The Perils of Periwinkle

I’ve always found that gardening, much like romance, is best left to the professionals. Or, at the very least, to people who can distinguish a trowel from a dessert spoon. My own forays into horticulture had, until recently, been mercifully infrequent and spectacularly unsuccessful. There was the Incident of the Overwatered Orchid, which met its untimely demise in a tragic drowning incident. Then came the Great Basil Massacre of '19, a cautionary tale involving an overzealous sprinkler system and a profound misunderstanding of the term "full sun." You see, I am a writer by trade – a gothic novelist, to be precise – and my domain is one of flickering candlelight, brooding velvet, and the exquisite torment of unspoken yearning. Soil and I have never been on speaking terms.

So it was with profound bewilderment that I found myself staring at a delivery slip that announced, in cheerfully bold letters, the arrival of five hundred periwinkle plants. Not five, as I had intended for a modest attempt at window box decor. Five *hundred*. The number seemed to pulse on the page, mocking me with its absurdity. I had visions of my entire apartment swallowed by a tidal wave of violet, a floral apocalypse that would put my most dramatic plotlines to shame.

"You know," Bram texted when I shared the catastrophe, "this is why I stick to writing about sentient fungi. They don't require watering. Mostly." Bram, my oldest friend and fellow writer, had an uncanny ability to deliver sardonic commentary at precisely the right moment. Or the wrong one, depending on your perspective.

I paced my dimly lit living room, the scent of sandalwood incense coiling around me like a familiar friend. Outside, the world was far too bright and green for my tastes. My plan had been simple: order five periwinkle plants, create a charmingly macabre window box display, and perhaps use the activity as inspiration for a scene involving a cursed garden. It was research, I told myself. Atmosphere. Now it was a logistical nightmare involving enough periwinkles to reenact the Napoleonic Wars in miniature.

The delivery driver had long since fled, leaving behind a stack of boxes that seemed to reproach me from the hallway. Each one was labeled "PERIWINKLE – HANDLE WITH CARE," which felt deeply ironic given that I was tempted to handle them with a ceremonial burning. I sank into my worn armchair, a relic of more sensible days, and considered my options. Leaving the house was out of the question, naturally. My constitution is delicate, my disposition ill-suited to the harsh realities of direct sunlight and... people.

And so, with the grim determination of a heroine about to confront her darkest fears (or at least her most inconvenient delivery), I resolved to return the plants. From the shadows of my apartment. Without, perish the thought, actually setting foot outside. After all, how hard could it possibly be?

I pulled out my laptop, fingers poised over the keys with the gravitas of a necromancer preparing to raise the dead. One quick email to the gardening company, and this whole mess would be but a distant, slightly absurd memory. I began to type, my prose appropriately dramatic: “Dear Sirs, It is with profound regret that I must inform you of a most grievous error…”

A knock at the door interrupted my literary efforts. I froze, my fingers hovering mid-sentence. Who on earth could be calling at this hour? The clock on my mantelpiece informed me it was barely past noon – practically dawn by my standards. I crept towards the door with all the stealth of a gothic heroine investigating a mysterious noise in the attic. Through the peephole, I could just make out the shape of someone tall and annoyingly cheerful-looking, with an unreasonable amount of sunlight glinting off their hair. Probably a missionary. Or worse, someone trying to sell me cookies.

I held my breath, hoping they’d assume I was out. Or dead. Either would do nicely. But then they knocked again, louder this time, and I heard the unmistakable sound of a trowel clattering to the ground outside. My heart sank. Gardening people. They’d probably smelled the periwinkles from across town and come to investigate.

“Hello?” called a bright, friendly voice that seemed entirely out of place in my dimly lit domain. “I heard you might be starting a garden? Thought I’d offer a neighborly hand!”

A neighborly hand? I shuddered at the thought. My last neighbor had been a woman who believed strongly in the healing power of interpretive dance at dawn, often performed directly outside my bedroom window. I hadn’t spoken to her in three years, and I intended to keep it that way.

“I’m Leo, by the way,” the voice continued, undeterred by my stubborn silence. “I just moved in next door. Saw the boxes – quite the haul you’ve got there!”

I squeezed my eyes shut, as if this might somehow make him disappear. It didn’t. Apparently, my superpower of willing annoyingly cheerful people out of existence was on the fritz. I was going to have to deal with this the old-fashioned way. With lies. And possibly an elaborate story involving a non-existent community garden project.

“I’m Leo, by the way,” the voice continued, undeterred by my stubborn silence. “I just moved in next door. Saw the boxes – quite the haul you’ve got there!”

I squeezed my eyes shut, as if this might somehow make him disappear. It didn’t. Apparently my superpower of willing annoyingly cheerful people out of existence was on the fritz. I was going to have to deal with this the old-fashioned way. With lies. And possibly an elaborate story involving a non-existent community garden project.

“Right, well,” I called through the door, my voice emerging slightly higher than intended. “It’s not really a haul so much as a… clerical error. Five hundred plants, you see. I only meant to order five.”

“Five hundred?” Leo sounded impressed rather than horrified, which was deeply concerning. “That’s ambitious! What are you planning to do with them all?”

He wasn’t going away. I could feel it in the way he lingered on the other side of the door, radiating sunshine and helpfulness like some kind of deranged garden gnome. I took a deep breath, bracing myself, and cracked open the door just enough to peer out with one eye.

Leo Finch was, unfortunately, just as bright and cheerful-looking as his voice had suggested. He had tousled blond hair, a smattering of freckles across his nose, and eyes that crinkled at the corners as if he’d just heard a delightful joke. He was wearing a faded band t-shirt and jeans that were streaked with what looked suspiciously like grass stains. All in all, he looked like he’d be more at home at a beach bonfire than on my doorstep.

“The, ah, community garden project,” I blurted out, the words tumbling from my mouth before I could stop them. “That’s what the plants are for. The community garden. Very important project. For the… community.”

It was a terrible lie, born of panic and an overwhelming desire to get rid of him. I mentally cursed my own lack of imagination. A community garden? Really? I couldn’t have come up with something more plausible, like a sudden interest in topiary or a performance art piece involving excessive foliage?

“A community garden!” Leo’s face lit up, and I felt a pang of guilt at his obvious enthusiasm. “That’s fantastic! I’ve been wanting to get involved in something like that since I moved in. Where’s it going to be?”

Oh dear. This was escalating quickly. I should have just told him the truth – that I was a reclusive gothic novelist with a pathological fear of sunlight and a complete inability to keep even the hardiest of cacti alive. But it was too late now. I was in too deep.

“There’s a patch of land behind the old community center,” I said, grasping at straws. “It’s a bit overgrown at the moment, but I thought it might be perfect for a garden. You know, with some work.”

The truth was, I had no idea if there was even a patch of land behind the old community center. I hadn’t been there in years, not since the Incident of the Overzealous Zucchini, which had resulted in several strongly worded letters from the community council and a ban on any future vegetable-growing endeavors on my part.

“Brilliant!” Leo beamed at me, and I felt a little weak at the knees despite myself. He really did have a very nice smile. “I’d love to help. I’ve got some experience with landscaping, and I’ve been looking for a project to get stuck into.”

My heart sank. This was not going according to plan. I was supposed to be returning the plants and retreating back into my candlelit sanctuary, not embarking on a horticultural adventure with my overly enthusiastic new neighbor.