A Love Song for Ricki Wilde (52)

“Oh, that’s yours. You need it,” said Ezra, emerging with an armful of Life magazines, the top one opened to a profile on Ray Charles from July 1966.

“It’s a testament to Jamie Foxx’s performance,” declared Ricki, “that I can’t look at that man without seeing his face.”

Ezra’s jaw dropped. “Say again?”

“I said what I said,” she chirped playfully.

“Oh, you cuttin’ up. Jamie Foxx is talented, but this is Ray Charles. I mean, when he was young, he needed some coaching. His right hand was on the weaker side, so I…”

Ricki raised a brow. “You what? What were you going to say?”

“Nothing, just stopping myself before I get too technical,” he said quickly. “So. You trying on that dress?”

“I should, right?” She stepped in front of a floor-length mirror, examining it. “My mom had a dress like this. That maniac has style, if nothing else.

“Here, try this on,” she said, grabbing a tuxedo jacket from a rack marked “1920s.” The lapel was scented with long-ago cologne. Ezra held it against his chest as they stood side by side in front of the floor-length mirror.

They saw themselves together, as a pair, for the first time. And they fit.

Their hands moved toward each other, their pinkies brushing. Ricki felt something shifting between them, like their molecules had been rearranged.

“So, what did you have to tell me?” she asked Ezra, her voice trembling. “I need to know. Now. Because this feels too good.”

Just then, the flea market proprietor stepped over to them. He was a slightly stooped seventy-year-old man wearing an Adidas tracksuit. Ezra grabbed his wallet from his pocket and slipped him cash to pay for their pieces. Then he noticed the guy’s face and drew back. It was subtle, but just enough for Ricki to notice.

“You’re a good-looking couple,” the guy said.

“Thank you!” she exclaimed. And, true to form, Ricki continued by oversharing. “We’re making the most out of our final hours together. For reasons unknown, this is our last date.”

“Good. Otherwise, you’d be making a terrible mistake.”

“I’m sorry?” She flinched, searching for signs that he was joking. “What do you…”

“I mean, you two better stay away from each other,” ordered the guy, pointing an accusatory finger at them. “Only darkness awaits.”

Ezra’s features turned to stone. Grabbing Ricki’s hand, he led her out into the street, leaving behind the clothes, the magazines, and forty dollars in change.

Ricki couldn’t grasp what had just happened. “Ezra, what was he talking about?”

“Poor fella. Mental health care is draconian in this country,” said Ezra. “You won’t remember him in a month, anyway.”

You’ll forget him in a month, anyway.

Now, where had she heard that before?


By the time they walked back to Wilde Things, it was around 9:00 p.m. Their tipsiness had faded into a pleasant, cozy buzz, and that bizarre encounter was, for now, on the back burner.

Ricki stood in her doorway and peered up at Ezra. “Do you… want to come in? Have some bad Keurig coffee? A nightcap?”

“No.” The sadness in his face was like a punch in her heart. “I should decline.”

“Right. Of course. So, do you want to break up with me here, or inside?”

They looked at each other, both aching with pain over losing a person they barely knew. A dry wind whipped around them, tossing Ricki’s hair.

“I don’t want this night to end,” he said, his voice low.

“Then come inside for a sec.” She forced a smile. “Wanna see my square piano? You can tell me if it’s worth any money, at least.”

Ezra had no excuses left. In silence, Ricki led him through the lush garden of Wilde Things and back into her apartment. A single beam of moonlight shimmered through the window above her bed. The radiator clanged. A siren went off in the distance. Out in the street, someone laughed, a tinny, faraway sound.

And Ezra was frozen in front of the piano. Even in darkness, Ricki could make out his haunted, stormy expression, like he was fighting a war that Ricki didn’t understand.

Finally, he moved, running his fingers along the piano top.

“Do you want to play?” whispered Ricki. She perched on the edge of her bed, behind the piano bench. “That song I heard you working on?”

Ezra sat at the piano, back facing her, and pushed open the lid to expose the keys. Moonlight danced on his skin. He looked beatific. Ricki watched him, taking in the lines of his strong back and shoulders under his shirt, the skin of his neck. It was quiet, so quiet.

With a weighty exhale, Ezra rubbed his hands together. He worked his knuckles and curled his hands into fists. Then he hovered his trembling fingertips over the keys.

Ezra glanced at her over his shoulder. His eyes glistened with unshed tears.

“I can’t.” His voice was low, strangled. “I think I need you. To play. I think you were the missing piece.”

Ricki understood. Instantly, she was at the piano. In a smooth, unbroken gesture, he pulled her onto his lap so that they faced each other, Ricki straddling him.

They were nose to nose, forehead to forehead, lips ghosting each other. With a husky groan, Ezra gripped her hips and sealed her against the strong planes of his chest, wrapping her legs around his waist. There was no space between them. Just raw, rising desire.