Page 17 of A Love Song for Ricki Wilde

It fascinated Ricki that she went out in the world with an actual cup of tea. Not a travel mug or a to-go tumbler. And it was her good china, as if she were entertaining guests in her parlor. It had the same chaotic confidence of a kid traipsing into first period with no backpack.

“Ms. Della!” Ricki hugged her narrow frame, taking in her scent: Fashion Fair powder, Estée Lauder’s Beautiful, and the Tiger Balm she massaged on her arthritic fingers.

Unconsciously, Ricki straightened her posture. Something in Ms. Della’s presence always made Ricki want to please her. And to delete every ounce of flightiness from her personality. Not only was the woman elegance personified, but she also seemed to operate on a higher level than everyone else.

“Ali, I’ll be right back. I promised Ms. Della we’d grab a doughnut together,” she said, linking arms with the older woman.

She needed a break from Ali.

As they walked, Ms. Della whispered, “They said this was a party. Where are the hats?”

“Fancy hats are a lost art, I fear,” sympathized Ricki.

“Your face looks off. Something ailing you?”

“Just worried about Wilde Things, as usual. I can’t wait for the day I can afford to create the fanciful, luxury arrangements I’m dying to make.”

“No use waiting for an ideal scenario. There’s only now,” she said pointedly. “Close your eyes. Are you satisfied in this moment?”

Ricki did as she was told, allowing the sounds of laughter-infused party chatter to fill her ears. Her shop was in danger. Her rent was suddenly feeling unsustainable. Her future with Ali was bleak…

Who is Garden Gentleman? Will I see him again? Do I want to?

Get that beautiful stranger out of your mind, thought Ricki, clenching her fists.Stop being a pain in your own ass.

Quickly, she refocused her attention on Ms. Della. And lied.

“You know what? I am satisfied, I think.”

“Then you’re doing everything right,” she said definitively. “Oh, there’s Soraya. She’s a featured artist. You should meet her before the unveiling. She’s a card.”

Ms. Della led her to where her friend Soraya was holding court. A third-grade teacher by trade, Soraya self-identified as a Marxist vegan.

“Great to meet you, sis.” Soraya blanketed Ricki in her calm, podcast-perfect voice. “I was just explaining my piece. It’s a photograph of bananas.”

“I’m allergic to bananas,” confessed Ms. Della, sipping her tea.

“But hidden within the photograph I added onepaintedbanana. It resembles the rest, but it’s just a bit… off. I’m exploring the things we do and don’t notice in life. For instance, would you notice if someone didn’t cast a shadow? Or had wings tucked into their coat? Would you see the painted banana if I hadn’t pointed it out?”

Ricki nodded, intrigued. She wondered how much of the world she really took in. Sometimes, she’d get so fixated on one thing—gardening, reading—that she’d forget she was even a person until spoken to. Like,Oh! I exist.

“I created it as a reminder to open my eyes to the world,” continued Soraya. “You never know who or what walks with us.”

An icy chill ran down Ricki’s back, the hairs on her arms standing on end. And then she had the distinct feeling of being watched. Her head swiveled toward the windows, and she surveyed the crowd. Nothing.

Ricki had to pull it together. The encounter with Garden Gentleman had clearly scrambled her brain.

“No doubt I’ll notice the banana,” said Ali, who’d joined the group. “By nature, I’m perceptive to all dimensions of experience.”

“He’s an empath,” explained Ricki, cringing down to her toenails.

“It’s a gift.” Ali linked his fingers with Ricki’s. “God is so intricate.”

“Y’all are together?” Surprised, Soraya looked from Ali to Ricki. “Ali, I’m in your portrait class at the New School. You don’t recognize me?”

“Word? My apologies.” Ali dropped Ricki’s hand. “I didn’t recognize you with braids.”

“But you would’ve noticed the banana?” Ms. Della was sharper than she had any right to be at ninety-six.

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