A Love Song for Ricki Wilde (36)
Can’t one thing ever be easy with you? Carole had wailed before dropping Ricki off at rehab for the summer and then convalescing for three weeks at Canyon Ranch spa.
Dance floors were on Ricki’s no-go list.
By the time it got to that late-stage part of a reception when everyone’s self-consciousness had evaporated—heels flung off, hair frizzy, ties loosened—the deejay was playing throwback Britney Jean Spears, and Tuesday was grinding on her crush. Ricki observed them having fun, on the outside of the good time. It was an isolating, melancholy feeling. She wondered what it’d be like to be on the outside of things with someone. A person who understood how it felt to be unable to join in. A guy who was cool with it and willing to stand with her in their own private quiet.
And then, out of nowhere, Ricki heard… something.
It was a faraway tune, softly playing beneath “Toxic.” It was a song she’d heard before but couldn’t quite remember.
She stopped dancing and cocked her head.
She could hear the piano. And the melody was so familiar. Extremely catchy. What…
Ricki’s eyes flew open. “Thank You for Being a Friend.” Coming from where, though?
To her left, she heard a guy yell to his date, “It’s Golden Girls! You hear it, right?”
Across the dance floor, somebody sang along: “And if you threw a party, invited everyone you knew…”
And then the dance floor exploded with drunken delight. The deejay stopped his music, and everyone started warbling off-key to the unseen piano.
Who was playing this banger of a theme song? And why? No one knew! And it didn’t matter. It was unexpected, spontaneous, and silly, all the elements of a good time.
Just as abruptly as the Golden Girls theme started, it changed… to the theme song from The Jeffersons. From there, the piano switched to the Gilligan’s Island theme. And then those of The Flintstones, The Facts of Life, A Different World, and The Sopranos. The crowd roared each time, happily singing off-key.
The piano switched to the Good Times theme. And maybe it was because Ricki was the only sober one in the room, but she just couldn’t get over the collective absurdity of one hundred socialites in black tie scream-singing “Scratchin’ and survivin’ good times!”
Intrigued, she went still and listened, attempting to isolate the piano sounds. They were coming from downstairs. Unable to resist her curiosity, Ricki hiked up her gown and flew out of the exit and down a stairwell to the first floor. The whole place was midconstruction, a mess.
She followed the music to a large raised performance platform by the window. In the center of the platform was a piano. And behind the piano was Ezra Walker, his face euphoric as he banged out an indulgent high-gospel version of the CSI theme, to screams from upstairs.
“IT’S YOU,” exclaimed Ricki, throwing her hands up. “Whyyyy?”
Stunned out of his reverie, Ezra looked up and stopped playing, snatching his hands away like the keys were on fire. Through the vent, they heard the crowd upstairs erupt in boos.
“Nooo.” With a long-suffering groan, Ezra buried his face in his hands. “No. No. No.”
“Why on this godforsaken dying earth are you everywhere?” Ricki demanded. “And why are you playing this unhinged medley from hell?”
“There’s a wedding upstairs?”
“Oh please! Don’t act clueless.”
“I really didn’t know,” he insisted. “One of my favorite BBQ spots used to be over here. I was looking for it, and it’s gone. Replaced by a spot called Hüd Snacks that sells gourmet versions of Funyuns and honey buns at twenty-five dollars a pop.”
“You must be joking. Are the owners…”
“Of course.” Ezra rolled his eyes. “Anyway, the cleaning woman let me in. I was walking back home, and I saw this piano in the window. I can’t walk by a piano without playing it, just to test out the tone, projection, clarity. It’s a fucking compulsion.” He grimaced. “Apologies.”
Confused, Ricki said, “Why are you apologizing?”
“I don’t like to curse in front of women,” he said simply.
She drew back a little, surprised. “Why, because we’re delicate creatures? The weaker sex? You have some regressive attitudes about women.”
“What I have,” he said, “is manners. It’s how I was raised.”
She narrowed her eyes a bit. “That’s oddly old school.”
“What kind of men you been around?” He huffed out a quick exhale. “Anyway, the true test of an instrument is if it sounds good when you play a corny song. And I watch a lot of TV,” he said. “I was about to play Moesha next. Wanna hear it?”
She stared at him for a beat, incredulous. He looked at her from head to toe, a quick, furtive glance. He blinked hard, as if Ricki’s mere presence—and her mere presence in that knockout glamazon gown—had scrambled his brain.
“So. We know why I’m here.” He clasped his hands on his lap. “Why are you here?”
“I designed the flowers for the wedding upstairs.” Ricki gathered the skirt of her gown in one hand and stepped up onto the platform. She peered down at him threateningly. “And I know exactly why I’m avoiding you, but I’m still fuzzy on why you’re avoiding me.”