Page 4 of A Love Song for Ricki Wilde

“But they’re right. You’re not savvy enough to build a business. If you were? You would’ve pushed harder to open a funeral home franchise, only to receive your trust fund. Then you could’ve run off with enough capital to invest in five hundred flower shops.”

“I wanted to start with my own money,” she said quietly.

“Commendable.” His voice dripped with the sarcasm of a man who, at age twenty-four, had resuscitated his grandfather’s business with generous mob backing. (Allegedly.)

She continued, wiping her damp palms on her cotton dress. “I love you, Daddy. But I need to start fresh, create my own business,my way. Who knows? Maybe I’ve inherited some of your genius genes.”

Richard cocked his head at her. And then he nodded slowly, revealing the barest hint of a smile. Was it amusement? Incredulousness? Pride?

But then his warmth froze over, replaced by his usual chilly reserve.

“You let things happen to you, Ricki. Too often and too late, you realize you’re in trouble. That’s a dangerous trait, in business and in life.” He frowned. “We’re not alike.”

“I might surprise you, Daddy,” she whispered, a knot forming in her throat.

“Perhaps.” Richard checked his watch. Conversation over. “I’ll accept this as your two weeks’ notice. After that, you’re on your own. Let’s see how much of me is in you.”

Then Richard Wilde Sr. walked out and left Richard Wilde Jr. alone.

A week and a half later, Ricki was in hell.

Her business plan was airtight, but she still hadn’t found a shop location. In three days, she’d be unemployed. And every second working at the Wilde Funeral Home felt like eternity. An architectural monstrosity, the neo-Mediterranean building boasted terraces, fountains, and a heroic number of cherub angels. It was the perfect place to memorialize your loved ones if you imagined the Great Beyond to be an opulent palace catty-corner to a Trader Joe’s.

Her job was to welcome grieving families into the home and, while they waited for a caseworker, upsell them to hell by suggesting pricey add-ons to their funereal experience. Glam services before the funeral? A Gucci silk casket lining? A paid actor toperform histrionics if the deceased was too unpopular to draw a crowd? Wilde’s had it all.

Obscene. Ricki had never had the stomach for draining clients of their finances in the name of capitalism. And now, with one foot out the door, she was even less inclined to do her job.

Ricki was slumped against a marbled archway at the entrance, chipping off her manicure. Damn-near catatonic with malaise, she barely noticed the woman in front of her.

“Oh!” She immediately straightened up. “Welcome to Wilde Funeral Home,” she robotically recited, “your loved one’s endless resting place of peaceful enchantment.”

The person stepped out of the sun’s glare. She was an elderly woman, dazzling in a linen caftan, oversized white-framed sunglasses, and a tiny silver ’fro. Her hands were trembly and twisted (arthritis, surely), and she was subtly stooped. But otherwise, she projected chic vitality.

“Hello, dear. I’m Della Bennett.”

“Ricki Wilde, ma’am. It’s a pleasure. How may I help you, Mrs. Bennett?”

“Oh, call me Ms. Della. I only have a few minutes—my driver’s parked yonder.” Her voice had that clipped, almost British inflection adopted by upper-crust Southern Black women of a certain age to indicate class. Like Tina Turner and the first Aunt Viv.

She removed her shades, revealing sad, striking eyes surrounded by paper-thin, lined skin. A shadow of pain touched her features. “My husband, Dr. Eustace Bennett, has passed.”

“My condolences, ma’am. I hope he went peacefully.”

“Well, he went ironically.”

“Ma’am?”

“Dr. Bennett was a neurologist specializing in narcolepsy. He died in his sleep.” Bravely, she thrust her chin upward. “My husband always had a lively sense of humor.”

Ricki had seen her share of grieving spouses, from hysterical to elated. Ms. Della obviously loved her husband but wasn’t the type to broadcast her emotions.

“Would you like some tea in our Eternal Slumber Lounge?” If Ricki had truly been good at her job, she would’ve offered her a $125 facial in the Life Is for Living Spa Suite.

Ms. Della declined, saying that the love seat by the archway would do.

Ricki took a seat next to the older woman. “Are you from Atlanta, ma’am?”

“Not originally, but Dr. Bennett was born here. We lived about twenty minutes down Route 75 until a few years ago, when I convinced him to buy up in Harlem. Ever been?”

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