A Love Song for Ricki Wilde (28)

Five-year-old Ricki heard this loud and clear. So much so that she decided to practice. Hours later, Carole caught baby Ricki posed in front of the full-length mirror, dressed up in one of Carole’s sequined Armani gowns, a pound of makeup, and a full-length fur. The white-satin-covered vanity was stamped in lipstick-coated fingerprints. Orange nail polish was spilled down the front of the fur.

“I’m the prettiest, smartest, and most important,” she whispered to herself in Carole’s drawl. “But the big boss will always be a Republican man. Because Eve liked apples.”

Ricki would never forget turning and seeing the color instantly drain from Carole’s face.

Grabbing Ricki’s hand, she yanked her down the hall to the bathroom, stripped off the fur, and then pushed her into the shower, gown and all. Ricki toppled to the tiled floor, crying. It was all so confusing! She was trying to be like Carole! Wasn’t that what she should be doing? When Ricki looked up, she was surprised to see that her mom had tears in her eyes, too.

“Was that your impression of me?” Carole’s voice trembled. “Maybe I’m a joke to you now. But when you’re older, everything I told you will make sense.” Sniffling, she smoothed down her soft, roller-set curls. “I’m just teaching you how to be easier to love.”

As a kid, Ricki had no answers. But adult Ricki made it her mission to find them.

Get out of Harlem, now, while you still can.

What did it mean? As badly as she wanted to turn her life upside down to solve that mystery, to understand the curious electric charge that passed between herself and that stranger, she couldn’t. She had a business to keep alive, and no time to chase white rabbits.

But Tuesday wouldn’t leave it alone.

“You’re not curious about who he is? Or why he told you to leave town?”

“The problem is I’m too curious.” Ricki folded her arms in front of her chest. “All I know is that I can’t engage. Fine men with complicated stories are my kryptonite.”

“I mean, we all have a past.”

“We do. But… well, mine is especially outrageous.” Ricki hesitated a beat. She’d never shared the more ridiculous parts of her history with anyone. Yes, she and Tuesday shared an instant, undeniable connection. But still, if her new best friend knew too much about her, wouldn’t she be put off?

“Listen, Ricki. I’ve seen and done it all. You can tell me anything, and I’d never judge you,” said Tuesday, reading her mind. She pulled a flower out of Ricki’s basket. “I swear on this daisy.”

It was a chrysanthemum, but Ricki was touched nonetheless. For a fleeting moment, it occurred to her that if she hadn’t moved to Harlem, she’d have missed out on finding Tuesday. That one decision had led her to a kindred spirit.

“You’ve heard of UniverSoul Circus, right?” Ricki asked. “When I was sixteen, I fell in love with the eighteen-year-old tightrope walker. When my parents found out, they sent me to live with my aunt for the summer, to get him out of my system. But instead, I joined the circus with him.”

Tuesday gawked. “As… what?”

“Well, I can juggle. Mom made me learn party tricks to entertain dinner guests.”

“I think we have the same mother.”

“The next year, I saw this cutie steal T-shirts from Target. He set off the alarms at the exit, but I told security it was a mistake, he was with me and he’d thought I paid for those shirts. This guy said he was new to Atlanta and had nowhere to stay, so I snuck him into my parents’ house, and he lived in my room for two weeks. The house is big enough that no one noticed. One day, I woke up and he was gone. He’d stolen all the nonperishable food in our pantry.”

“No.”

“And my Mom’s good wigs.”

They walked in silence for a full minute before Tuesday responded.

“It’s funny, I’m used to being the protagonist in every situation. For the first time, I’m a supporting character. I like it here.”

Nearby, a curly-haired twenty-something salesman let out a yelp. “Tuesday Rowe! I love you! What have you been up to?”

“Oh, just waxing and waning with the moon.” She slipped on her shades, and they kept strolling. “Continue, Ricki.”

“Anyway, I’m sick of toxic adventures. I just want to focus on Wilde Things. Tuesday, I need to make this work.”

Tuesday threw an arm over her shoulders. “And you will, babes. You got this! We’re not letting a wealthy maniac block your blessings.”

The two kept browsing until they finally reached Ricki’s favorite seller, Macchione’s Tropical Flowers. Kelly Macchione was the friendly brunette who ran her family’s company, which was started by her great-grandfather, a 1920s nightclub manager who moved on to flowers during the Depression. Kelly grinned brightly at her, and she waved back with a wan, embarrassed smile. Ricki hadn’t been able to afford her blooms in weeks.

Ashamed, Ricki peered down at the last-choice flowers in her basket: a sad array of basic blossoms with just-about-to-wilt petals.

“Look at all these basic pastels,” she said with a sigh. “The Megyn Kelly of flower assortments.”

Tuesday nodded sadly.

“I think,” said Ricki, “this is the beginning of the end.”