Page 15 of Petals and Plot Twists
“I’ve read a lot of things. I don’tjustknow about makeup. Though I really do think you should consider the new blush palette I have at the circulation desk. It’ll brighten your face right up.”
Sissy doesn’t leave me to the book until I promise to stop by and let her try the blush on me before I go. Pretty sure I’m getting the short end of the stick with this deal until I find the story she was referencing.
Because there’s a drawing above the chapter heading, and it looks exactly like my flower.
I quickly read the story, heart pounding as I reach the concluding paragraph:
After weeks of gathering data, I am forced to conclude the unusual bloom is a respecter not just of persons, but of emotions. It does not bloom according to time or temperature or season. It blooms according to love. But there are qualifiers. The love must be romantic in nature. Friendship or familial love does not trigger a bloom. However, it is not required that the love be fully developed or even yet acknowledged. I have witnessed many blooms for couples in the early stages of their courtship. In that sense, the flower is somewhat of a fortune teller, forecasting the possibility of love. The only thing still inconclusive is the timing of what makes the flower appear and disappear. In my four years of observation, the flower appeared three different times. Each time, it remained anywhere from two to six months. I was not able to detect a pattern. Certainly seasons had no influence, as I saw it bloom in the snow as frequently as the sun. Though I cannot prove as much, my personal feeling is the flower appears when it’s needed. When lonely hearts need a helping hand or lovers need a nudge in the right direction.
I read the paragraph a second, then a third time, then flip back to the beginning of the book to note the copyright date: 1954.
The truth is, Serendipity Springs is full of stories just like this one. Tales of magic and mysterious happenings and spring waters that bring good luck. The stories give the town flavor and are fun for tourists, but I’ve never had reason to truly believe them until Willa was whisked into Archer’s closet.
Now, every single thing that has happened with the love flower fits the story on the pages in front of me. It’s a story that feels like a folk tale or a legend, even a fairy tale. Except it’s real life.My real life.
I close the book, mind reeling. The description of the flower matches perfectly. A vine growing up the base of a tree. Wide, flat leaves. Deep green color. White bloom with a deep pink center that opens and closes without wilting. And the author of the story lived in The Serendipity just like I do. Apparently, the building used to be a college dormitory, something I vaguely remember hearing but have never really taken note of until now.
Same building. Same flower. And the circumstances of when I’ve seen it bloom match what the story describes.
The flower bloomed when Archer and Willa were present, and I know how much they love each other. And it bloomed for the Hathaways—only the cutest couple on the planet—who have been married at least a million years.
It fits.
Itallfits.
I pull out my phone, opening the book one more time so I can snap a quick photo of the sketch of the flower at the beginning of the story, then another of the concluding paragraph.
I stand and return the book to the shelf, anxious to get back to The Serendipity.
I try my best to sneak out the door without Sissy noticing, but she’s quick for an old lady, and she corners me by the door, blush brush in hand. If I wasn’t in such a hurry, I might try to protest, but letting her do my makeup will probably get me out of the library faster, so I stand patiently while she loads what feels like an inordinate amount of blush, then bronzer onto my cheeks.
This has to be against library policy, but for all I know, Sissy is the one whosetslibrary policy, so it feels fruitless to register a complaint.
“There. You look beautiful,” Sissy says, her Southern drawl a little thicker than usual. “I wish I had a mirror so you can see. Oh! I do have my phone. A teenager in here the other day told me you can use the camera as a mirror.”
“Thank you so much, Sissy,” I say. “But I’ve really got to run. I’ll look in the mirror at home and let you know what I think the next time I’m here.”
I dart out the door before she can apply the lipstick she’s pulling out of her pocket and hoof it back to The Serendipity.
Despite the very convincing history I just read, I still want to gather my own evidence. Which means I need to be on the roof with other couples. Couples who arein loveand not just together.If my mother’s recent dating history is any indication, one doesn’t always indicate the other.
But who? People who already live in the building would be the easiest place to start.
Maybe I could convince Archer to give me a list of all the apartments that are double occupancy? But then what? Would I just randomly knock on doors and ask people to venture up to the rooftop? I like people, and I have no problem talking to strangers, but that feels like a lot even for me.
Honestly, enough people frequent the garden that if I hang out long enough, a few couples probably will just come up. Since I’m usually up there in the evenings, I often see people on dates, especially in the spring and summer when the wisteria and the twinkle lights make it so incredibly romantic.
I finally reach The Serendipity and head inside, mind still puzzling out the fastest way to test the aptly named love flower, when I run directly into a broad, well-muscled chest.
Peter’sbroad, well-muscled chest.
He catches me as I bounce off his body, his arms wrapping around my waist as I find my balance.
I lean back and take him in. He’s wearing a suit, which is entirely unlike him, and his hair is styled, glasses in place. He looks good—really good—and he smells amazing, just like he did the other night when we were watchingTed Lasso.
A weird, fluttery sensation stirs just behind my breastbone, something I blame entirely on Willa. If she hadn’t mentioned the possibility of Peter liking me, I would not be reacting to his presence like this. Butman,he really does smell good.
His eyebrows lift as I look up at him, and a smile slowly stretches across his face. I get the sense that he’s trying not to laugh, which makes me frown.
