Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Sophie
The downtown branch of the library in Serendipity Springs is just as charming as the rest of downtown. It’s in an old stone building at the edge of Oldford Park, and whenever I venture inside, I always feel a pang of sadness that with modern technology, we all have fewer reasons to spend time in libraries.
I have a reason to be here today, though. Because the library really does have a killer collection on Serendipity Springs. I’ve never specifically looked for botany-themed history, but I’m banking on there being something in the vein of what I’m looking for. There has to be. The room that houses the collection is huge.
I wave at Sissy, the elderly head librarian sitting behind the main circulation desk, and make a beeline for the glass-walled room that fills the back left corner of the first floor. Last time I ran into Sissy, she nearly convinced me to spend twenty-seven dollars on a contour stick I definitely didn’t need. When she isn’t doing the librarian thing, Sissy sells makeup, and she is very persuasive. But I definitely don’t have time to talk about accenting my cheekbones—at least not today. I have another work deadline at five, so I probably shouldn’t be taking the morning to research a flower that has absolutely nothing to do with my paycheck.
Then again, I had to work until almost nine twice last week to finish up a different deadline that was entirely unreasonable given the scope of the project. So maybe I don’t feel guilty about a little time off.
I push open the door of the Serendipity Springs collection room and slip inside. I’m the only one here, and it’s ten times quieter than the rest of the library. Quiet enough that I almost feel like I should tiptoe.
A computer station sits in the corner, providing access to a digital catalog for the collection, but there are also plaques affixed to the wooden shelves lining the walls, and I trail my hand over them as I read each one.
Political History. Culture. The Revolutionary War. Founding Fathers . And so many others.
The last time I was in this room, I was a senior in high school, and Peter and I were working on our final research papers for our history class.
Maybe it’s the smell of the room or the peaceful solemnity of all the history lining the shelves, but the memory of that afternoon pops into my brain with startling clarity.
Peter was naturally focused on his work, while I was focused, for reasons I can’t remember, on counting the number of times I could make Peter smile. I jostled the table, making his pencil roll. There was one. I whispered a knock-knock joke. There was two. I pretended to read out loud from the history text I was reading, but I changed the words, creating an outlandish narrative about a mercenary who stole George Washington’s horse.
I think I even made him full-on laugh with that one.
But then I’d gotten bolder, and I’d shifted from the seat across from Peter to the one right beside him. Heat climbs up my cheeks as I remember the way I boldly reached over and tried to tickle his waist, my fingers dipping under the hem of his t-shirt. It was totally innocent, and I barely touched his ribs, but Peter reached down and grabbed my wrist, tugging my hand away.
“Sophie, you can’t touch me like that,” he said, eyes wide and serious.
“Sorry,” I quickly said. “I didn’t know it would make you mad.”
“I’m not mad,” he explained. “It’s fine. I just…wish you wouldn’t.”
It wasn’t like we never touched. Our relationship wasn’t super physical, but we’d hugged multiple times and teased and joked around a lot, so his reaction completely took me by surprise.
I’m not sure I ever really understood it, and since we only had a few more weeks before we graduated, we never talked about it again.
After my conversation with Willa, I have to wonder if Peter acted so weird that day because he really did have feelings for me.
But even if he did, that doesn’t mean he does now. That was such a long time ago, and he seemed perfectly fine with all the touching we did on Saturday. Either way, he’s been way too top-of-mind the last few days, and I only have an hour to research before I need to get back to work.
I finally reach a plaque that reads Natural History , and I force my brain back to the task at hand.
After sifting through several titles, I finally find a three-volume set of books by a Massachusetts naturalist who wrote extensively about the flora and fauna he encountered in his travels around the state. I carry it over to the table and read for close to an hour, but I don’t find anything notable.
When I’m returning the books to the shelf, Sissy lets herself into the room. “Just wanted to check in and see if I could help you find anything.”
I almost wave her away, but Sissy Mayhew has to be close to eighty, if not older. I don’t think she’s native to Massachusetts—she sounds like she’s from the South, Texas, maybe?—but she’s lived here at least as long as I have, and aren’t old people supposed to be full of knowledge? Especially old people who are also librarians?
“I’m not sure if you can, but it’s worth a shot. I’m looking for information about a flower that just popped up in my garden. I’ve never seen it before, and I haven’t been able to find anything about it on the internet. So I’m trying to figure out if it’s native to Massachusetts or if anyone else in Serendipity Springs has ever seen it. I think locals might call it a love flower?”
She reaches up and pats her very poufy hair. “A love flower, you say? Over at The Serendipity? I wonder…” She moves to a shelf labeled Oral Histories and runs her hand along the spines. “Ah,” she finally says. “Here it is.”
She carries the book over in wobbly hands. “Maybe look through this one? I think I remember a story in here about a love flower.”
I take the book. “Really? You’ve read it?”
“I’ve read a lot of things. I don’t just know 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.
It all fits.
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 who sets library 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 are in love and 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’s broad, 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 watching Ted 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. But man, 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.
“What? What’s so funny?”
“Nothing,” he says a little too quickly. “Nothing. It’s just...” His arms drop from my waist, and he pulls out his phone. He pulls up his camera, then turns it around so I can see my reflection on his screen.
Annnd that’s when I see Sissy’s handiwork for the first time.
My hands lift to my cheeks. “Oh my gosh. For real?”
“It’s a good color on you,” Peter says through a laugh, and I reach out and push against his chest.
“Stop laughing at me. It’s not funny!”
“It really is, ” he says. “What happened to you?”
“Sissy freaking Mayhew happened to me.”
“Who?”
“The librarian at the…you know what? Never mind.” I scrub at my cheeks. “She’s too hard to explain.”
“You’re just making it worse,” Peter says. “Here.” He reaches into the bag hooked over his shoulder and pulls out a wet wipe from a little resealable travel pouch.
I’m not even a little surprised Peter has wet wipes in his work bag. He’s always been fastidious about keeping his hands clean—just one of the many quirky things that make Peter Peter.
He lifts it to my face, knocking my hands out of the way so he can hold my chin and wipe off my cheeks. His touch is gentle, his focus entirely on me in a way that makes my skin prickle with awareness.
“Where are you going?” I ask. “Work?”
He nods. “Yeah. Got a meeting they won’t let me do over teleconference.”
“The horror,” I say in a mocking tone, and he grins.
“Right? It’s been so long since I’ve worn my suit, I had to dust off the shoulders.”
“You look nice,” I say as he shifts from my left cheek to my right one. I lift a hand and slide it down the front of his tie. “I like your tie. It’s been forever since I’ve seen you in a suit.”
“Want to know a secret?” he asks.
“Always.”
“It was kind of nice to have a reason to put one on.”
“I’m immediately calling your boss to tell him,” I say.
He smirks. “That might actually help,” he says. “The meeting is a performance review, and if it goes well, I could be offered a promotion.”
“Are you serious? That’s amazing! And that would mean you’ll have to wear a suit more?”
He nods. “I’ll spend a lot more time at the office if I get the job.”
He brushes the wipe over my cheeks one last time, his fingers lingering before he reaches forward and tucks a stray curl behind my ear. The gesture sends a delicious shiver down my spine, and I suck in a tiny gasp.
Peter’s gaze jumps to mine, and I know, instinctively, that he heard the gasp and knows it was his touch that pulled it out of me. “Done,” he says, his voice low. “Back to normal.” His hands fall from my face, and he takes a few steps to the side to toss the wipe into the trashcan near the door.
“Thanks,” I say, my throat suddenly dry.
“No problem.” He glances at his watch and frowns. “I really have to go. Will I see you later?” he asks, his tone hopeful.
More hopeful than usual?
Or maybe I’m just reading into things.
“Definitely,” I say. “Good luck at your meeting.”
I watch as Peter disappears out the front door, thoughts spinning, but then my new friend Iris and her boyfriend, Matteo, appear at the bottom of the stairs, and I remember my purpose.
I dart over to them. I don’t know Iris super well, but we bonded last month when she randomly brought several bags of potting soil I desperately needed up to the garden. I’d say we’re definitely on friendly enough terms that my request is only going to sound slightly strange and not entirely deranged.
“Iris! Hi.” I look over at Matteo. “Hi, Matteo. Listen. Are you guys busy? Can you come up to the roof with me? I need a quick…” Oh, geez. What do I need? Maybe I can just be vague? “A favor!” I say a little too loudly. “A tiny one. A very tiny favor.”
Matteo gives me a wide-eyed look, and Iris bites her lip, like she can’t quite figure out how to respond.
“I promise it’ll only take a second,” I say, still struggling to read their expressions.
Finally, Iris looks up at Matteo with a sweet expression on her face. “What do you think? Do we have time to go up to the roof?”
Matteo shrugs his shoulders. “I’m game if you are.” He looks at me. “I heard you’ve put some new flowers in. I’d like to see them anyway.”
“Yes. Perfect. Thank you!” I lead the way as we head upstairs, Iris and Matteo holding hands the entire time. If the flower doesn’t bloom for these two, I’m declaring the story at the library completely bogus because there is no way they aren’t in love.
Sure enough, as soon as we step up to the plant, the largest bud slowly unfurls, revealing its deep pink center.
I lift my hands over my head and let out a cheer. I’ve never seen it happen in real time, and the sight completely takes my breath away.
“What?” Iris asks. “What is it?”
“Nothing,” I say. “Just that my favorite flower has finally bloomed. That’s what I wanted to show you.” I point at the white and pink bloom. “See? There it is!”
Matteo wrinkles his brow. “I thought you needed a favor.”
I could just explain. But I’m not sure I know Iris and Matteo well enough to fill them in when I’m still trying to wrap my head around an actual fortune-telling, matchmaking, magical flower.
“Right,” I say. “A favor. You know what? I forgot. I already did it. There were some bags of compost I needed to put away, but ha! Silly me. I did it last night.”
Iris looks at me funny. As she should because I sound like an utter and complete moron.
“Okay,” Iris says. “Well, the flower is really pretty. Thanks for showing it to us.”
“The garden looks great, Sophie,” Matteo adds.
I linger on the roof while Matteo and Iris head back downstairs, watching and holding my breath as the flower slowly folds in on itself, the bud closing up tight.
I shake my head, still in awe that this is even happening. It blooms for Archer and Willa. It blooms for the Hathaways. It blooms for Iris and Matteo. All couples who are in love, or at least very close to it.
But if the story in the library is true, it should also bloom for people who only have the potential for true love. New couples who are on their way there. Even strangers who are destined to fall in love but don’t know it yet.
I drop onto the bench beside the flower and pull out my phone so I can look at the images I took at the library, but I’m momentarily distracted by a text from my mom.
Mom
Just saying hi! We’re in port in Honduras so I’ll only have service for a minute. But look at this view!
Mom is currently on an eighty-day cruise with her boyfriend, Pierre, so an update like this makes sense. But the picture in Mom’s second message doesn’t make any sense. Because it’s a selfie of her and a man who is not Pierre. I zoom in on the photo and look a little closer. The two of them are standing on a balcony, bright blue ocean glittering on one half of the background, and what I’m guessing is Honduras filling up the other half, tree-covered hills gently rolling into each other before turning into sandy beaches, then foamy waves. The view is beautiful, and my mom looks great. As gorgeous as ever. But I have never seen the man standing beside her.
I sigh and key out a response.
Sophie
Amazing view. But who is the guy?
Mom must still be within cell range, because her reply comes through pretty quickly.
Mom
His name is Jean-Luc. Isn’t he dreamy?
Sophie
Mom. Where is Pierre?
Mom
Old news. But don’t worry. I’m totally fine. We’re still friends. I’ll explain everything later.
Only my mother could start an eighty-day cruise with one man and end it with another. Without even getting off the boat.
I heart Mom’s last message, doing my best to ignore the tightness in my chest that comes whenever I think about my mother’s ridiculous dating history. I get that she’s been hurt. I’m just not sure this is the healthiest way to cope.
I sigh and close out our text thread, then navigate back to the images from the library.
I zoom in on the paragraph I photographed and read it one more time.
Willa’s closet didn’t toss her into Archer’s apartment until she was ready to find love. At least, that’s my theory. And the love flower didn’t appear in my garden until now, even though I’ve been tending the garden since I moved in.
If this story is correct, the timing is significant.
Maybe I’m supposed to use the flower to help others find love?
Or maybe…it appeared because it’s my turn to find love?
A breeze picks up and ruffles the leaves on the maple tree behind me. I don’t know why, but it feels like confirmation, and I’m filled with a trembly sense of anticipation.
If I bring my dates up here, it won’t matter if my ick detector is broken.
Because the flower will tell me once and for all if a guy has potential—if he’s truly meant for me.
It’s the ultimate dating hack.
But do I want to start dating again? It’s been kind of nice lately, not worrying about it. I’ve been spending more time with Peter. And I’ve had a much easier time staying on budget without all the drinks and dining out.
But if the flower could help—if I could do it without all the pointless searching and bad dates—the process would be so much easier.
I think of Willa’s suggestion about Peter one more time. Her words have made me look at him differently the last few days. At least in small ways. But I doubt very seriously I would need a magic flower if Peter were the one who’s meant for me. Besides, a decade is a very long time to never make a move. If Peter had feelings for me, wouldn’t he have said something by now?
No matter how I shake it, the most important thing is that I have the opportunity right now to use the flower to find my match.
Willa’s closet eventually stopped acting as a portal, which means my flower could disappear at any point. It would be irresponsible not to take advantage.
What if this is it?
What if it’s finally my turn?
My main character moment.
The love flower in my garden is going to help me find my soulmate.
I just have to figure out how to use it.