A Love Song for Ricki Wilde (40)

“Lord, chile. What books are you reading?”

“That’s what it feels like, talking to him. Like a hazy, heightened experience. And afterwards, my head is spinning. I can’t figure any of it out.”

“Maybe he’s not someone to figure out. He’s someone to experience.” Ms. Della winked. Her pink hair color had been a brilliant decision. The woman looked fantastic, except that she really did seem to be trembling more than usual. She raised her hands to adjust the shoulders of her caftan, and her hands shook so much, the movement sent ripples down the fabric.

“Are you feeling all right, Ms. Della? Do you want a straw, maybe?”

Ms. Della’s eyebrows shot to the ceiling. “A straw? With a teacup? I might as well go swimming with a bicycle.”

“I just noticed you were shaking quite a bit,” said Ricki gently. “Have you eaten today?”

“I’m fine, dear,” she said curtly.

She instantly regretted opening her mouth. Ms. Della was proud of her physical strength and health, and Ricki never wanted to offend her. Plus, Ms. Della had a wide support network of friends who she saw and spoke to regularly. She wasn’t in danger of getting sick unnoticed.

Just then, a patently adorable, round, and rosy-cheeked woman burst into the room with a tray of oven-fresh cinnamon scones. Absolutely slaying her bucket list, Ms. Della had met her new girlfriend, Suyin Fong, at a seventy-plus senior lesbians mixer, and they’d bonded over their love of Lola Falana, backgammon, and baking shows. At seventy-seven, she was a younger lady but so interesting that Ms. Della happily looked past the improper age difference. Suyin had left her family and Chinatown at seventeen, go-go danced at lesbian bars, marched for freedom, become a civil rights lawyer, and helped found the Lesbian Herstory Archives. These days, however, she was focused solely on wooing Ms. Della and mastering her baking lessons.

The wooing, she’d perfected. Baking, not so much.

“Et voilà, my latest! Cinnamon-maple scones. Do you love them?” Suyin beamed as her new girlfriend and Ricki each selected a pastry from her tray.

“Delicious, Auntie Su,” exclaimed Ricki after biting into a bitter, unmixed ball of flour.

“Scrumptious,” raved Ms. Della, gracefully swallowing down her bite with a mighty sip of chamomile tea. “You’ve been so busy in the kitchen, Su. Why don’t you sit with us?”

“No, no, no, I know this is your special time. Keep talking—I have a cherry-bacon tart in the oven. I’ll be back, Pinky.” She gave Ms. Della a sweet peck on the forehead. Then she disappeared into the kitchen, a plume of smoke wafting out of the door.

Ricki smiled. “Y’all are adorable.”

“That woman’s gonna burn down my house,” Ms. Della said with a sigh, besotted.

“But will it be worth it?”

The elder woman smiled bashfully, the lines around her eyes deepening. “Between you, me, and the walls, I think Su is the cat’s pajamas.” She pointed at the TV screen with a shaky finger. “Would you believe she convinced me to watch a program about Jimi Hendrix instead of Great British Bake Off? She’s still a hippie, you know.”

“You weren’t into Jimi in the ’60s?”

“That hooligan?” she said. “No, I liked Dionne Warwick. Barbra Streisand, Aretha. They were so elegant. Look at him! He looks like he’d steal your car clean out from under you!”

And that was exactly what Ricki thought made him so sexy. Giggling, she glanced at the HBO documentary on the screen. A Rolling Stone music critic was explaining how Hendrix came up with the “Voodoo Chile” lyrics.

“Legend has it,” said the critic, “he was at the Scene in New York City, hanging at the bar. Some guy sat next to him, singing something about some old girlfriend who did voodoo, and the moon turning red. Jimi liked the psychedelic sound of it and scribbled the phrases on a napkin. When asked, Jimi couldn’t remember who the man was. Crazy to think that some anonymous cat’s responsible for the greatest blues-rock refrain of all time.”

Ricki sighed, bewitched by this backstory. “I always loved ‘Voodoo Chile’—it’s so sexy. Voodoo symbolism was huge in early jazz and blues songs. This must be a nod to that tradition.”

From the other room, Su shouted, “Exactly! Jimi played good ole Delta blues, but on acid!”

Ms. Della smiled fondly in the direction of the kitchen. Then she whispered to Ricki, “Yesterday, during my nightly chat with Dr. Bennett, I told him about Su. I think he’d approve.”

“Of course he would. Wherever he is now, I’m sure he wants you to be happy.”

“Surely,” she agreed. “Also, there’s no competition, you understand. I’ll love my Dr. Bennett forever. Till the seas rise to take us. Su feels the same about her wife, who passed four years ago. So we’re not serious. There’s a difference between Big Love and a wonderful time.”

“You’re having a wonderful time?” asked Ricki, with a wink.

“Hold your horses, now. Su’s got a bad hip. I’ve got arthritis. Neither one of us is in a position to accept… night company.”

“Night company!”

“But we’re not platonic. She brushes against my arm and I feel things. And she’s researching Russian bathhouses for me. First three bucket list items checked.”