A Love Song for Ricki Wilde, page 1
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2024 by Tia Williams
Cover design by Sarah Congdon. Cover photograph © 2023 Hachette Book Group/by Adrian McDonald. Cover copyright © 2024 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Williams, Tia, 1975- author.
Title: A love song for Ricki Wilde / Tia Williams.
Description: First edition. | New York : Grand Central Publishing, 2024.
Identifiers: LCCN 2023036601 | ISBN 9781538726709 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781538726723 (ebook)
Subjects: LCGFT: Romance fiction. | Novels.
Classification: LCC PS3623.I566 L68 2024 | DDC 813/.6—dc23/eng/20230818
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2023036601
ISBNs: 9781538726709 (hardcover), 9781538726723 (ebook)
E3-20231108-JV-NF-ORI
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1: Botany Flowers Lately
Chapter 2: Night-Blooming Jasmine
Chapter 3: Carolina Shout
Chapter 4: Mysterious Benefactor
Chapter 5: Your Vibe Attracts your Tribe
Chapter 6: Sexy Sepia Shenanigans
Chapter 7: Tragic or Romantic?
Chapter 8: Stroke of Genius
Chapter 9: Things Could Get Dangerous
Chapter 10: Night Company
Chapter 11: A Beacon for the Lost
Chapter 12: Flower Shower
Chapter 13: Transcendent and Ruinous and Soulmate-Perfect
Chapter 14: Everywhere and Nowhere
Chapter 15: You’re the Bee’s Knees, Breeze
Chapter 16: Chronologically Premium
Chapter 17: Bw + Ff
Chapter 18: Little Spooned
Chapter 19: The Forrest Gump of Music
Chapter 20: Sex Break
Chapter 21: The Witches of Eastwick
Chapter 22: Burying a Grudge
Chapter 23: A Love Song for Ricki Wilde
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Discover More
Reading Group Guide Discussion Questions
Author Q&A
About the Author
Also by Tia Williams
For my eighth grade English teacher, Mr. Marchese, at Osterholz American Junior High School in Osterholz, Germany. He told me I was destined to write novels, and I believed him.
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PROLOGUE
Leap years are strange. And because February 29 exists only every four years, it is a rare, charged day. In the old days, back home, folks whispered that it was an enchanted time. When the veil between this world and the other was gossamer thin.
The same folks also thought you could get pregnant from wearing a boy’s shoes. So I never believed them. Until Ricki and Ezra.
Depending upon your level of skepticism, you’ll think their story is either (a) evidence that wondrous, unknowable magic exists in the world, or (b) a tall tale. Now, I can’t tell you what to believe. But I will say that the truth is usually right under your nose.
So keep your eyes open and pay attention.
Leap years are, indeed, strange. And nothing is what it seems.
CHAPTER 1
BOTANY FLOWERS LATELY
June 11–21, 2023
Twenty-eight-year-old Ricki Wilde possessed many talents. She could spot the chicest fashions in the jankiest thrift stores. She refurbished furniture beautifully. She collected interesting words (like “interrobang”: the combination of an exclamation point and a question mark, used to express dismay). Plus, she cooked exquisite cannabis candy and, within three notes, could pinpoint the exact year of any pop, R&B, or hip-hop song in history.
But Ricki was terrible at one very important thing. Being a Wilde.
As the youngest member of an illustrious family dynasty—the Wildes of Wilde Funeral Homes Inc., the national chain founded in 1932—Ricki knew that her family thought she was an Unserious Person. Her only resemblance to the Wildes was her face, which was a carbon copy of those of her socialite sisters, Rashida, Regina, and Rae. (Each born a year apart, they were frequently referred to as Rashidaginarae.) But where her sisters were long-stemmed roses, Ricki, younger than Rae by fifteen years, was a dandelion. A bloom that looked like a flower but was really a weed: born to erupt into fluff, floating wherever the wind blew.
Tonight was the Wildes’ Sunday dinner. But it wasn’t just dinner. It was her family’s weekly business meeting. No husbands, kids, or tardiness permitted. Ricki parallel parked hastily at the foot of the driveway and flew up the steps to the front door of her parents’ Buckhead, Atlanta, estate. Hastily, she checked the time on her phone. She was four minutes early—a first! Usually, Ricki sprinted in as the first course was served, sputtering apologies. Her lateness was sometimes excused (I-75 traffic), but usually not (a risky one-night stand holding her hostage in a trailer). Either way, it was never forgotten.
Tonight, Ricki had to be on her best behavior. For once, she had important news to share. Life-changing, game-changing news.
Quickly, she checked her reflection in the glass inset in the door. She needed to feel powerful, true to herself, which translated into a ’70s halter dress, ’60s gold platforms, and ’80s dolphin hoops, all thrifted from her favorite consignment shops. She fluffed her shoulder-length twist-out and smiled.
Perfect, she thought with ballsy defiance. You are a strong, confident woman with a brilliant business plan and a bright future ahead. You are you, and you are enough.
Upon further reflection, she removed her septum piercing.
And then, calling upon the posture she’d learned at Beauregard School of Etiquette (integrated by her mom, class of ’68), Ricki straightened her shoulders and swept into the house.
The rest of the Wildes were already seated in the grand dining room, cocktailing and chatting.
“… but, Regina, no one gets caught for tax evasion anymore,” her mother, Carole, was saying as Ricki rushed in. Ricki’s father, Richard, paused mid–sip of wine to sigh at his youngest child. Her sisters’ Botoxed brows, none of which had moved a millimeter in a decade, struggled to frown in disapproval.
Ricki slid into her chair. The table was elegantly plated for the first course, a light gazpacho prepared by James, her parents’ longtime butler. Spiffy in a walnut-colored suit, James matched the dark wood and chintz upholstery of the dining room. He dutifully refreshed everyone’s glass except for Carole’s, as she chugged vodka neat from a Hamilton tumbler that the whole city pretended contained water. Then Ricki greeted her family.
“Hi, Mom. Hi, Dad.” Ricki smiled brightly at her parents and then nodded tersely in her sisters’ direction. “T-Boz, Chilli, Left Eye.”
Rashida shot daggers at her.
“What’d I miss, y’all?” asked Ricki, with more enthusiasm than she’d ever shown at Sunday dinner.
“Forget what you missed. Why are you dressed like every member of Sister Sledge?” asked Regina. Like Rashida and Rae, she wore crisp, colorless designer separates and a swingy silk press. The Rashidaginarae uniform.
“It’s obscene, wearing used clothes when everyone knows we have money,” scoffed Rae, who’d never forgiven Ricki for replacing her as the baby.
“Now, girls, don’t count coins at the table,” slurred Carole, diamonds twinkling at her earlobes. She was already toasted.
“She’s just so zany, Mother,” groaned Regina. “We all know these costumes are just a distraction from her exhausting personality.”
“I’m not zany,” said Ricki, stealing a roll from her mom’s plate. “I’m idiosyncratic.”
Her whole life, Ricki’s sisters had roasted
“Girls, let your sister be,” fussed Carole. Once extravagantly pretty, she now had the disoriented look of a prom queen stranded in the wilds of her midseventies with no ride home. “She looks like me, way back when. Though I never exposed my bosom. I always say, ‘To look your best, don’t lead with breasts.’”
“I’ve never heard you say that,” said Regina.
“Well, you’re flat as paper,” said Carole, swirling the ice in her tumbler.
Richard Wilde Sr., an impeccably suited gentleman who was not a debauched megachurch pastor but looked like one, stayed silent. A millionaire CEO, TED Talk king, and New York Times bestselling author of the iconic business book Till Death: Monetizing the Inevitable, Richard talked for a living but was a man of few words at home. The less he gave, the hungrier his family was for his attention. Especially his oldest daughters, who each owned several Wilde Funeral Homes franchises and were in competition to be the family’s next greatest business mind.
Ricki did not own a franchise. She didn’t own anything of her own. Yet.
“Back to business,” said Rashida. “As I was saying, I’m swamped this week. My designer and I have been finalizing the interiors of my new house. Massive undertaking…”
“Are you using Baylor Washington this time?” asked Regina.
“No one uses him after he did that former reality star’s rental.” Rashida’s voice lowered to a whisper. “Rhymes with BeBe Reakes.”
Carole yelped.
“Anyway,” Rashida continued, “despite being booked and busy, I just signed the contract on our first Pass Away Café!” She beamed proudly. “Now we can discuss final plans with grieving families over fruit tarts and cognac-spiked lattes.”
Ricki paused midbite. “The brunchification of death, Rashida? Really?”
Rashida tossed her hair. “It’ll be a nippy day in hell when I take business notes from a receptionist who barely graduated from a state school.”
“I’m not a receptionist, okay? My official title is director of first impressions.”
Technically, they were both correct. Ricki was the director of first impressions at Wilde Funeral Homes’ flagship property on Peachtree Street, and it was, indeed, a fancy synonym for “receptionist.” Suffice it to say, Ricki’s life hadn’t unfolded the way it was supposed to. Like her sisters, Ricki was meant to graduate with an Ivy League business degree, excel in an entry-level position at Wilde’s, work her way up to a customer-facing role, and finally, open her own franchise—at which point she’d be awarded a weighty trust fund. But from the moment of her accidental conception, Ricki had never followed the plan set out for her.
When it came to the Wilde Funeral Homes businesses, all Ricki ever cared about was one thing: the flowers. The bouquets, the branches, the petals. The fantastical sprays. Growing up, her one respite from the rigidity of the Wildes—and the chilly business of dying—was the wooded garden a mile or so beyond their estate. She’d bask languorously in the crisp, dew-soaked grass, burying her fingers in the soil and dreaming of her own nonsensical, perfect world. She’d plant every seed she could find, coaxing life to spring from the earth. She’d trudge home, breathless, in pollen-dusted shortalls with dirt-encrusted fingernails and grass-strewn hair, and Carole, horrified, would escape to her bedroom suite and speed-dial her therapist.
Little Ricki had her head in the clouds, lost in fairy-tale scenarios so vivid that, till she was twelve years old, she’d whisper to herself in her imaginary friends’ voices. This did not bode well for real friendships. And her dreaminess didn’t translate into business success at Wilde Funeral Homes, either. Hence her career trajectory. The receptionist salary was abysmal, but it paid for her one-bedroom rental and used car. It was fine. Her life was small.
Ricki had acquaintances, but close friends? Nope. She was too scared to drop her guard. Dating was easy, though, due to her attraction to hot, shallow guys who weren’t super concerned with who she was, beyond being a pretty Wilde. She’d even been engaged three times before coming to her senses and bolting.
Real intimacy—platonic, romantic, or sexual—paralyzed her. What if people saw what the Wildes saw? That she was a joke? Her family had mythologized her black sheep personality. But Ricki wanted to create her own mythology. To stand in her own truth, as self-help culture dictated. She’d always felt that her real life was unfolding somewhere else, far away.
She did have an inkling of how to get there, though. Ricki had a dream, one that she’d been obsessing over since she was that dirt-dusted kid in the forest. And unlike most childhood dreams, this one hadn’t faded into memory. It had stuck to her, growing and growing, and she’d been cultivating it at every turn. But she’d never breathed a word of it to her family. Wilde Funeral Homes was the planet around which they orbited. Choosing any other future was akin to sin.
“Ricki, it’s your turn to share business news. We’re waiting with bated breath,” prodded Richard in his mellifluous baritone. Lost in thought, Ricki hadn’t realized her sisters had already shared their updates. She was up next.
“Y’all know she doesn’t have news,” mocked Rashida.
“Unless she’s engaged again,” tittered Regina.
“Remember the fiancé who photoshopped their faces on a stock engagement photo and sold it to the Atlanta Journal-Constitution?” asked Rae, giggling.
“Lord! Don’t speak of it,” sighed Carole, spilling a bit of vodka on her linen sheath. “I could barely show my face at the Orchestra Noir winter ball.”
Rashida snickered. “If only she was as dedicated to work as she was to humiliating us.”
Weary-eyed, Ricki sat silent, disassociating, as her sisters picked her apart, united in their perfection, their smug sameness. If living in this family had taught her anything, it was that compared to Rashidaginarae, she’d never measure up.
Tell them your plan. What you’ve prepared for. Set yourself free.
“I do have news,” she spit out, almost too loud.
Her sisters perked up, looking both suspicious and intrigued.
“What would you think if I… well…” She paused and restarted, adding more gravitas to her voice. “Okay, hear me out. I’d like to open my own shop. A… a flower shop.”
Her words hung in the air for one endless, excruciating moment. From his post against the back wall, James shook his head sadly and exited the room.
“Jesus, send the flood,” whispered Carole, polishing off her fourth vodka tumbler.
“I’ve always wanted a flower shop. My entire life.” And then the details spilled from Ricki like molten lava. “You guys don’t know this, but I create floral designs. It’s my passion! And I’m good. Really good. I actually run a floristry account on Instagram. I kept it secret from you, but… yeah, it has three hundred seventy-two thousand followers. I do a lot of brand partnerships,” she said with hesitant pride. “I made thousands off my last sponsorship with a brilliant cactus artisan.”
Perplexed, Richard looked at Carole. “The hell is a cactus artisan?”
“Ricki, are you on that stuff?” wailed Carole.
“I’m not on drugs, Mom,” sighed Ricki. “I raised enough money through partnerships to afford night school at Chattahoochee Tech. In May, I received a horticulture associate of applied science degree! And I did it while holding down three floral design apprenticeships.”
“Everything you just said sounds poor,” said Rashida.
“I just can’t picture you operating a business,” scoffed Regina. “I’ve seen you crumble in Excel.”
“Think of the optics,” urged Rashida. “You really want to be the sister who failed out of the family business… to sell carnations? This pursuit is silly. We are not silly.”
Ricki snorted. “Sure, Pass Away Café.”
“Dare I ask,” started Richard, all controlled tension, “if you have a business plan?”
“I do!” And she did, but now she was losing confidence, fast. “Sort of? I guess before I shared it, I wanted to get your thoughts on the idea. Your approval.”
“Hold on,” blurted out Rae. “You’re a secret plant-fluencer? What’s your account?”
