A Love Song for Ricki Wilde (89)
“I see.” Thinking, he scratched the side of his jaw and cocked his head. “How about a low-light flowering plant? Like begonias or African lilies. They can grow anywhere, I’ve heard tell. Just make sure they get at least eight hours of artificial light daily.”
The redhead beamed, satisfied. She left with a great bundle of African lilies and a tiny parlor palm plant for her baby’s nursery (the tall hottie with the Tupac lashes assured her it would help purify the air).
From the outside, things looked perfect. It was a clear, sunny day, and the shop was, if not packed, definitely almost bustling. Ricki mingled with her clients, looking cute in a full ’50s tulle skirt, a clingy tee reading BUY BLACK, and Capezio ballet flats. She looked calm enough. That is, if you didn’t notice the dark bags under her eyes. Or the worried pinch to her brow. Or the fact that Ezra was nursing a similar pained look under his courteous, helpful smiles.
Across the room, their haunted eyes locked on each other. The air crackled with the intensity of their longing. They’d been like this all day, veering between panicked melancholy and an electric ache. They had three days left. Time was winding down, as steady as the final remaining sands through an hourglass. Reality had set in.
And the only comfort they felt was when they were no more than five inches apart.
But it was impossible for Ricki and Ezra to be together constantly. Ricki wept in silence in the shower. Ezra returned from grocery runs with his eyes hollow and his mouth drawn. Following these quiet, devastating moments, they’d run to each other—grasping and dizzy with need—with nothing left to say.
Ricki did have things to say to Ms. Della. But Ms. Della had utterly iced her out. Ricki was at a loss. She’d slipped letters under her door. She’d left voicemails and floral arrangements, baked cookies and cakes. She spotted Naaz coming and going less frequently and wondered if she’d moved in with Ms. Della to provide around-the-clock care. Her health was clearly declining, and it gutted Ricki. Who’d care for Ms. Della after she was gone? She’d been in the older woman’s life for such a short time, but they were family. At this moment especially, Ricki missed Ms. Della’s no-nonsense outlook, the gentle arm pats, the comforting cups of tea. Ricki needed to reconcile with her.
While Ricki was wrestling with these thoughts at her workstation, Ezra was pulled away from his current customer by Tuesday, who’d just rushed into the shop out of nowhere.
“Sorry to bust in on your sale, but I really owe you an apology,” said Tuesday as she led him to the emerald throne in the far corner. Her face was barely visible behind a snapback.
“What for?” Ezra wasn’t sure which thing she was apologizing for. Breaking into his house, maybe?
“I hate the way I acted at that wedding. Trying to fight you and all. Old habits die hard.”
“No need to apologize.” Ezra meant it.
“Seriously?”
He shrugged lightheartedly. “You were looking out for your friend. It’s honorable.”
“Here’s the thing about me. In general, I feel like men are guilty until proven innocent. I know it’s problematic, but…” She let out a defeatist exhale. “Look, I’m still healing, okay?”
“We’re all healing from something,” he said, his voice filled with understanding. He leaned against the wall. “Say no more.”
“Also,” Tuesday continued, “in my defense, you acted scary.” Lowering her brim, she whispered, “The way you kept quote-unquote running into Ricki? How was I supposed to know you two were magical soulmates rendered helpless to the involuntary gravitational pull of love?”
“If you’d guessed that, you’d be the scary one.”
“I don’t think for a second that you two are in real trouble. Curse or no curse,” said Tuesday with a dismissive wave. Ricki had been trying to say a permanent goodbye to her for days, but she refused to allow it. “Light overpowers dark. And love conquers all.”
“That’s what they say,” he said ruefully. He could barely stand to hear it said out loud. He was too old to believe in slogans.
“Anyway, I wanted to let you know that I’m not an asshole, Ezra. I’m just protective.”
He chuckled at this. It was clear to Ezra why Ricki was drawn to Tuesday. This woman was a force of nature. “I knew I was just seeing one side of you. I could always tell by your performance on Ready Freddy that you’re multifaceted. Creativity bends; it contorts.”
“Hold on.” She took a step back and pointed at him. “You watched my show?”
“I never missed an episode!” he said passionately. “I’ve been a TV junkie since the birth of the art form.”
“I keep forgetting you’re an old person.” She shook her head, marveling. “It’s so Freaky Friday. I can’t.”
“You brought such depth to your character. I loved the episode when you auditioned for cheerleading but forgot the routine and ran offstage to the bathroom…”
“And sat on the toilet, crying, and when I stood up, the audience saw the bottom of my skirt had fallen in the toilet.”
“You played it for laughs, but it broke my heart. Your talent’s plumb astounding.”
Slowly, Tuesday’s face brightened under her hat. She rarely heard anything positive about her acting—it was always about her looks, her sexy figure.