A Love Song for Ricki Wilde (5)

“Oh. An incident with my mom’s Porsche. Did you know that wild turkeys attack cars if they see their reflection in the windows?”

“You found out the hard way, I suppose.”

“No, actually I’d read about it in National Geographic, and then I drove into Vineyard Poultry Farm to test it out with local turkeys. They mangled the car door and waddled away without a scratch.” She sighed. “My psychiatrist diagnosed me as ‘terminally curious.’”

“I declare!” Ms. Della pronounced it Idy Claire, like a woman’s name, and then she let out a bell-like, twinkling chuckle.

“So,” started Ricki, “why did you move to Harlem?”

“Hmm. Where does one start?” It struck Ricki that Ms. Della might be the most refined, correct person she’d ever encountered. She wondered if she’d ever had an improper moment. “It was my dream, I suppose. You see, I’m ninety-six, and…”

“Ninety-six? You?”

“Swim aerobics.” She winked. “Anyway. In my day, women tucked away their own desires to support their husbands. I loved Dr. Bennett more than life, so I was happy to do so.” She clasped her hands together. “He was my sweetheart. Do you have a sweetheart?”

“No, ma’am. I don’t think I’ve ever had one.”

“You will.” She smiled. “To me, love is like listening to an album. Some people skip to their favorite songs and ignore the rest. Other people listen to the entire album over and over, until it’s familiar and cherished and they know every note by heart. That’s how Dr. Bennett and I loved each other. He was music I could listen to forever.”

Ricki blinked at this stranger’s striking face. She’d never experienced love like that, and she’d doubted it existed outside of urban legend. But the way Ms. Della put it, transformative love sounded actually attainable. She wondered if she’d ever find it for herself.

“Dr. Bennett sounds like a wonderful man,” breathed Ricki, enchanted by the older woman. “I can’t imagine how it must feel to love and lose a soulmate.”

“The love doesn’t stop just ’cause he’s gone,” Ms. Della said with careful practicality. “And to answer your earlier question, I’d always hoped to live in Harlem. After living most of my life following Dr. Bennett’s lead, it was time for me to realize my own dream.”

“It’s like that Langston Hughes poem,” said Ricki. “What happens to a dream deferred? Does it dry up like a raisin in the sun?”

Ricki worried her bottom lip with her teeth. The poem used to hang on the wall of her Sunday school classroom. To little Ricki, deferring a dream sounded like torture.

Ms. Della frowned at her, not unkindly. “What’s troubling you, sugar? It looks like you’ve got the blues.”

“Is it that obvious?”

“Well, I know from the blues, myself.” She lowered her voice. “Turbulent moods run in my family, they say.”

“Seriously? You seem so positive, so upbeat.”

“Lexapro,” she divulged. “But how about you? What’s wrong?”

Her gentle presence and precise, direct way of speaking were so soothing to Ricki. But older Black women always melted her. As Ricki was a late-in-life baby, her grandmothers and great-aunts had died before she was born, and she’d always longed for that connection. This woman made her want to spill all her feelings.

“My family owns this business. But it’s not for me. What I’m good at, what I love, has no value here.” She sighed miserably. “I’m a horticulturist.”

Ms. Della’s mouth dropped open. “A whore-to-what, now?”

“No, I’m a HORTICULTURIST,” she pronounced carefully.

“Ah. My hearing. Go on.”

“Flowers, greenery, plants. They’re my life. I want to open my own flower shop. A magical, fragrant space. I want to surround myself with life, not death.” She looked at Ms. Della shyly. “There’s an abandoned shed in the woods, a few miles from my parents’ house. It’s my favorite place on Earth. It’s so old that nature has taken over, with vines and bushes growing wild. I want a shop like that, where the outside converges with the inside. An urban oasis.”

“Sounds real nice, like Eden.” Ms. Della’s eyes softened, and a silent kinship settled between the two of them. It was the first time Ricki had heard anything other than ridicule over her idea. It was thrilling, sharing an instant understanding with a stranger. It felt like relief.

“I’ve been saving half my paycheck for this for years! But the spaces I can afford to rent are all wrong. Too industrial, too modern.” She looked down at her hands. “I just have one chance to prove myself. No one believes in me, and I constantly second-guess myself, but I know I can make this shop a success. You know how some things just make sense?”

“Hmm,” said Ms. Della cryptically. Then she pulled a photograph out of her wallet and passed it to Ricki. “Don’t know if you’re looking to leave the state. But this is my brownstone in Harlem. I live on the top three floors, and there’s a boarded-up ground-floor apartment that’s been empty since the 1920s. Lord knows I don’t know what to do with it.

“Now, this may sound funny, Ricki. But the apartment feels like it’s holding its breath. Just waiting for the right person to bring it back to life. Wouldn’t it make a pretty flower shop?”