Page 50 of A Love Song for Ricki Wilde

“The shop is closed tomorrow, so I’ll be free then. Meet me at noon.”

The next day was warm. Oddly warm. Under no healthy circumstances was a New York City February supposed to feel Palm Beach balmy. But the peculiarity of it was thrilling. Everyone in Harlem was outside, soaking up their good fortune before it expired, knowing it was too rare and strange to last.

At 11:47 a.m., Ezra was standing catty-corner to 225½ West 137th Street, trying to forget everything he knew about that building.

The brownstone looked the way it always looked: like all the others on the block with its grand facade. But now there was an overgrown oasis of a shop nestled to the side of the dramatic stoop.WILDE THINGS.

This was a new place, with a new history. It was Ricki’s turn to be here. He wondered how it looked inside. He ached to see where Ricki lived, slept, and worked. How she’d turned a place that held terrible memories for him into something beautiful.

And then there she was.

Ezra saw Ricki through the window, balancing on a steep ladder and reaching high up to the ceiling. A ragged tool belt was slung low around her waist. She appeared to be hammering hooks up there. And then, one by one, she was attaching floor-length transparent strings festooned with silk wildflowers. The effect was flowers falling from the sky, suspended in midair. How did she come up with this? The installation was surreal, like something from a floaty, trippy dream sequence in a Technicolor film.

And so was Ricki, standing atop the ladder in platform clogs, ass-hugging ’70s flares, and a breezy top cropped short, so a widesliver of her skin showed as she reached upward. God, she was a mesmerizing collision of delicate and tough. The tension between the uncompromising strength in her stance and the soft, ripe lusciousness of her hair, her hips…

For one delirious moment, Ezra forgot why he was there.

It definitely wasn’t to be a creep. So even though he was early, he rang the bell. Through the window, he saw her startle. And then she climbed down the ladder with a slowness that felt deliberate—Her ass, dear God.

Five seconds later, she burst through the door. And Ezra stood before her, visibly gobsmacked.

Ricki was radiant. Breathless. And thoroughly adorable in her transparency that she was pleased to see him.

“You’re early,” she breathed.

“I’m… awestruck.”

“By what?”

You.

“Your art. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“You were watching me.” A statement, not a question. She locked the front door and then faced him, her expression triumphant.

He didn’t deny it. “You like me watching you?”

Her eyes twinkled, but all she offered was the slightest shrug.

“Let’s go,” she said, and before he could reply, she’d already swept past him to the street. He joined her, and the two headed down West 137th.

“So, what were you working on in there?” wondered Ezra. “It’s mesmerizing. Looks like a scene from a fairy tale.”

“I’m not really sure yet. But I’m calling it a flower shower,” she said, adjusting her bag. It was a mix of canvas and suede, accentuated with tough buckles and hardware. Ezra was certain she’d made it. Her creative detail was in every stitch.

“A flower shower!” repeated Ezra. “That’s so good.”

Ricki beamed. “Have you ever seen Disney’sAlice in Wonderland? It was my favorite movie as a kid. There’s a scene where animated Alice is dozing off in the grass on a bright summer day, singing about her imaginary world, and she’s surrounded by daisies. It’s right before she falls down the rabbit hole, and everything goes topsy-turvy. The only thing that’d make that scene more idyllic would be if she were drenched in a rain shower of flowers.” She pulled on her gloves. “It came to me in a dream.”

“You remember your dreams?”

“Oh, my dreams are vivid. And they linger.”

She looked at him. He looked back. An electric current buzzed between them, inescapable and palpable.

“I’ve never seen anything so beautiful,” he said, momentarily lost in her face. He couldn’t believe it had slipped out of his mouth. He cleared his throat, trying to gather himself. “Uh, will you sell it?”

“No, it’s just decoration for the shop. I don’t know, times are tough. People work hard. I want to create a place where folks can just escape. I’m selling a fantasy.”

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