Page 27 of A Love Song for Ricki Wilde

February 5, 2024

We’re not going to talk about this?” asked Tuesday, through a yawn.

It was five o’clock on Monday morning. Ricki had been ignoring her calls since the stakeout. So, in an act of desperation, Tuesday joined her on her daily trip to the Flower District, the colorful block of floral markets on Twenty-Eighth Street in Chelsea. They imported flowers from farms all over the world—the Netherlands, Ecuador, Colombia—and opened early for retailers to have their choice of blooms before the general shopping rush.

“No, we’re not talking about it,” said Ricki, with curt finality, as she made her way through the stalls, a basket dangling from her forearm.

“But you and that dude? Ricki, that was not a stranger vibe. You recognized each other! Tell me I’m wrong.”

“You’re right. I told you, I saw him in that community garden the other day.”

“No, I mean, it looked like youknewknew each other. In a deeper way. Like, from your past. Prom? Ex-fiancé? Brother-in-lawthat you accidentally slept with after one too many spiked eggnogs at Christmas?”

“You haven’t seen my brothers-in-law.”

Ricki stopped at a bush of begonias, kneeling down to assess the color. Oh, this used to thrill her! She usually zoomed out of bed before dawn, excited to take in the Technicolor spectacle of blooms and greenery. Watching seasoned Manhattan florists shop the stock, dreaming up design trends that would soon influence everything from textile prints to wedding style, was such an education.

Flower District shopping was one of her favorite parts of being a florist. Not today, though.

Wilde Things had flatlined. Since her expensive, exquisitely curated creations just weren’t moving, she’d taken to buying discounted stock, which translated to generic bouquets with only about eight hours of life left in them. She hoped that with Valentine’s Day around the corner, maybe the arrangements would sell by default—even though she hated toning down her aesthetic to be palatable.

Ricki had known that running a business would be hard. God knew she’d been forced to listen to enough of her dad’s TED Talks to know that entrepreneurship was about trying new things, failing, innovating, and trying again. But what if she just kept failing?

And was she failing because her focus was… elsewhere?

It was a strong possibility. She had tried, truly, but she couldn’t banish Garden Gentleman—now Mysterious Benefactor—from her head. It had to mean something that they were the same person. Was she being stalked? Or was she just being a chaotic Gemini? No, Tuesday was right—something was there.

Historically, Ricki wasn’t satisfied with unanswered questions, especially as she’d been raised in a house where nothing was questioned, ever. Ricki’s world had been defined before she came into it, and her job was to toe the line.

“Your daddy is our leader,” Carole had announced over breakfast when Ricki was five years old. “What he says goes.”

“Why?”

“Men always lead. That’s how the world works.”

“But you’re a big deal, too, right? You’re an interior decorator! Why’s Daddy the leader just ’cause he’s a man? Why is the stuff he’s good at more special than what you’re good at?”

“Because Eve ate the apple.”

“What if I want to be the boss?”

“You’ll run franchises one day, like your sisters. But Daddy’ll always be the big boss.”

“Corey Jacobs said Daddy’s a… a… ‘Republican race traitor.’ Is that bad?”

“Lord. You like the pool at the country club, don’t you?”

“I love it!”

“Then hush. Your only job in this world is to follow my directions. Where to go to school, what clubs to join, who to marry. Do what I say, and you’ll always be the prettiest, smartest, most important girl in the room. Like your sisters. They were perfect angels who never caused one bit of trouble. And look how they turned out.”

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.

---