Page 21 of A Love Song for Ricki Wilde

Della smiled softly. “I talk to him every day. Just before bed, I tell him everything that’s on my mind. The day he answers, I’ll know I’ve finally lost my marbles.”

And then, with a curt nod, she effectively ended the conversation. She’d exposed a bit too much emotional truth for her liking.

“Oh, Ricki! Did I tell you about my widow bucket list?”

“You haven’t. And I insist that you tell me everything, immediately.”

“It’s a few things I always wanted to try. I was happily married, of course, but a woman always has her secret wants.” She traded out her usual glasses for reading specs and then scrolled through her iPad, the font size positively mammoth. “Ah yes, here we go.”

1.Dye my hair fluorescent pink.

2.Date a woman. Preferably younger.

3.Visit one of those nude Russian bathhouses.

4.Ride a helicopter over Manhattan.

5.Bury a grudge.

Ricki clapped with glee. “Date a woman, Ms. Della? Do you think you might be bisexual?”

“No label, I’m just curious.” She paused, for effect. “What I am not, is polyamorous.”

Ricki giggled as she glanced down at her phone on her lap. She finished her cup in two huge swallows. “I love this for you! But I really am sorry, Ms. Della. I’m going to have to run. If I don’t figure out the mystery behind that assistant, I’m going to disintegrate. And I’d like to live long enough to meet your girlfriend.”

To Della, it was clear that surrounding herself with drama and chaos made Ricki feel safer than standing still did. As a person who’d spent a lifetime preoccupying herself with her husband’s needs—without time to ever examine her own—Della understood this. And she was touched by Ricki’s vulnerability.

And she would protect her, as much as Ricki would let her. As Della prepared herself for a midday nap, she dimly wonderedwhy the universe had brought them together. She’d never believed in coincidences or chance meetings. But it was surprising to find such kinship in her advanced age. Especially with someone so young.

Slipping into sleep, she decided not to fuss over why they’d met. If she’d learned anything over the years, it was that answers to tough questions usually revealed themselves when you least expected it.

Ricki closed Wilde Things an hour early, which probably wasn’t an excellent business decision, given that her business needed the money.Sheneeded the money. That morning, she’d had to force herself to mail the $5,000 in cash to Ali (along with his toothbrush, condoms, and crystals).

The more her calls to Mysterious Benefactor went unanswered, the deeper her obsession became. It was a Rubik’s Cube of confusion, the unsolvable conundrum. Over and over, she pored over every detail, trying to understand what had happened. It was clear that the assistant knew her from somewhere, but she just couldn’t imagine how, or from what. Ricki had no roots in New York. And her only two friends were a scandal-plagued actress and a frisky nonagenarian, neither of whom had ever met that woman. Ricki knew this for a fact because she’d asked them both, several times.

There was nothing left to do but to call an emergency meeting with Tuesday, who was now perched on Ricki’s bed. The ancient radiator clanged out near-tropical heat as the two attempted to sleuth. It was the only other sound in the room besides Stevie Wonder’s deeply obscure instrumental 1979 albumJourney Through the Secret Life of Plants. She played it every evening forher flowers. In her soul, she was convinced that the songs made them brighter, happier, and livelier. Like audio Miracle-Gro.

“Respectfully, what the hell is this avant-garde-ass album we’re listening to?”

“Stevie.”

“Nicks?”

“Wonder. He wrote it as the soundtrack for a botanical documentary. The songs activate the spatiotemporal consciousness of my flowers.”

“Thank God you found me,” Tuesday muttered, absentmindedly running a jade roller across her cheekbones. “Okay, let’s go over it again. When you asked the weird lady who her boss was, she responded, ‘I’m not at liberty to say.’ That’s oddly formal.”

“And she sounded a little pissed off. Like, annoyed that I kept asking her questions.” Ricki was perched in her comfort spot, the bench at the antique piano.

She’d furnished her microscopic studio with a clever mix of stoop sale and IKEA finds, but despite creating a cozy-as-hell space with tons of soft surfaces, Ricki’s absolute favorite place to sit, create, and think was at that piano. Sometimes, after a long day at Wilde Things, she’d plop down and fall asleep there, her cheek resting on the smooth lid, inhaling the musky scent of old wood. To Ricki, the piano was as comfy as the softest bed.

Tuesday thought it looked like a kitchen island, and actually, it did. But Ricki didn’t care; she loved it.

“You called the number, and nothing?”

“I’ve called so often I wish I could blockmyself.” Ricki tucked her foot under her thigh. “But this brings me to motivation. That painting was good, but five thousand dollars?”

“That painting is sexy. I’m telling you, Mysterious Benefactor has a crush. He must’ve seen your portrait on the flyers that were all over the neighborhood. And then sent his assistant to buyit. Please, this is a person playing chess, and now it’s your move. Mysterious Benefactor wants to be found. I feel it.”

---