A Love Song for Ricki Wilde (88)
“It’s true; we’re underrepresented in the industry. But look at Justina Blakeney—her Jungalow line is in Target. Hilton Carter’s a magician with green interiors. All over the country, brilliant Black florists are breaking barriers: Andra Collins in Texas, Nikeema Lee in South Carolina, Breigh Jones-Coplin in Denver. Write-ups like yours can only help spread the word.”
“Yes!” On the screen, Ricki watched the reporter nod while clicking keys. “I heard you did wedding florals for quite the elite couple. You must really feel like you’ve made it now.”
“The wedding was so chic. And I’m forever grateful to George and Daniel for the opportunity. They were dream clients, but I don’t believe that because certain people hire you, you’ve ‘made it.’ It’s just as meaningful to me, if not more, that my community has discovered Wilde Things.”
Clementine chewed her lip, tapping a fingernail against her chin. She wasn’t satisfied. “Sorry to ask again, but is there anything you can say about the hardships of being a Black florist? My editor really wants a diversity quote.” She rolled her eyes. “Gen X. You know they need to feel progressive.”
“Girl, I get it. But there is no singular ‘Black florist’ experience. We have varied backgrounds, expertise, influence. And there’s beauty in our diversity. The industry can be racist, of course. Do we get the same funding, gigs, press, or access that white florists do? No, but that’s about white supremacist systems. Blackness itself isn’t limiting; it’s limitless.” And then she added, “For inspo, though, I’d recommend Black Flora by Teresa Speight to your readers. Great read.”
Ezra, propped up next to her against the headboard, reading Flower Color Guide, a coffee-table book from Ricki’s personal library, couldn’t help but overhear the conversation. He was awestruck. It was all he could do not to hop on the bed and whoop for Ricki. In the past few days, he’d made it through almost all her plant books and binged half of The Big Flower Fight on Netflix while Ricki slept.
As he listened, he shimmered with pride. Ricki was able to say all the things he couldn’t to a reporter back in 1928: that Blackness wasn’t a concept, an idea for sale. There is no correlation between our value and white people buying in. Fuck, yes.
Ricki was who he’d always wanted to be.
“Speaking of diverse backgrounds,” the journalist said, “I heard it through the grapevine that you have Mexican ancestry?”
Ricki’s jaw dropped, and Ezra swallowed a guffaw. Her mistaken identity fumble at that networking event was one of his favorite Ricki-isms. It was so endearingly absurd.
As she tried to explain the mix-up, Ezra’s shoulders shook with silent laughter and Ricki struggled mightily to keep a straight face. In that fizzy, light moment, they were finally a regular couple. And they were happy. For that moment, they were happy.
A few hours later, Clementine’s article, “Where the Wilde Things Are,” went live. It quickly hit the top of the “Most Popular” list on The Cut and would eventually be circulated widely by Harlemites, floral designers, FlowerTok, Plantstagram, and a healthy percentage of Georgia State’s 2017 liberal arts graduates.
But that evening, the piece reached one of New York magazine’s most devoted digital followers, Rashida Wilde.
Several states south, she was sitting with her sisters, Regina and Rae, at South City Kitchen in Buckhead, Atlanta. She’d called an emergency dinner to discuss. Their three nearly identical heads were pressed together, peering down at Rashida’s phone, open to “Where the Wilde Things Are,” with intense focus. None of them could believe that their wayward, messy baby sister was experiencing this level of success with her ill-advised, impulsive little flower shop.
“I just don’t understand it, y’all.” Rashida was too shocked to take one more bite of her Local Peach Salad. “How did she pull this off?”
“A goddamned mystery,” breathed Regina.
“Scroll up,” demanded Rae. “See that pic of Ricki with her so-called flower shower? Was that really her idea? She must have a publicist. How can she afford a publicist?”
Stressed, Rashida dropped the phone into her purse. The three women sat back in their seats, silently pushing their food around on their plates. Their bold-shouldered YSL blazers seemed to deflate.
“We need to go up there,” said Regina.
“Tomorrow,” cosigned Rashida and Rae.
Their plane tickets were booked before the check came.
CHAPTER 21
THE WITCHES OF EASTWICK
February 26, 2024
A Lululemon-clad redhead pushing a designer stroller swept into Wilde Things. Her eye was drawn to the casually sharp gentleman in gray jeans and a denim utility shirt, lifting a tropical bouquet onto a high shelf. He had an… important air about him. She made her way over.
“Hi! Do you work here?” she whispered, so as not to wake her baby.
“Morning, ma’am. Yes, I’m director of first impressions. How may I be of service?”
“Well, you make quite a first impression.” She winked.
Ezra stuffed his hands in his pockets and smiled bashfully.
“I’m looking for a plant to give my place a kick. I don’t get a lot of light, though.”