Page 3 of Petals and Plot Twists
I know everything there is to know about plants. I have a bachelor’s degree thattaughtme everything there is to know. Butthisplant is a mystery that’s been stumping me for weeks.
I didn’t plant it. I can’t identify it. And so far, I’ve only seen it in bloom once.
Until right now.
The white petals are full and open, revealing a deep pink center. It’s beautiful, but it also doesn’t look like anything I’ve seen before. It looks like some sort of cross between an orchid and a lily, but it grows more like a hibiscus. I see a few smaller buds among the leaves, but none of them look anywhere close to blooming. The last time it bloomed, there was only one flower, and now, again, there’s just one.
Since this is a community garden, any number of residents could have brought the plant up and added it to the planter. Or it could be a volunteer, a seed carried on the wind or by a bird. It could even be a bulb that lay dormant and finally decided to grow this spring.
Then again, knowing The Serendipity, the flower could have just poofed into existence.
It wouldn’t be the strangest thing that’s happened around here lately.
Still. My very scientific, very educated brainreallywants to know where it came from. Bare minimum, it’d be nice to have anamefor the mystery plant.
I pull out my phone from the back pocket of my overalls and take a picture of the flower. The lighting isn’t great, but it’s still clear enough that I can run an image search on Google and see if it pulls up any hits.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Mrs. Hathaway says. “The love flower?”
I turn to face her, still crouched in front of the plant. “What did you just call it?”
“The love flower, dear. Isn’t that what it’s called?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “I’ve been trying to identify it for weeks, but I haven’t been able to find anything official. You wouldn’t happen to know its scientific name, would you?”
“Oh, I don’t know anything about scientific names,” Mrs. Hathaway says. “I just remember my friend Beatrice had a painting of a love flower in her apartment.” She looks over at her husband. “Do you remember her? She passed last summer. She was an artist, and the painting she did of the love flower was her favorite one. I could be wrong, but it looks just like that bloom.”
“Is she the one who made that coffee cake that I liked so much?” Mr. Hathaway asks, and his wife nods.
“And you’re sure it’s the same flower?” I ask. I don’t want to pester the elderly couple, but I’ve been searching in vain for weeks. I’m more than a little excited to have any kind of hint about the plant’s identity. “I know this one doesn’t bloom very often, so if you need to take a closer look…”
Mrs. Hathaway furrows her brow. “I’ve seen it every day since the weather warmed up. I know well enough what the bloom looks like.”
I stand and pocket my phone. “You’ve seenthisflower bloom?” I point at the plant just to make sure. “The white one with the pink center?”
The Hathaways stare at me like I’ve lost every single one of my marbles.
“Yes,” Mrs. Hathaway says slowly. “The love flower. As I said.”
I look back at the flower, my brain trying and failing to puzzle it out. Maybe it only blooms at certain times of the day?
But I’ve been up here all afternoon, and there were zero blooms until just now. Maybe it only blooms in the evening? Like a moon flower? But that doesn’t make any sense, because the Hathaways just told me it’s in bloom whenever they come up at lunch time.
“I remember thinking it was a little early for flowers to be blooming the first time we saw it,” her husband adds. “A flower like that looks more like a summer bloom.”
It does look like a summer bloom. Like something tropical that would love a warmer, more humid climate. But the leaves are more like a rhododendron leaf—like the plant is built for a harsher climate. I’ve never seen anything like it.
“Huh,” I finally say as I sink back on my heels.
“What’s the matter, dear?” Mrs. Hathaway asks.
“It’s just unusual for me to come across a flower I’ve never heard of,” I say. “But it’s good to know it’s called a love flower. That gives me another thing to search.”
Mr. Hathaway chuckles. “Better be careful, Miss Sophie,” he says, echoing my earlier thoughts. “A mystery flower even a botanist such as yourself can’t identify? Strange things might be afoot at The Serendipity.”
Chapter Two
Sophie
