his back.”

Ricki almost erupted in a spit take. “Ms. Della, you can’t be serious.”

“Your generation makes such a commotion over those Marvelle pictures. Please!Thatwas entertainment.” She coughed harshly, which made her look vulnerable and fragile. Smaller, somehow. Closer to her age.

“Point being,” she continued, “you can’t predict your dying day, Ricki. And you can’t cheat it, either. If you want something? Get it while you can.”

From the kitchen, Suyin started belting out Janis Joplin’s “Get It While You Can.”

Ms. Della smiled, her eyes soft and fawning. “I do hope she’s paying attention to the oven. In any event, I want you to stop making yourself crazy trying to understand this gentleman. Let’s toast to seeing where the adventure takes you.”

Ms. Della attempted to raise her teacup, but her shakes were too severe. So she set it back down, and then Ricki clinked it with her cup.

“Cheers.”

Later, after Ms. Della and Suyin dropped unsubtle hints that it was time for them to watchCake Boss, Ricki dragged herself downstairs to her apartment. Exhausted from the day, she peeled off all her New York–winter layers, leaving a trail of clothes from the hallway to her bedroom.

Finally, clad in only a white Hanes old man tank top and boy shorts, she turned onStevie Wonder’s Journey Through the Secret Life of Plants. Her peace lilies needed some musical love; they were looking a little limp. And then she plunked herself down at her special square piano, not even bothering to turn on the lights. Ricki had practically stayed up all night working the past three days. She was damn near delirious with exhaustion.

Gingerly, Ricki laid her forehead against the closed piano lid. She slowly rolled her forehead back and forth against the smooth veneer of the old wood. As always, she marveled at how… comfortable… this spot was.

This piano had old stories in it—Harlem Renaissance stories—and it felt like the lives embedded in the grain of the wood wereon her side, somehow. Soothing her, calming her. When Ricki sat there, she felt held.

I guess you don’t choose your favorite places, she thought.They choose you.

Tonight, she needed to be calmed. Saying how she felt about Ezra out loud to Ms. Della had knocked her sideways. Her skin was thrumming, her heart throbbing. Honestly, she’d never been so smitten, so swept away. It was a foreign concept; she’d never gotten lost in someone before. With Ezra, it didn’t feel like she had a choice. It felt like gravity pulling her down, down, down, and she was on the precipice of losing control.

When Ricki had told Ezra that she wasn’t afraid of what she didn’t understand, it was the truth. But she wasn’t satisfied with accepting that he was unknowable. Ricki ached to go deeper. She needed to.

Ezra had penetrated her thoughts.

With a languid sigh, Ricki sat up, pushing back the piano lid to expose the keys. Gently, she ran her fingers across them. She fingered a few, and they landed with an atonal thunk. She wished she could see Ezra play. Ricki imagined what his hands must look like in motion, working the ivories, coaxing them to sing. The mastery of it, the concentration.

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