A Love Song for Ricki Wilde (65)

Ezra was a clock ticking in an airless, windowless room. He wandered around Paris, inescapably lonely and unable to shake his cosmic purposelessness, until February 1, 1932. It was four years later, the next leap year after his curse. A time when the veil between the physical world and spiritual world grew gossamer thin. His purpose became clear.

On February 1, her face appeared in his dreams. Her, the true love Felice had cursed him with. That day and all February long, he was haunted by her face, as well as disparate, discombobulating musical notes: pieces of a song that he couldn’t make work. He felt a tingling in his chest, a restless tugging, a yearning for memories he hadn’t made yet.

That was the first time Ezra was pulled back to Harlem involuntarily. Before he knew it, he was back in his brownstone. And all month, he roamed the streets, looking for this woman, driven by a grasping longing for his true love, who, if Felice’s curse was to be believed, would die soon after he found her. But on the first day of March, the longing subsided, the visions stalled, and Ezra felt free to leave. And he did, traveling wherever there was music. Saint Louis. Abeokuta. Chicago. London. Trenchtown.

Then, four years later, on February 1 of the next leap year, it all started again. He was visited by her face and the weird snippets of music in his dreams. And once again, he was pulled back to his Harlem brownstone for the month. And it went on and on like this, every February of every leap year, with Ezra spending the first to the twenty-ninth searching Harlem for his Big Love.

When will we meet? he used to wonder. 1944? 1976? 2112? 3068? Not knowing was its own misery. Ezra couldn’t do anything but wait for the day their timelines collided. And then he would have to send her far away from him. He’d prevent another tragedy.

Ezra had pictured her face in his mind for damn near a century but had never seen her in real life. Until he spotted her in the community garden where Eden Lounge used to stand.

“I was terrified,” he admitted in his slow, deep drawl. “It felt like a beginning and an ending. After decades of preparing to meet you, I… wasn’t prepared. Because I knew I’d fall in love, and I knew I’d have to convince you to leave. And deep down, I knew you wouldn’t.” He cast his gaze downward. “I’ve had too much loss in my life. I can’t bear this.”

Ricki considered the way Ezra delivered these comments with absolute frankness. It made him sound even crazier. She backed away from him slowly, into the kitchen, until her ass hit the counter.

“You’re saying that you’re not twenty-eight. You’re actually an old man.”

“Well, I’m twenty-eight, but I’ve been twenty-eight since 1928. So technically, I’m a hundred twenty-four.” And then he attempted levity. “I’m not old; I’m chronologically premium.”

Ricki glared at him with blazing fury. Ezra gulped, realizing that this was no time for jokes.

“I’ve practiced explaining this to you in a thousand different ways,” he went on, his eyes pleading. “But every way sounds insane. I know.”

“I don’t think you do.” She tried to still the tremble in her voice. “Let’s recap, shall we? You were a famous jazz pianist during the Renaissance. You were living it up until you played at a rent party in my shop. At which point your girlfriend hexed you and jumped off the roof.”

“The roof of this building,” he noted. “It bears repeating.”

“And, allegedly, this is your piano.” She stormed over to it and slammed her hand down on the top. An obliterating force leveled her, sending warm tingles through her body.

Ezra watched her, his gaze possessive.

“It’s mine,” he said quietly. “Probably why it makes you feel like that.”

Ricki snatched her hand away, like she’d just touched an open flame.

“Sure. And every leap year February you’re drawn to Harlem to find your soulmate. And I’m really expected to believe that’s me.”

Planting his hands behind him on the floor, Ezra leaned back a little. Gravely, his eyes searched her face.

“I don’t know, Ricki…,” he started. “Do you believe you’re my soulmate?”

And then, for a moment, as their gazes collided, sense-memory scenes of the night before hit her like a sudden punch. His mouth, his tongue, his hands, the hungry desperation of his growl as he sank into her the first time. Her connection to Ezra Walker felt earth-shattering.

God, Ricki was so weak for him. Still. Even knowing that he was out of his mind.

Keep it together, she thought, taking a restorative inhale. Don’t falter.

“And Felice?” she went on, in an unsteady voice. “Her family? Her people?”

“Her mother was sent her belongings: her clothes, shoes, and the pearl bracelet. Maybe her things are still in the family. Her death didn’t even make the papers; I doubt it’d even appear in civic records.”

“Convenient. Well, don’t think I won’t do my research,” she threatened.

“Ricki, I know it sounds like malarkey. But why would I invent all this?”

“Shrooms? Peyote? Multiple personality disorder? I’ve dated guys who’ve had experience with all three. I know the symptoms.”

“Listen to me,” said Ezra, getting up off the floor. This time, Ricki let him, but she still backed away into the kitchen, maintaining a safe distance. “We’re fated. It’s why we kept running into each other. It wasn’t a coincidence. We were destined to fall for each other.”