Page 19 of A Love Song for Ricki Wilde

“Price is no object.”

“Well… I mean, I don’t understand, but sure? I’ll make sure the painter gets the cash. But wait, why do you want that one? What’s the urgency?”

“I am not at liberty to say.” The woman stared into Ricki’s face for a beat too long, and something simmered beneath her expression. “You are as lovely as I thought you would be.” The woman spoke quickly, shaking her head. “Trouble.”

What the hell was she talking about? And why was she being so cryptic? The woman looked like she was in a hurry to leave. “Who are you?”

“I am unimportant,” huffed the lady. “In fact, you will forget me in a month or so. The painting is for my boss. As his assistant, I am simply following orders. May I?”

The woman strode past Ricki and hoisted the canvas off the shelf.

“Wait, I really need to know who you are!” insisted Ricki, following her.

“My boss is a philanthropist who enjoys supporting young artists. No more, no less. As I said, you will forget me in a month.”

She speaks so formally, thought Ricki.No contractions. “I am” instead of “I’m.” “You will” instead of “you’ll.” Who talks like that?

“Can you give me their contact info? IG handle? Anything? Just to know who the artist should thank, at least.”

The woman was heading for the door, the rubber soles of her Uggs squeaking on the floor. “Apologies, but no.”

“Wait!” called Ricki as the woman left the shop and hurried away. “Stop!”

It was a freezing February night, and the first errant flakes of a snowstorm were starting to fall. The woman was halfway down the block by the time Ricki reached her.

“Just give me a number! Anything!” she said. “Please!”

Annoyed, the woman spun around and made an impatient sound. She chewed her fingernails, paced, and looked extremely conflicted. Ricki gawked, trying to rationalize all the unsettling, surreal encounters happening to her. First Garden Gentleman, and now her?

“Damn it,” the woman muttered. She paused and then looked deflated, as if giving in. “212-555-5787. Happy now?” And then, canvas in tow, she rushed down the street and around the corner, lost to the night.

Ricki repeated 212-555-5787, 212-555-5787, 212-555-5787, 212-555-5787 over and over until she found her phone in her purse. She added it to her contacts under the name Mysterious Benefactor.

CHAPTER 5

YOUR VIBE ATTRACTS YOUR TRIBE

February 4, 2024

Della’s teatimes with Ricki were sacred. And she appreciated that her de facto granddaughter deferred to her schedule, which wasn’t the most convenient for a new shop owner. It was the highlight of Della’s week: chatting with Ricki while sipping the latest blend from her True Serenity Tea subscription box asThe Great British Bake Offplayed softly in the background.

In just a short while, Ricki had become far more than a tenant to her. She was family. Della treated her with a warm, overprotective, bossy spirit and, like any A-plus grandmother, always stocked a sensible pocketbook with Werther’s caramels and Life Savers, which were Ricki’s favorites. Though, Della’s idea of “sensible” was 1950s Pierre Cardin. Della had no children or grandchildren, and Ricki had never had a living grandmother—until now.

They weren’t blood related, but when it came to kindred spirits, there were no hard and fast rules about how they were deliveredinto your life. Sometimes your tenant became your granddaughter, and it was a gift, and that was that.

Ricki added so much vitality to her days. Of course, Della’s life was pretty damned charmed, anyway. Before her beloved Dr. Bennett passed, he’d ensured that she’d be as comfortable as possible. He’d installed an elevator so she wouldn’t have to deal with stairs, hired a weekly housekeeper, and arranged a grocery delivery service for her. To manage her lifelong bouts of the blues, he’d made sure he’d scheduled a weekly call with her Atlanta therapist and arranged for CVS to auto-deliver her antidepressants.

Due in part to all these provisions, Della enjoyed a deliciously active life. There was the aforementioned swim aerobics, but she was also treasurer of her Links walking club and took Zumba Gold on Sunday mornings before church. Even as she entertained Ricki from her living room couch, Della was doing light biceps curls with three-pound weights.

“It was surreal, Ms. Della,” said Ricki, taking her usual place on the amethyst-colored wing chair. Della had decorated her triplex with eclectic pieces: zebra and mahogany woods, mirrored finishes, and jewel-toned everything.

“Certainly sounds it,” responded Della, resplendent in her at-home look, flowy silk pajamas and her signature oversized geometric specs. “Dr. Bennett and I went to a wedding in London once. I couldn’t get the hang of driving on the opposite side of the road. Turns the world all cattywampus. Also, the traffic signs are nonsensical.”

“Such a good word, ‘cattywampus’…” Ricki was barely hiding her distracted, fidgety energy, and Della wondered how long it would take her to address what was bothering her.

“Drink your tea, sugar.”

Obediently, Ricki took a huge gulp and burned her mouth.“Sorry, ma’am, I think I’ll skip the tea today. My stomach’s in knots.”

---