February 15, 2024
After closing the next day, Ricki went straight upstairs to Ms. Della’s for their weekly tea. She’d missed last week due to Ms. Della’s doctor’s appointment, so they hadn’t had quality alone time in a while. As Ms. Della was her therapist, emotional touchstone, and sole voice of reason, Ricki was sorely missing her.
The elder woman knew everything about everything, and what she didn’t care to learn about, she dismissed as inconsequential. Ricki thought this was an extremely anti-stress way to live. Why let something insignificant occupy space in your brain? The woman was born in 1927. She’d seen almost a century of human nature. She could not be convinced of an air fryer’s value, nor did she care to discern the difference between AOC, RBG, TMI, and an IUD. Which was fine. She had a beautiful home, mental clarity, and the energy (and muscle tone) of women half her age. What else was there?
Ricki needed to inject some of this no-nonsense practicality into her veins.
Wilde Things was revving up, slowly but surely. The day after Valentine’s Day was notoriously brutal on florists, candy shops, and department stores, but after Ricki’s stunning arrangements at the wedding, she’d clocked five orders—expensive ones. Even still, she had in-store bouquets that she couldn’t sell, which she was learning was a sad reality of floral retail. Per her new tradition, Ricki laid her bouquets at Old Harlem addresses and kept it moving. She left a bouquet at 224 West 135th Street, the original 1909 offices of the NAACP, which were now a beauty salon, then another at 2227 Adam Clayton Powell Jr. Boulevard, formerly Lafayette Theatre, once showcasing world-famous vaudeville acts, now under construction for condos.
Each new flower post, brilliantly art-directed at a long-dead landmark, was garnering her a thousand more likes than the one before. They weren’t simply flower shots; they were odes to slices of Black history. The posts were starting to get reposted on every social platform. Selling the flowers would’ve been ideal, of course, but Ricki told herself that the social media marketing was invaluable.
And as her following steadily grew, she pushed herself more and more, designing until her eyes crossed.
A part of her hoped that the harder she worked, the more distance she’d place between herself and the gnawing ache to solve the mystery of Ezra. To know him. It was a sickness with a cure teasingly, maddeningly out of reach. She hated getting this worked up over a man who wasn’t even her man. But there was no denying it. She had it bad.
“Ooh, you’ve got it bad,” announced Ms. Della, confirming Ricki’s suspicions.
“I know,” she sighed, sinking into her favorite armchair. She took a sip of chamomile tea from Ms. Della’s elegant Wedgwood cup. “And I don’t even know him. All I know is he’s intense, mysterious, and… really kind.”
“Look at you! Grinning like a possum.”
“He has beautiful manners, a true old-school gentleman. And Ms. Della, he’s fine.” Her eyes went hazy a little, then she frowned. “Maybe I’m just ovulating.” She paused. “But even though we’ve only spoken in-depth twice, each time it’s like three conversations in one. I’ve never revealed so much to a man so quickly. You know when you’re up late at night, reading, and the lines between reality and the book get fuzzy, time becomes elastic, and you fade into the story?”
“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.”
Beaming, Ricki rose out of her chair and sat next to Ms. Della on the couch, flinging her arms around her. She was awed by this ninety-six-year-old’s determination.
“You’re my hero, you know that?”
“You’re mine, dear! Moving to a big city out of the clear blue to follow your dreams? I envy your moxie. You’ve done what we couldn’t do, back in my day. You should be proud.”
Ricki squeezed her tighter, overcome with emotion. How could she be Ms. Della’s hero, when Ms. Della had lived such a long, extraordinary life? Ricki felt special, chosen. But she also understood that to Ms. Della, a product of her time, Ricki’s independence and ambition must seem like an extraordinary gift.
“You know, dear, I sometimes wonder what mark I will have left on the world when I go. What was my purpose here? I’m not so sure. I should figure that out soon, I reckon. No one ever knows how much time is left.”
Ricki was silent, grasping for something to say. Why was Ms. Della talking like this? Sure, she was closer to death than not, but Ricki had never heard her speak so candidly about the end of her life.
And then Ms. Della coughed, a racking, painful sound, and Ricki drew away to give her space. She coughed again—one, two, three, four times, into her elbow. “I declare! My tea must’ve gone down the wrong pipe.”
Ms. Della hadn’t touched her cup in at least five minutes.
“Back to what I was saying,” she continued, her voice scratchy. “Don’t misunderstand me; I’ve had a good life. I just wish I’d taken more chances.”
“Had a good life? Why are you speaking in past tense?”
“I’m ninety-six, dear,” she said with a knowing chuckle, sliding her oversized frames up her nose. “I could pass any time.”
It wasn’t until then that Ricki noticed three pill bottles in a wooden bowl on her coffee table. “Ms. Della, is that new medication?”
She waved her hands in a dismissive gesture. “Oh, it’s nothing alarming, just some pills to strengthen my old bones. Prevent osteoporosis, that sort of thing.” She smiled and patted Ricki on the thigh. “Enough about me. You need to find out more about this Ezra.”
Ricki sighed with her entire body. “Tuesday thinks he’s going to kidnap and kill me.”
“Well, now, no one’s ever had fun by actively trying not to get killed.” Ms. Della settled back into the couch. “Everything is a risk. Dr. Bennett and I were watching a horse race once. A dead vulture fell clean out of the sky at remarkable speed, knocking a jockey on the head and breaking the man’s neck.”
Ricki gawked. “A dead vulture?”
“Apparently, the bird suffered a fatal heart attack midflight.” Ms. Della shook her head at the tragedy while Ricki stared at her, wide-eyed. “And don’t you know that horse won the race? Galloped to first place with a dead jockey on his back.”
Ricki almost erupted in a spit take. “Ms. Della, you can’t be serious.”
“Your generation makes such a commotion over those Marvelle pictures. Please! That was entertainment.” She coughed harshly, which made her look vulnerable and fragile. Smaller, somehow. Closer to her age.
“Point being,” she continued, “you can’t predict your dying day, Ricki. And you can’t cheat it, either. If you want something? Get it while you can.”
From the kitchen, Suyin started belting out Janis Joplin’s “Get It While You Can.”
Ms. Della smiled, her eyes soft and fawning. “I do hope she’s paying attention to the oven. In any event, I want you to stop making yourself crazy trying to understand this gentleman. Let’s toast to seeing where the adventure takes you.”
Ms. Della attempted to raise her teacup, but her shakes were too severe. So she set it back down, and then Ricki clinked it with her cup.
“Cheers.”
Later, after Ms. Della and Suyin dropped unsubtle hints that it was time for them to watch Cake Boss, Ricki dragged herself downstairs to her apartment. Exhausted from the day, she peeled off all her New York–winter layers, leaving a trail of clothes from the hallway to her bedroom.
Finally, clad in only a white Hanes old man tank top and boy shorts, she turned on Stevie Wonder’s Journey Through the Secret Life of Plants. Her peace lilies needed some musical love; they were looking a little limp. And then she plunked herself down at her special square piano, not even bothering to turn on the lights. Ricki had practically stayed up all night working the past three days. She was damn near delirious with exhaustion.
Gingerly, Ricki laid her forehead against the closed piano lid. She slowly rolled her forehead back and forth against the smooth veneer of the old wood. As always, she marveled at how… comfortable… this spot was.
This piano had old stories in it—Harlem Renaissance stories—and it felt like the lives embedded in the grain of the wood were on her side, somehow. Soothing her, calming her. When Ricki sat there, she felt held.
I guess you don’t choose your favorite places, she thought. They choose you.
Tonight, she needed to be calmed. Saying how she felt about Ezra out loud to Ms. Della had knocked her sideways. Her skin was thrumming, her heart throbbing. Honestly, she’d never been so smitten, so swept away. It was a foreign concept; she’d never gotten lost in someone before. With Ezra, it didn’t feel like she had a choice. It felt like gravity pulling her down, down, down, and she was on the precipice of losing control.
When Ricki had told Ezra that she wasn’t afraid of what she didn’t understand, it was the truth. But she wasn’t satisfied with accepting that he was unknowable. Ricki ached to go deeper. She needed to.
Ezra had penetrated her thoughts.
With a languid sigh, Ricki sat up, pushing back the piano lid to expose the keys. Gently, she ran her fingers across them. She fingered a few, and they landed with an atonal thunk. She wished she could see Ezra play. Ricki imagined what his hands must look like in motion, working the ivories, coaxing them to sing. The mastery of it, the concentration.
Fuck, was the heat up too high? She laid her palm against her chest, her skin feeling sunburn hot and dewy with perspiration. You couldn’t control the temperature in these old New York houses. The clanking hothouse radiators were part of the “charm.” She swiped her forehead with the back of her hand and then unhooked her bra and pulled it through the armhole of her tank.
Ricki wondered where he’d trained and if he’d ever written music for a woman. (Come on, of course he had.) Had the woman been worth it? Had she wept at the gesture? His skill? The beauty? Was Ezra careful with his power? Or did he seduce for fun? Everything about him—his scent, the low drawl of his voice, that lingering, heated gaze—his entire being was a fucking provocation. But his walls were up. And so were hers.
If Ezra had her this undone already, what could he do to her if their walls ever came down?
With a small, frustrated whimper, Ricki rested her forehead against her arms on top of the piano. She squeezed her thighs together, trying to stop the simmering, low throb, but it was impossible to ignore.
Involuntarily, she rolled her hips in the heavy darkness, imagining his hands on her. His mouth, the tip of his tongue skimming her skin. Kissing her, biting, teasing, making her shake, making her wet, making her his.
Her whole body was humming now. Ricki slid her hand down between her legs, pressing herself against her palm. Tingles surged through her and she gasped into the darkness, her eyelids fluttering shut. And then she did something that surprised the entire hell out of her.
Placing a knee on the keys, Ricki crawled on top of the piano. She laid her cheek on the backs of her hands, feeling the supple wood against her core, breathing in the smoky, musky old scent. She imagined the piano pulsing, vibrating, throbbing with music beneath her. It was a dizzying sensation. And then, because of course, Ricki slid her hand under her body and down into the heat of her panties. She pressed her hips against her hand, rubbing herself slowly, her thighs beginning to quiver.
In her mind, she seized the power from Ezra. Because she was always the one who teased, who lured, who decided, and she dreamed of what she could do to him, how she could break him down, make him beg, punish him for torturing her like this.
I want him shameless, drowning, she thought. I need him to feel as desperate as he’s making me feel.
Did he know what he was doing to her?
A choked gasp escaped her as she writhed against her hand, waves rising and rising. She clenched her thighs together as the first sparks of orgasm spread deliciously through her, on and on until she was weak, panting helplessly.
When Ricki regained her senses—and her sense—she had exactly two thoughts.
The first being Did I really just fuck a piano? This is either a new high or a new low.
The second: If Ezra Walker ever touches me, I’ll die.