Page 1 of A Love Song for Ricki Wilde

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 thatlookedlike 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 forthe 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 aHamiltontumbler 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, wearingused clotheswhen 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 her for being too flighty, too messy, too much—and she pretended not to care. But it secretly stung. It plagued her, the fear that her personality would test the patience of everyone she knew.

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