Page 34 of A Love Song for Ricki Wilde

CHAPTER 8

STROKE OF GENIUS

February 6, 2024

Ricki’s mind was cluttered. An early-morning inspiration walk was in order.

Armed with a map of Jazz Age Harlem procured on eBay, she set out just before dawn. The goal was a mind-clearing treasure hunt to find speakeasies, restaurants, and former celeb residences: a bit of Roaring ’20s magic to calm her soul. And she looked the part, wearing a full-length faux-fur coat over a slip dress (both thrifted and, if you looked closely, fairly worn). But it didn’t take long for her to discover that most Old Harlem staples had been lost to time. An office building had taken over Hotel Theresa (oft frequented by Lena Horne and Cab Calloway, back when folks called it “the Waldorf Astoria of Harlem”). The Cotton Club was an apartment building. The Savoy, a cabaret once catering to the super elite, was now a supermarket.

Harlem was a modern neighborhood superimposed over an old one. But in the negative spaces, if she looked hard enough, Ricki could make out the contours of a ghost city. It was in the art nouveau flourishes of architecture. And the brass plaquesunceremoniously affixed to humble buildings, declaring that Billie Holiday was discovered here or that Josephine Baker danced there.

These subtle nudges from the past reminded her that giants had once walked these streets. That beneath the 2024 version of the city was an enchanted universe—characters, places, and faces suspended in time like Pompeii. But as romantic as it was to imagine Old Harlem’s glory days—and Lord knew Ricki loved nothing more than to romanticize everything—it filled her with melancholy. So much had been lost either to gentrification or to the natural passing of time. Standing outside of 169 West 133rd Street, she wondered how many passersby knew that the Nest Community Health Center was once simply the Nest, one of the first and rowdiest speakeasies in town.

Ricki consulted the description on her vintage map. Apparently, the Nest had featured showgirls dressed as birds (odd fetish, but hell, there was a lid for every pot), and both Bessie Smith and Ma Rainey had been in-house singers. It sounded dazzling.

And then she had an idea. A stroke of genius.

Even though her most expensive stock wasn’t selling, Ricki couldn’t bear to throw it away. She’d been carrying around those designs in her brain forever. Meticulously sourced tropical flowers, high-concept arrangements, and they were too special, too one of a kind to be discarded. Especially her latest, a kaleidoscopic arrangement of dahlias, orchids, lamb’s ears, asclepiads, and rosemary.

Later that day, during her lunch break, she wrapped up the bundle in delicate pale yellow tissue paper, tied pink twine around it, and ornamented it with a#WILDETHINGSsticker. Ricki carried the bouquet back to the community health center. She placed it on the doorstep with careful reverence—a gift to the hidden history of her adopted city. Then she snapped a shot for social media. Thecaption read:#WildeThings found at The Nest Community Health Center, formerly The Nest speakeasy.

A few hours later, during a slow moment at the shop, Ricki was absentmindedly scrolling her IG. Her post already had over four hundred likes! An hour later, it was up to one thousand. The more she looked, the more the likes kept rolling in, at warp speed. And the comments!

@pressed.and.highly.flavoredMy great-great-aunt told me about the Nest. When she was a teenager, she’d sneak out the house and shake her &ss on tables. She danced in early talkies, too! Check her out in this Youtube clip…

@b00tswiththefurEver heard of Gladys Bentley, the 1920s drag king? She owned a gay speakeasy back in the day, but I can’t find the address anywhere. Marlene Dietrich and Anna May Wong were always up in there. She deserves her flowers, too!

@imma_rage_quitI nanny for a family near your shop! Wilde Things looks so dope, sis. I’m stopping in today. Full disclosure, I don’t need flowers right now, I’m just starved for adult conversation

A tiny, passionate community had clustered around Ricki’s post—and it felt exhilarating. It felt like validation.

And so she did the same with another arrangement that didn’t sell: a florid dream of alstroemeria sprays, strawflowers, hypericum berries, and poppies. She set this bouquet at the entrance of 2294½ Adam Clayton Powell Jr. Boulevard. It used to be Smalls Paradise, Old Harlem’s only Black-owned cabaret, where 1920s waiters danced with serving trays on their heads, and 1940s waiters included a hustler called Detroit Red, who hadn’t yet become Malcolm X. It was now an IHOP. She rested the flowers under theblue awning, blew it a kiss, and snapped an IG pic. The caption read: #WildeThings found at IHOP, formerly Smalls Paradise.

This time, the post hit one thousand likes within the hour. The comments section was lively. And by 3:00 p.m., she’d sold bouquets to three new customers. Even more thrilling, the nearby nanny actually showed up, and, as warned, she didn’t buy anything, but Ricki definitely managed to make a new friend in the neighborhood.

Andthen. Soon after that second post, a drop-dead sexy couple rushed into Wilde Things with a request. George Gabowski was a superstar makeup artist whose contouring talents were celebrated among pop stars, models, influencers, and Tuesday. His fiancé, Daniel MacClure, was aMayflowerdescendant with a thriving wealth management practice and an expensive ex-wife. It was an emergency. The two had planned a chic Valentine’s Day wedding, but their florist had bailed at the last minute due to creative differences regarding a flower crown for George’s pygmy goat. Every florist in town had their hands full with Valentine’s Day. The couple was desperate.

The dazzling blond duo was highly photographed, charitable, and extremely social. Their big day needed to be iconic! Fabulous flowers were essential.

George had been a follower of Ricki’s posts since her early @BOTANYFLOWERSLATELY days and thought her two Harlem history posts were clever and cool. Her maximalist aesthetic was exactly their taste. He wanted her flowers for the wedding, and he wouldn’t take no for an answer.

Suddenly, Ricki had only one week to pull off the biggest job of her life.

CHAPTER 9

THINGS COULD GET DANGEROUS

February 7–14, 2024

Ezra and Ricki agreed to ignore each other. In January, Ricki had had no idea who Ezra was. In February, she saw him everywhere. In fact, she’d run into him daily since their second encounter at the community garden.

Ricki ran into him while perusing the business aisle at Sister’s Uptown Bookstore with Ms. Della. She was in line behind him to pick up red velvet waffles at Chocolat. One morning, she and Tuesday collided with him while en route to get manicures.

Sometimes, Ricki would sense his presence in the vicinity before he noticed she was there. Other times, she’d feel him watching her from a distance, the weight of his gaze warming her skin. Each time, their reaction was always the same: Ricki would gasp in shock, Ezra would flinch with surprise, and then the bumbling awkwardness would set in.

“Oh, uh, s-sorry, you go first. No, I’ll go… Okay, you, bye,” they’d mutter before bolting in opposite directions.

Ricki even tried to think ahead. Instead of going to her usualgrocery store, she walked twenty blocks to visit an out-of-the-way organic market. When she reached for the door, she could feel resistance. Someone was pulling on the other side. She yanked, and the other person yanked back. She stopped, her hands on her hips. Of fucking course Ezra Walker bounded through the door with a bag of avocados.

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