Page 2 of Petals and Plot Twists
Peter lives one floor above me in The Serendipity, which honestly feels too good to be true. How lucky is it that my two best friends both live in my apartment building? To be fair, I suppose Willa became a best friendbecausewe live in the same building. We met not long after I moved in and bonded over books, which we both love to read, and sugar cookies, which Willa loves to bake…and I love to eat.
Peter, on the other hand, snatched up an empty apartment because I begged him to the minute he finished grad school and came home.
The summer before I started tenth grade, my mom moved us one town over to Serendipity Springs so she could marry Charles Crooksley. Charles’s name should have been a warning, but I loved him at first. Mostly because my mother had been serial dating for years, one man after another, after another. I was just thrilled to see her settle down. Charles was stable, he had a steady job as a financial planner, and he adored my mother.
Until he didn’t anymore. Two years after their wedding, he cleaned out her bank accounts and disappeared. All my mom’s savings, including everything she’d set aside for me to go to college. It was all gone. He took every last penny.
Twice burned, my mom said in the days after their divorce. First my dad, then my stepdad. I doubt she’ll ever get married again.
Still, I can’t regret moving to Serendipity Springs. Moving here brought me to Peter. And there’s nothing to regret about him.
And not just because he’s so good at feeding me.
Sophie
Yes, please. I’ll be down in a sec.
I gather up my tools and carry them to the storage shed by the stairs, but I pause on my way when Mr. and Mrs. Hathaway walk into the garden. Mr. Hathaway is using a cane, but he is no less attentive to his wife, keeping his free hand on the small of her back as they slowly make their way into the garden.
I dart forward, setting my tools on the ground so I can coil up the garden hose currently snaking across the path. I’ve never seen the elderly couple on the roof before, and I’m looking at the space with new eyes, searching for any obstacle that might hinder their progress.
I haven’t done an official survey, but the Hathaways have to be the oldest residents at The Serendipity. Though they have family members close by who are constantly checking on them, they’re spry enough to live independently, and it seems like they still get around pretty easily. But that doesn’t mean I want them tripping over a garden hose.
I refuse to be responsible for one of the Hathaways finally breaking a hip.
I scoop up the offending hose and coil it up, shifting it out of the way just in time.
“Sorry about that,” I say. “I did some planting today, so I needed to water everything, but I shouldn’t have left the hose out.”
They finally reach the nearest bench, the one just in front of the rose trellis. Mr. Hathaway holds his wife’s hand while she lowers herself to the bench, then he sits down beside her.
“It looks wonderful,” Mrs. Hathaway says. “You’ve been busy.”
“I have been. Do you guys come up to the garden often?” I see the Hathaways frequently—they live on the first floor just a few doors down from me—but I’ve never run into them up here, which doesn’t necessarily mean anything. I’m usually only up here evenings and weekends.
“We come up every day after lunch,” Mr. Hathaway says. “The doctor says a little bit of sunshine is good for us.”
“Even in the winter,” his wife adds. “Nothing is more fortifying than a little cold Massachusetts air.”
“It seems to be working for you,” I say. “You look like you’re aging backwards.”
“Oh, you,” Mrs. Hathaway says. “That’s just silly.”
Mr. Hathaway squeezes her hand. “She’s right, dear. You’ve never looked more beautiful.”
Um, hello.Could these twobeany cuter?
“We’re only coming up late today because we spent the day with our granddaughter. We thought about skipping it, but the weather is so nice, we figured a later visit would still be good for us, even if we missed the sunshine.”
Dusk has definitely settled in Serendipity Springs, the sun dropping below the horizon.
“I like it up here in the evenings,” I say. “It’s romantic.”
Mr. Hathaway slips his arm around his wife’s shoulders. “I agree.”
“Well, enjoy yourselves,” I say, smiling at the couple. I turn away to retrieve the tools I abandoned earlier, but then I pause, my gaze snagging on a flower I’m not expecting to see. I let out a little gasp as I step closer to inspect the plant.
The plant’s wide, flat leaves wind their way up the trunk of the Japanese maple just past the rose trellis. And a single white bloom, about the size of my palm, shimmers under the fairy lights that decorate the tree.
