Tia Williams has this specific, almost frustratingly good ability to make you feel like you’re vibrating at a higher frequency. It’s a vibe. Honestly, if you picked up Seven Days in June, you already know the deal. But her follow-up, A Love Song for Ricki Wilde, takes that soulful, high-glamour energy and dips it straight into a vat of stardust and Harlem history. It’s not just a romance. It’s a leap of faith into magical realism that actually works without feeling like a cheap gimmick.
Most people get this book wrong by calling it a standard "beach read." It isn't. It’s too heavy for that, yet somehow too light to be stuck in the "literary fiction" bin where fun goes to die. Ricki Wilde is a girl who doesn't fit. Born into a family of high-achieving, somewhat cold socialites in Atlanta, she feels like a glitch in the matrix. So, she does what any sensible protagonist with a dream and a messy heart does: she moves to a brownstone in Harlem to open a flower shop.
The Harlem Setting is Basically a Character
Harlem in this book isn't just a backdrop for some cute dates. It’s alive. Williams writes about the neighborhood with a reverence that feels deeply personal, linking the modern-day gentrification struggles with the ghost-echoes of the Harlem Renaissance. You’ve got Ricki, this "wildflower" of a woman, trying to find her footing in a world that wants her to be a "Bree" (the nickname for the polished, perfect Wilde women).
Then there’s the house. The brownstone itself feels like it’s breathing.
When Ricki meets Ezra, things get weird. In a good way. The book plays with time and destiny in a way that reminds me of The Lake House, but with way better fashion and a significantly better soundtrack. They meet during a leap year, which is the catalyst for the "magic" part of this magical realism. Every four years, the veil thins. If that sounds cheesy, I get it. I was skeptical too. But Williams grounds the fantastical elements in such raw, messy human emotion that you just stop questioning the "how" and start worrying about the "when."
Why the Leap Year Narrative Works
Usually, when authors mess with time, they trip over their own feet. Not here. The leap year mythos in A Love Song for Ricki Wilde serves a specific purpose: it highlights the urgency of Black joy. In a world that often demands struggle from Black characters in fiction, Williams insists on enchantment.
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Ezra is... complicated. He’s a musician, he’s soulful, and he feels like he belongs to another era because, well, maybe he does. Their connection isn't just "love at first sight." It’s more like "recognition at first sight." It’s a soul-tie that transcends the literal calendar. The prose here gets lyrical. It’s fast. You’ll find yourself reading a thirty-word sentence about the scent of night-blooming jasmine and then hitting a two-word sentence that knocks the wind out of you.
It hurt. That’s how she writes. It’s punchy.
Tackling the "Manic Pixie" Misconception
Some critics tried to label Ricki as a "Manic Pixie Dream Girl" early on because she’s quirky and likes flowers. They’re wrong. Ricki’s "quirkiness" is actually a trauma response to a family that never saw her. She isn't there to save Ezra; she’s there to save herself from becoming a hollowed-out version of an Atlanta debutante.
The conflict with her father and sisters adds a layer of "real-world" stakes that keeps the book from floating away into the clouds. You see the microaggressions. You see the weight of being the "disappointment" in a lineage of overachievers. It’s relatable for anyone who ever felt like the black sheep, even if your family doesn't own a multi-million dollar funeral home empire.
- The fashion is impeccable. Williams describes clothes like she's writing for Vogue.
- The floral motifs aren't just for show; they represent Ricki’s growth—literally.
- The secondary characters, like Ms. Della, provide the necessary friction to keep the plot moving.
The Emotional Gut-Punch of the Third Act
Without spoiling the ending, because that would be a crime, just know that the third act of A Love Song for Ricki Wilde is where the "song" part of the title really hits. It’s melodic and melancholic. There’s a twist that many readers see coming, but the impact of that twist still feels fresh.
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It’s about legacy. What do we leave behind when we’re gone? Is love enough to bridge a century? Williams doesn't give you the easy, sanitized answers you might expect from a mainstream romance. She makes you work for the happy ending, and even then, it’s bittersweet. It’s the kind of book that makes you want to go buy a bouquet of peonies and call your grandmother.
Honestly, the pacing is a bit frantic in the middle. I’ll admit that. Sometimes the transition between the 1920s vibes and the 2020s reality feels like whiplash. But that’s the point. Life is whiplash. One minute you’re opening a shop in a new city, and the next, you’re falling for a man who might be a ghost or a god or just a very talented pianist.
Actionable Takeaways for Readers
If you’re diving into this book, or if you’ve just finished it and your brain is mush, here is how to actually process the themes Tia Williams is laying down:
1. Look into the Harlem Renaissance figures mentioned.
Williams weaves in real history. Take a second to Google the artists and musicians of the 1920s Harlem scene. It adds a whole new dimension to the reading experience when you realize the "magic" is built on a very real, very vibrant cultural foundation.
2. Evaluate your own "Leap Year" moments.
The book asks what you would do if you had a moment outside of time. It’s a great prompt for journaling or just existential dread over coffee. Are you living the "Bree" version of your life, or the "Ricki" version?
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3. Pay attention to the sensory details.
This isn't a book to skim. If she mentions a specific jazz track or a specific type of tea, look it up. The world-building is immersive, and the more you lean into the sensory descriptions, the more the magical realism feels grounded.
4. Prepare for the "Book Hangover."
You’re going to need a "palate cleanser" after this. Something light and non-magical. Maybe a technical manual or a cookbook. Because once you’ve spent 400 pages in Ricki Wilde’s Harlem, the real world feels a little bit grey for a few days.
The book is a masterpiece of modern Black joy and historical reverence. It proves that you don't have to choose between a "serious" book and a "fun" book. You can have both. You can have the magic and the heartache, the flowers and the funeral homes, the past and the present, all wrapped up in one gorgeous, glittering package.
Next Steps for the Deeply Invested:
To truly appreciate the layers of the narrative, listen to a 1920s jazz playlist while reading the chapters focused on Ezra. The syncopation of the music mirrors Williams’ prose style. Additionally, if you haven't read Seven Days in June, put it on your list immediately to see the evolution of Williams' exploration of "fated" love and creative trauma.