A Love Song for Ricki Wilde (32)
“Ezra Vaughn Percival Walker the Fourth or Fifth. Sixth? Not sure.”
Ricki’s mouth dropped open. “Stop. Your family did that several times before you?”
“The firstborn boy in every generation gets this name. No idea why, but there are worse ones. I had a cousin named Zeronald.”
She laughed, and his face broke into a smile so bright and so radiant, her breath caught. They stood in a silence that was too comfortable for two complete strangers. For five seconds that felt like five hours, they stood there, letting the moment wash over them.
It was intoxicating: the all-consuming darkness pierced with intermittent moonlight, this impossible-to-read man, the quiet luxury of the garden. Their fifteen-minute encounter had felt like a luscious waking dream. Later on, she’d blame the boldness of what she said next on the magic of the moment.
“I’m curious about you.”
He took one step closer, away from the tree. “Curiosity killed the cat, didn’t it?”
“It did.” She settled her gaze on a nearby winterberry bush. “But everyone forgets the rest of the saying.”
“What is that?”
“Curiosity killed the cat, but satisfaction brought it back,” she said quietly, and then met his eyes. “Whatever it saw or felt was so good that dying was worth it. The cat returns for more. Again and again. You know, nine lives and all that.”
“Chasing the rush.” Ezra took another few steps toward her, his tall frame dwarfing her. “And how many lives you got left?”
When she found her voice, she responded, “I think I’m on my last one.”
“Don’t waste it.”
Before her brain could formulate a response, he said, “I’m going to leave now.”
“Right. Good.” She cleared her throat, breaking the spell. “Yes, go.”
“But can we please agree to avoid each other? It’s better that way. Believe me.”
Believe him? Ricki didn’t even know him! But he was right. Because whatever this was, was too overwhelming.
“I’ll forget we ever met, Ezra Vaughn Percival Walker the Sixth.”
“Thank you. And just so you know,” he said, “I’m curious, too.”
He dipped his chin in farewell. Then he walked out onto 145th Street. And Ricki knew, without knowing, that she would definitely see Ezra again.
CHAPTER 8
STROKE OF GENIUS
February 6, 2024
Ricki’s mind was cluttered. An early-morning inspiration walk was in order.
Armed with a map of Jazz Age Harlem procured on eBay, she set out just before dawn. The goal was a mind-clearing treasure hunt to find speakeasies, restaurants, and former celeb residences: a bit of Roaring ’20s magic to calm her soul. And she looked the part, wearing a full-length faux-fur coat over a slip dress (both thrifted and, if you looked closely, fairly worn). But it didn’t take long for her to discover that most Old Harlem staples had been lost to time. An office building had taken over Hotel Theresa (oft frequented by Lena Horne and Cab Calloway, back when folks called it “the Waldorf Astoria of Harlem”). The Cotton Club was an apartment building. The Savoy, a cabaret once catering to the super elite, was now a supermarket.
Harlem was a modern neighborhood superimposed over an old one. But in the negative spaces, if she looked hard enough, Ricki could make out the contours of a ghost city. It was in the art nouveau flourishes of architecture. And the brass plaques unceremoniously affixed to humble buildings, declaring that Billie Holiday was discovered here or that Josephine Baker danced there.
These subtle nudges from the past reminded her that giants had once walked these streets. That beneath the 2024 version of the city was an enchanted universe—characters, places, and faces suspended in time like Pompeii. But as romantic as it was to imagine Old Harlem’s glory days—and Lord knew Ricki loved nothing more than to romanticize everything—it filled her with melancholy. So much had been lost either to gentrification or to the natural passing of time. Standing outside of 169 West 133rd Street, she wondered how many passersby knew that the Nest Community Health Center was once simply the Nest, one of the first and rowdiest speakeasies in town.
Ricki consulted the description on her vintage map. Apparently, the Nest had featured showgirls dressed as birds (odd fetish, but hell, there was a lid for every pot), and both Bessie Smith and Ma Rainey had been in-house singers. It sounded dazzling.
And then she had an idea. A stroke of genius.
Even though her most expensive stock wasn’t selling, Ricki couldn’t bear to throw it away. She’d been carrying around those designs in her brain forever. Meticulously sourced tropical flowers, high-concept arrangements, and they were too special, too one of a kind to be discarded. Especially her latest, a kaleidoscopic arrangement of dahlias, orchids, lamb’s ears, asclepiads, and rosemary.
Later that day, during her lunch break, she wrapped up the bundle in delicate pale yellow tissue paper, tied pink twine around it, and ornamented it with a #WILDETHINGS sticker. Ricki carried the bouquet back to the community health center. She placed it on the doorstep with careful reverence—a gift to the hidden history of her adopted city. Then she snapped a shot for social media. The caption read: #WildeThings found at The Nest Community Health Center, formerly The Nest speakeasy.