Page 105 of A Love Song for Ricki Wilde

“No,” said Ricki. “No, we’re fine. Thank you for telling us. And for taking such good care of Ms. Della.” She was too dazed to speak eloquently, to cry, to wail, to yell. Instead, she drew Naaz into a brief embrace. She couldn’t go into the apartment, not yet. Ms. Della’s death would feel too real.

“You take care, okay?” Naaz offered a thin, sad smile before shutting the door.

Dumbfounded, Ricki and Ezra sat on the top step of the stoop. She opened the note. In a voice that didn’t sound like her own, she read it out loud.

Dear Ricki and Ezra,

Now, stop it. Ricki, don’t be sad. I was ready to go. I’ve lived a beautiful life. I’ve experienced great love. The one thing my grandmother and mother wanted, but never had. I’ve felt guilty about that. For being the lucky one.

I can’t think of a nobler cause than to die for love. You see, love should never hurt. Rejection, abandonment, cruelty, so forth, those things hurt. But love, itself? No.

Ricki and Ezra, I couldn’t stand by and watch you hurt, when I could sacrifice myself to save you.

Promise me that you’ll choose to love each other hard. Every day. And that you’ll pass it on. This will be my legacy.

I always wondered what my purpose was, and you gave it to me, Ricki. Being your grandmother has been one of my greatest joys. Thank you.

That’s all, for now. Off to see my sweet doctor, again.

Always,

Ms. Della, your new angel

Ricki and Ezra were here. Ms. Della was gone. And she was, henceforth and forevermore, their hero.

EPILOGUE

February 29, 2036

Leap Day

You’d think that Dr. Bennett and I spend all day sipping tea in the ancestral plane. Well, that’s notallwe do. I’m a busy woman. I have so many folks to look after! My life was long and full, and my friends are plentiful. Now, I certainly don’t rank my people in terms of importance. Unimaginably tacky. But if I did, Ricki and Ezra would be at the top of the list.

I’ve always kept an eye on them.

I’ve watched Wilde Things grow and grow, taking over the entire brownstone. Richard Wilde Sr. was so proud, which made Richard Wilde Jr. even prouder. He presented Ricki with a business proposal: to buy a small share of her business and build Wilde Things kiosks in his franchises. But Ricki declined, staying true to her original vision. Which, in turn, mademeproud.

I tell you, it tickles me that she and Ezra never told a soul about the curse. After a while, they were so lost in the wonderful banality of their everyday lives that they stopped thinking about it. Only Tuesday knew, and she never breathed a word. She had herown stuff going on. Opening that facial spa and running capers with… anunlikely-lookingfella she met years ago at somebody’s wedding. Tuesday’s a whole other story, and like I said, I’m a busy woman.

Ezra’s been busy, too. He earned his bachelor’s, master’s, and PhD in music theory and composition from NYU and is now one of Juilliard’s most popular professors. His marquee class, The Science of Pop Hits 201, has endless waiting lists. I’ve sat in a few classes, myself. I can attest to those kids hootin’ and hollerin’ while he tells the secret backstories of all kinds of popular songs. You’d think, just one time, they’d ask him how he knows.

Ezra still gets tripped up on modern quirks, sometimes. I overheard students giggling at how he actually printed out syllabi for his class, and on adot matrix printer. Now, I don’t quite know what that is, so I can’t comment. I can say that Ezra’s devoted to his students, but no more than he was to putting down roots with Ricki.

A few years after the curse was broken, he sold his old house. And then Ezra and Ricki bought their own brownstone, a run-down fixer-upper around the corner from Wilde Things. Good God, it was a disaster at first. Unlivable, from the roota to the toota. Leaky in the winter, boiling in the summer, no modern conveniences. They fixed it up, though, and it’s a showstopper. It’d be even prettier if their schnauzer wasn’t hell-bent on chewing everything to bits. They call him SW3. Given name Stevie Wonder-Wilde-Walker.

No telling what they were thinking with that dog. It sheds all over their good furniture, and that name sounds like aStar Warscreature. None of my business, though.

Whatismy business? The wedding of my favorite two people, at their gorgeous home. And today is the day. A leap day, if you can believe it.

Frankly, the wedding surprised me. Ricki and Ezra never had designs on marriage. What would marriage prove when they’d fought an actual life-and-death battle for their love? But in the end, they did it for their little girls: Hazel, Minnie, Lo, and tiny Della. (Nowthat’sa name.) Last winter, all four of the girls sat on Santa’s lap, begging him for a wedding.

The ceremony, held earlier today in their home, was breathtaking. Tuesday was the maid of honor. Hazel, Minnie, Lo, and Della were flower girls. SW3 was a canine ring bearer. Again, none of my business. Naaz put her former career as a bat mitzvah party motivator to good use and served as an incessantly cheerful deejay. One of Ezra’s professor friends, a violinist named Glenn, played “A Love Song for Ricki Wilde” as Ricki walked down the aisle. Now,thatwas a sight to see. The way I wept.

But I had to giggle later when, during Glenn’s toast, he told Ezra it felt like he’d known him forever. If only he knew they’d played together on the recording of two Toni Braxton ballads, back in 1991.

Ricki and Ezra looked like cake toppers. True to form, Ricki wore a vintage Ann Cole Lowe gown, circa 1947. Ezra wore a custom tux tailored by Ricki herself, and he looked like he’d stepped out of the pictures, sharp as a tack with his new salt-and-pepper beard. I knew, just looking at them, that they were happier than they’d ever been. They’re forty now, with a bit more wisdom to them. Their relationship has ripened into something far weightier than new love’s passion. It’s secure now. A true partnership with small, day-to-day moments of quiet, of safety, of comfort.

I know that feeling well.

During a busy moment at their living-room reception, when everyone was dancing madly—Ezra was doing the Cupid Shuffle with his daughters while donning a princess tiara that Minnie had proudly plopped on his head—Ricki snuck outside into the crisp, breezy air.

Lifting her dress, the bride quickly walked up the block and around the corner to West 137th Street, not stopping till she reached 225½. For several moments, she stood before the building, my old home, mere feet from the entrance of her shop. Ricki had a wistful smile painted on her face. Grasping her handcrafted bouquet, a hand-tied mix of antique green hydrangeas, tea roses, and café au lait dahlias, she closed her eyes and spoke aloud.

“Thank you, Ms. Della,” she said. “My angel.”

The slight ruffle of the wind was my response. It delicately tousled Ricki’s hair, kissing her cheeks and rustling the skirt of her gown. And it carried the off-season fragrance of night-blooming jasmine. A scent as inexplicable and inevitable as love itself.

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