A Love Song for Ricki Wilde (33)
A few hours later, during a slow moment at the shop, Ricki was absentmindedly scrolling her IG. Her post already had over four hundred likes! An hour later, it was up to one thousand. The more she looked, the more the likes kept rolling in, at warp speed. And the comments!
@pressed.and.highly.flavored My great-great-aunt told me about the Nest. When she was a teenager, she’d sneak out the house and shake her &ss on tables. She danced in early talkies, too! Check her out in this Youtube clip…
@b00tswiththefur Ever heard of Gladys Bentley, the 1920s drag king? She owned a gay speakeasy back in the day, but I can’t find the address anywhere. Marlene Dietrich and Anna May Wong were always up in there. She deserves her flowers, too!
@imma_rage_quit I nanny for a family near your shop! Wilde Things looks so dope, sis. I’m stopping in today. Full disclosure, I don’t need flowers right now, I’m just starved for adult conversation
A tiny, passionate community had clustered around Ricki’s post—and it felt exhilarating. It felt like validation.
And so she did the same with another arrangement that didn’t sell: a florid dream of alstroemeria sprays, strawflowers, hypericum berries, and poppies. She set this bouquet at the entrance of 2294? Adam Clayton Powell Jr. Boulevard. It used to be Smalls Paradise, Old Harlem’s only Black-owned cabaret, where 1920s waiters danced with serving trays on their heads, and 1940s waiters included a hustler called Detroit Red, who hadn’t yet become Malcolm X. It was now an IHOP. She rested the flowers under the blue awning, blew it a kiss, and snapped an IG pic. The caption read: #WildeThings found at IHOP, formerly Smalls Paradise.
This time, the post hit one thousand likes within the hour. The comments section was lively. And by 3:00 p.m., she’d sold bouquets to three new customers. Even more thrilling, the nearby nanny actually showed up, and, as warned, she didn’t buy anything, but Ricki definitely managed to make a new friend in the neighborhood.
And then. Soon after that second post, a drop-dead sexy couple rushed into Wilde Things with a request. George Gabowski was a superstar makeup artist whose contouring talents were celebrated among pop stars, models, influencers, and Tuesday. His fiancé, Daniel MacClure, was a Mayflower descendant with a thriving wealth management practice and an expensive ex-wife. It was an emergency. The two had planned a chic Valentine’s Day wedding, but their florist had bailed at the last minute due to creative differences regarding a flower crown for George’s pygmy goat. Every florist in town had their hands full with Valentine’s Day. The couple was desperate.
The dazzling blond duo was highly photographed, charitable, and extremely social. Their big day needed to be iconic! Fabulous flowers were essential.
George had been a follower of Ricki’s posts since her early @BOTANYFLOWERSLATELY days and thought her two Harlem history posts were clever and cool. Her maximalist aesthetic was exactly their taste. He wanted her flowers for the wedding, and he wouldn’t take no for an answer.
Suddenly, Ricki had only one week to pull off the biggest job of her life.
CHAPTER 9
THINGS COULD GET DANGEROUS
February 7–14, 2024
Ezra and Ricki agreed to ignore each other. In January, Ricki had had no idea who Ezra was. In February, she saw him everywhere. In fact, she’d run into him daily since their second encounter at the community garden.
Ricki ran into him while perusing the business aisle at Sister’s Uptown Bookstore with Ms. Della. She was in line behind him to pick up red velvet waffles at Chocolat. One morning, she and Tuesday collided with him while en route to get manicures.
Sometimes, Ricki would sense his presence in the vicinity before he noticed she was there. Other times, she’d feel him watching her from a distance, the weight of his gaze warming her skin. Each time, their reaction was always the same: Ricki would gasp in shock, Ezra would flinch with surprise, and then the bumbling awkwardness would set in.
“Oh, uh, s-sorry, you go first. No, I’ll go… Okay, you, bye,” they’d mutter before bolting in opposite directions.
Ricki even tried to think ahead. Instead of going to her usual grocery store, she walked twenty blocks to visit an out-of-the-way organic market. When she reached for the door, she could feel resistance. Someone was pulling on the other side. She yanked, and the other person yanked back. She stopped, her hands on her hips. Of fucking course Ezra Walker bounded through the door with a bag of avocados.
Impossible! But it was intriguing, too. Ricki didn’t want to admit it, but she was becoming addicted to the possibility of running into him. The buzzing anticipation, the frantic surprise. Each time, their meeting felt like a breathless high, and then she fell into a dull low until the next time she saw him. Ricki had no time for this emotional roller coaster. She had to produce wedding florals in basically five minutes.
The day before the wedding, Tuesday and Ms. Della had to drag Ricki from her flower-strewn workstation for brunch at Melba’s Restaurant. Good thing, as Ricki was so swamped, she’d barely eaten in thirty-six hours.
“I need to redo the boutonnieres and the table sprays,” said Ricki. She’d stayed up all night crafting arrangements, and she had the frayed nerves to prove it. “I can’t finish in time!”
“Well, now. Can’t never could,” said Ms. Della, the queen of Southern platitudes. She’d just dyed her teeny-weeny Afro a shocking pink, checking off the first bullet on her bucket list. With her caftans and huge designer glasses, she looked like an edgy art gallerist.