Page 74 of A Love Song for Ricki Wilde

She coughed again, into her elbow, and then patted her chest. Ricki tried not to flinch.

“Do you know anything about this building’s past? Like, why was it boarded up? I googled it, but no information came up.”

Ms. Della nodded slowly. “That’s because no information would. Tragedy struck that year. February 29, 1928. It was a leap year, like this one.”

Ricki’s stomach dropped. No, it plummeted, roller-coaster style. “What happened that night?”

The elderly woman squirmed in her seat. “Why are you asking now?”

“Oh, no reason,” she said with a wan smile, trying to seem light. “Old Harlem history is my new obsession. You know I’ve been doing those flower Instagram posts around the neighborhood.”

“All I know was a young showgirl from Louisiana committed suicide at a party that night,” Ms. Della revealed, her voice hoarse and weakened from coughing. “Threw herself off the roof, for some reason. Her death was a mystery, really. Because she was an unknown Black girl, of course. But also because the owners of the building buried the news. See, there were these German brothers, the Schumachers, I believe their name was, who owned most of this block. They didn’t want the story reported, because who’dwant to rent an apartment in a brownstone where a girl leapt to her death? But they couldn’t find renters, anyway. Because people talk, you know.

“So the Schumachers could never fill the vacancy. And the property just sat here, changing hands. I like to think it was waiting for me. And you.” She smiled warmly.

Ricki had gone numb. For want of something to do, she grabbed the Wedgwood cup and drank her peppermint tea down straight. She was hoping the warmth would smother her nerves and quiet the screams in her brain. It didn’t.

Okay, so it happened, she thought.It happened, but Ezra could still be lying about his involvement. But what would be his motive?

“Can I ask you something?” Ricki ventured slowly. “If the brownstone had a weird reputation, why did you want to live here? You say your eye had been on it for a while, but you lived your entire married life in Atlanta. How did you know this address existed?”

Naaz, who had an enviable knack for timing and an irrepressible love of gossip, burst back into the dining room, holding a syringe and gauze.

“Ten more minutes, please, Naaz,” said Ms. Della, not breaking eye contact with Ricki.

“All good.” She winked jovially and walked out, backward, without skipping a beat.

“That girl’s fixing to give me a heart attack,” muttered the older woman. She sat back in her chair and shut her paper-thin almond-brown lids. After taking a couple of labored breaths, she then opened them again.

“Ms. Della, you seem tired,” said Ricki. “Just tell me if you want to stop talking.”

“Don’t be silly. I don’t know why we never spoke about thisbefore. I reckon I’m just private. Most folks are about as trustworthy as a crooked senator at a rigged chili cook-off.”

Ricki couldn’t help but smile. Ezra spoke like that sometimes.

Oh God, thought Ricki.If the curse is true, Ezra is generations older than even Ms. Della!

“Anyway,” continued Ms. Della, “I always knew about this building. Since I was small…” Ms. Della’s face grew unreadable. “The showgirl, Felice Fabienne? She was my mother.”

Ricki dropped the empty teacup on her lap, and it toppled to the rug below. She didn’t move to retrieve it. She didn’t move at all, in fact.

With sharpened eyebrows, Ms. Della watched Ricki watch the cup fall. Only then, under her disapproving gaze, did Ricki snap out of her trance, picking it up.

“I never knew my mother,” Ms. Della told her. After a lengthy cough, she continued. Her voice sounded even raspier. “Well, I don’t remember her, I should say. I was born in 1927 and she died in ’28, when I was just a baby. My nana raised me in Louisiana, where I lived until I met Dr. Bennett at a church social. He was a handsome young Morehouse student visiting relatives. I married him two days after my high school graduation, moved to Atlanta, and never looked back.” She smiled. “Anyway, story has it, Felice moved to Harlem to be a star. I’ve heard she had a flair for the dramatic; it’s no wonder she named me Adelaide. A mouthful, isn’t it? I’ve always been called Della.”

Adelaide.Ricki sank into her chair. God help her, it was true, then. It was true.

“Have you heard of Eden Lounge? It was a short-lived contemporary of the Cotton Club. She danced there. Do you know howprestigiousit was to land that job during the Renaissance? It’s funny—even despite everything, I’m proud of her. Nana told me that when she saved enough money, Felice’s plan was to sendfor me. But that day never came.” Ms. Della said this flatly, her teacup clinking against the saucer. “I suppose I’ve always been sort of… angry with her. You can’t help but hold it against a person, you know. I can’t imagine being a mother and leaving my child behind.” She sighed, her cloudy eyes staring down at her cup. “She’s a hole that’s never been filled in my life. So I’d always vowed to buy this building one day. Maybe get some answers. Feel closer to her. Stop feeling blue about her.

“New York is a moody town. I’ve learned this since living here. It requires a certain armor, a resilience that must come naturally. Felice might not’ve had it. Look like to me she had a touch of the up-and-downs, or what people today would call mood swings or bipolar or something like that. Borderline personality disorder? I’m no doctor, obviously, but you learn a few things after being married to one for over seventy years.” Her expression was far off, thoughtful. “The apple doesn’t fall far, I reckon. I’ve suffered the blues my whole life, but medication evens me out. My mother was born too early to get the right treatment. Or any treatment at all.”

Ms. Della paused and glanced out of her window. “This is speculation, of course. I really don’t know that much about her. Nana barely spoke her name. It must’ve been painful, losing a child that way. All I know is that Felice was a dancer and Nana’s only daughter.” And then, as an aside, she added, “I also know she could dress. Style to beat theband.”

Without warning, Ms. Della took a strong breath, hoisted herself up out of the chair, and disappeared into her bedroom. “Be right back,” she called over her shoulder.

Using her last functioning brain cell, Ricki desperately tried to talk herself off a ledge.This can all be explained. Ezra must’ve heard Felice’s story somehow. There has to be an oral history of Old Harlem that didn’t make it to newspapers or biographies. If you speak to the right elders, you can find out anything. It’s like that in Atlanta, too. It’s like that wherever Black people are—we carry hidden histories, passed down from generation to generation. Maybe Ezra really is just a weirdo antique furniture collector, like Tuesday said, and he got a little too wrapped up in a Harlem Renaissance obsession, injecting himself into a juicy story he’d once heard.

After all, Ms. Della hadn’t mentioned Breeze Walker even once.

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