Petals and Plot Twists (Only Magic in the Building)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Sophie

If my life were a romantic comedy, I’m not sure I’d be the main character.

I have more of a quirky sidekick vibe. Bubbly, supportive personality. Big hair. A treasure trove of funny anecdotes—mostly dating mishaps—to make the main character feel good about her own life and prospects.

I do want to fall in love. More than anything. I just haven’t figured out the secret. I haven’t figured out how to capture that main character energy.

Or maybe the problem is that I haven’t found my hero. If he’s even out there at all.

These are my thoughts as I slide my trowel through a planter of beautiful black dirt, scooping out a row of holes just the right size for the bright pink petunias I picked up at the nursery this morning.

Petunias don’t really have main character energy either. They’re incredible flowers. Easy to grow and a great complement to other plants since they come in so many colors. But they’re never going to be the showstopper. The main feature.

They’re a sidekick.

Just like me.

I add the petunias to the planter, covering their roots with soil, then slip off my gardening gloves. I’ve been working in the rooftop garden at The Serendipity all afternoon, and my back aches from the effort. But I wouldn’t trade the feeling.

There’s a lot to love about the quirky apartment building in Serendipity Springs that I call home. The grand winding staircase. The crown molding and original wood floors. The beautiful courtyard with a pool and a gorgeous fountain. But the rooftop garden is my favorite.

As a landscape architect, I spend a lot more time behind a desk than people usually think, particularly working for Leonard Trowbridge and Associates. Junior designers in the firm rarely have the privilege of being on site when plants are going into the ground. Or being outside at all. I mostly work from home, aside from a once-a-week in-person meeting at the office, and I spend ninety-nine percent of my working hours on the computer, creating designs, doing research, and outlining plans.

But my undergrad degree is in botany, so tending the rooftop garden has become a magical kind of therapy for me. When I’m close to losing my mind and I need a dose of sunshine, I leave my first-floor apartment and come upstairs to garden. I get my hands dirty. I cultivate. I create. And the perk is that I get to do it on The Serendipity’s dime. The garden is a community space, and lots of residents come up to enjoy it on a regular basis. Especially now that winter has surrendered to a gloriously warm and beautiful spring.

Everyone knows it’s my job to make the space beautiful. And it is beautiful.

Narrow concrete planters full of colorful annuals line the perimeter of the garden, bracketed by larger planters full of hardier trees and perennials that can withstand Massachusetts winters. A rose trellis supports heirloom roses, and a second trellis arches overhead, draped in wispy purple wisteria. Fairy lights adorn the entire space, giving the garden a cozy, magical feel, especially at night.

I pull out my phone and take a photo of the newly filled planters, then text it to my best friend, Peter.

His response comes through almost immediately.

Peter

Incredible. As always. The petunias look especially good.

Sophie

My petunias say thank you. Are you hungry? Are you home?

Peter

Yes to both. Just got home.

Sophie

Perfect. Can I come over? Maybe we can figure out dinner together?

Peter

So what I’m hearing you say is: Peter, can you feed me please?

Sophie

You know me so well.

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 friend because we 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 two be any 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.

I know everything there is to know about plants. I have a bachelor’s degree that taught me everything there is to know. But this plant 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 brain really wants to know where it came from. Bare minimum, it’d be nice to have a name for 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 seen this flower 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.”