A Love Song for Ricki Wilde (21)
With a resigned sigh, Della slipped her hand into the pocket of her pajama pants, whipped out the TV remote, and turned it off. She swiveled to face Ricki. “I dozed off during our last call.”
“No! Tell me you didn’t.”
“I absolutely did. I might be in Jane Fonda’s shape, but I’m old, after all. Jane could probably tell you that the older you get, the harder it is to stay awake when you’re bored.” Della shrugged. Actually, she was starting to feel a bit drowsy right now. “Besides. How’s a stranger going to tell me how to grieve for my Bennett, my love that she never even met? You can’t cheat grief, Ricki. You have to work with it. Accommodate it.”
Her eyes went misty, and a shadow of a smile lit up her face. “You know, Dr. Bennett was one of the first Black neurologists in the country. He used to go to medical conferences all over the world. He knew I loved silk pajamas, and he’d buy me a pair wherever he went. I’ll have to show you the snake-print ones he got me from Hong Kong; they’re terribly eccentric. Right up your alley.” She sipped her tea. This was a compliment. “I tell you, I’d known him since I was sixteen, and it never occurred to me that one day, one of us would go. And the other would be alone. We were peas in a pod.”
“The kind of love that makes you ignore inevitability, right?” Ricki went and sat next to her, holding her hand. “It sounds so rare, outside of movies or books. I’ve definitely never seen it. My parents act more like coworkers than lovers. The happiest I ever saw my mom was when she was seeing that energy healer.”
Della scoffed. “That foolishness works?”
“No, I mean she was seeing an energy healer, as in sleeping with him. He worked out of a mall kiosk at Phipps Plaza.”
“Well, I’ll be.”
“When Dad found out, he ran him out of town. Mom’s been drunk ever since.” Ricki sighed and fluffed her hair. “Anyway. You and Dr. Bennett sound like a dream.”
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 wondered why 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. She needed 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 album Journey Through the Secret Life of Plants. She played it every evening for her flowers. In her soul, she was convinced that the songs made them brighter, happier, and livelier. Like audio Miracle-Gro.