Christmas at Rose Hill Farm Read online

  George took a sip. “This is fine, Billy. Just fine.”

  The coffee was dreadful, bitter and oily. Billy set down his mug. “George, can I ask you a question?”

  “Ask me anything you like. I’ll answer anything I like.”

  “Don’t you want more for yourself than just being a drifter?”

  “Well, drifting isn’t all bad.”

  “But what have you got to show for it? You’re plenty smart. Don’t you want to get a real job? Find some purpose in life.”

  “A purpose. I like that kind of thinking, Billy Lapp. I’ll give it some thought.” George nodded solemnly. “Mind if I look through your sketches?”

  Obviously, George wasn’t leaving and Billy found he didn’t mind. Not so much. He felt a tickle of admiration for the hobo’s peaceful countenance, and sensed the internal churning from the day settle as he handed George the sketches. Billy moved his hat and sat on the stool and combed through the books, taking notes on different possibilities of rose species. After a while, he nearly forgot George was there.

  “Maybe it’s this one,” Billy said aloud, looking closely at a photograph of a rose in a book.

  George came up beside Billy and looked over his shoulder.

  “This is the oldest known rose in the world,” Billy said. “Over one thousand years old. It’s from a cathedral in Hildescheim, Germany. During the Second World War, the cathedral was bombed and the rose was destroyed. Believe it or not, new canes sprouted up.”

  “Love those stories.” George smiled. “New life coming out of something so implausible.” He ran his fingers along the vein of a leaf. “Slightly different here than from your drawing.”

  George was right. A subtle difference that Billy didn’t even notice. “But it does look close, doesn’t it?” Billy bent his head over the book and tried to match any characteristics with the Hildescheim rose and with the Rose Hill Farm rose. There were marked similarities, which meant that the Rose Hill Farm rose was probably bred in Europe. He felt encouraged. Maybe he was getting somewhere.

  As the evening progressed, a comfortable companionship settled in between the two men. Now and then, George posed questions about Billy’s Amish upbringing. Unguarded and relaxed, half the time with his head in a book of botanical prints, he answered them. It felt good to sort through all the emotions that were spinning through him from the day’s events, and George was a good listener. He didn’t pry, didn’t give advice, nodded in all the right places. Billy might have said more than he intended, but what did it matter? George was a drifter who would drift away. His secrets were safe.

  Billy had no idea how much time had passed when he turned a page and came awake as if someone had set off a firecracker. “That’s it! That must be it. The Perle von Weissenstein! Come here, George! I found it!” He looked up, but George had already gone. When had he left? His coffee cup was on the bench, stone cold. Billy was shocked when he looked at his wristwatch: after midnight.

  His attention went back to the description of the rose. This must be it. It must be. He had to get to Rose Hill Farm and question Bess. Now.

  Bess awakened to a pink sunrise creeping over the sill and the sound of someone walking up the long driveway of Rose Hill farm, the crunch of gravel under his footsteps. Barefoot, she tiptoed to the window and peered through the frosty windowpane, watching a man approach the house with that familiar long-legged stride. Why, it was Billy Lapp! So early!

  She grabbed a shawl, then rushed downstairs to open the back door and step onto the threshold, not even aware of how cold it was on her toes. “You’re sure up with the chickens, Billy Lapp.” She tried to hold back a smile, but she felt it tug at her mouth, then fade as she caught the grim look on his face.

  “You knew what it was. You knew and you didn’t tell me.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Billy tipped his hat brim back, hooked one boot on the bottom step, and braced a hand on the knee. It occurred to her that he had never taken his hat off yesterday. A metaphor in a way, as a covering, because he really was a different person than the boy she had known. This Billy seemed so closed up, so hardened, like a curtain was drawn over his eyes. Not the Billy she used to know, the bright, lighthearted young man she used to work alongside in her grandmother’s greenhouse, who never seemed to remember his hat.

  Billy was glaring at her. “Your grandmother and the rose. That October when you came out to stay with your grandmother and she had a rose she wanted me to identify, but I couldn’t—all the leaves were off and I thought it was about to die.” He pointed his thumb in the direction of the greenhouse. “That rose.” He walked up to her. “You remember. You must remember.” He came a few steps closer to her. “I stayed up half the night last night trying to identify that rose. You would’ve saved me a heap of trouble if you’d just told me about it yesterday. So why didn’t you say something?”

  Billy’s words sounded like an accusation, and Bess felt a storm brewing in her throat.

  He glanced at the farmhouse. “Maybe I should just talk to Jonah about the rose.”

  What? How dare he! Now he’d crossed the line. She wasn’t sure if he intended that comment to sting, but a flash of indignation threatened to voice itself anyway. Just who do you think has been tending Mammi’s roses for the last few years? she wanted to say. Who do you think has been encouraging my father to expand the business? Certainly not you.

  She shot him what she hoped was a withering look. “And a good morning to you too, Billy Lapp.”

  When Billy caught sight of Bess on the kitchen stoop in a white, ankle-length nightgown, she looked so lovely that, for a moment, his heart did a stutter step and suddenly all thoughts of roses fled from his head. She had curves in places where she used to be stick thin and it definitely became her. He felt his cheeks flare and he tried not to stare as she unconsciously splayed her hand over her chest. Her hair was flying every which way, out from under her prayer cap, her feet were bare, and from this distance she looked carefree and happy.

  A feeling grew inside of him, something he hadn’t felt in a long, long time. Desire.

  But then the door slammed and Bess disappeared.

  Frustrated by her lack of response to his questions, Billy spun around to head to the greenhouse. Initially, he was annoyed to discover Jonah hadn’t taken his advice to lock the greenhouse and protect the rose, but then he was grateful because it was warm in the greenhouse and he was freezing. Hungry and tired too.

  After midnight, he had gone back to the Extension office to search the database for more information about the Perle von Weissenstein. There wasn’t much, but he did learn that this variety was a cultivar of Daniel August Schwarzkopf, chief gardener of the castle of Weissenstein near Kassel, in Germany. Dating as far back as 1773, it was considered to be the oldest known rose of German origin. Class: Gallica. A large, strong-scented flower, dark in the center, pale at the edges.

  A silky black cat showed up out of nowhere, its tail straight as a poker. The cat leaned into Billy’s ankle and he paused to scratch it. “What’s your name?” It stood on its hind legs, braced its forefeet on his thigh, begging. Its fur was soft and warm as it jutted against his fingers. Blackie! He’d completely forgotten about Bess’s old cat.

  He looked through his backpack for the Xeroxed copy he’d made of the botanical print of the Perle von Weissenstein, found it, pulled out some files he’d brought with him and some tools to measure and chart the rose. He crouched down to pull the mystery rose from its corner, inhaled, then hoisted it up on the workbench. “What’s your story, little rose?” he said, wishing it could answer.

  He saw Bess come out of the house, dressed now, wrapped in a warm coat and a kerchief knotted under her chin. She juggled two mugs of coffee in her hands as she traversed the yard toward the greenhouse. Once inside the greenhouse, she walked to the workbench where Billy stood and held out a mug. He reached out to take it and grazed her fingers with his. Suddenly self-conscious, he pointed to
the copy he’d made of the botanical print. “I identified it. The Perle von Weissenstein. Earliest known rose of German stock.”

  She looked carefully at the print, then at the rose. “Nope. That’s not it. Close, but not quite.”

  “What? Where’s the variation?”

  Bess pointed to the information below the print. “It says the Perle von Weissenstein has a deep purple color. It might be too soon to tell, but I think the mystery rose bud will be a lighter color. And it said the Perle von Weissenstein has a moderate to strong scent.” She leaned close to the bud to inhale. “But this one’s scent would be classified as bold.”

  Billy sniffed the bud. He looked at her suspiciously. “How do you know so much about the Perle von Weissenstein?” He’d never heard of it until last night. “I still think it’s it.”

  “I know for sure it isn’t.”

  “How would you know that?”

  “I know because we have a Perle von Weissenstein in the greenhouse and that’s not it.”

  “What? No way. I would have known if Rose Hill Farm sold such a rare rose. Your grandmother would have made sure of that.”

  Bess walked to the middle of the greenhouse and pointed to a large rosebush, against the back of the shelf. “See for yourself.”

  Billy strode a few steps to see where she was pointing. And there it was—the Perle von Weissenstein. He shook his head. “So why didn’t you say something?”

  “About what?”

  “About the Perle von Weissenstein? If you knew that rose wasn’t it?”

  “You never mentioned it to me. If you had, I would have told you it was right here, under your very nose. I’m not a mind reader.”

  Billy fleered at Bess. “That sounds like something your grandmother would say.”

  Suddenly Billy realized his arm was pressed close and warm against Bess’s. She must have felt it too but stayed where she was.

  “So the Perle was the rose your grandmother wanted me to identify that time? The nearly dead one?”

  Bess pivoted on her heels and reached for a straw broom that was leaning against a post. She started to sweep the brick walk that lined the center of the greenhouse.

  “Bess?” He saw her hesitation, saw her nervous movements as she swept. “Was that the Perle? I need to know.”

  “No.” She swept away, back and forth, left to right, eyes remaining downcast nearly all the time. Each time they flicked up they seemed drawn to something behind him. “The Perle was brought to Rose Hill Farm a year ago.”

  He took a few strides toward her. “How did your father locate a Perle von Weissenstein?” Incredible. He knew, better than anybody, how hard it was to find old roses.

  Bess stopped sweeping and leaned the broom back against the post. “He didn’t. I did.”

  “You?” Surprise flattened his face, though he recovered when he caught the exasperation that flickered through her eyes.

  “Yes.” She gave him a stern look and he backed off, worried she might start whacking the wrong end of the broom at him if he accidentally insulted her one more time. He’d seen Bertha Riehl threaten people with a broomstick for far less. It struck him for the second time that Bess was getting more and more like her grandmother. “Yes, me,” she repeated, softer this time, snapping Billy back from the past to the present. “I tracked down a source from a tip someone gave me from the Lancaster Rose Society.”

  Billy tried not to show the shock on his face. He wondered what to make of this new Bess. The one he remembered had studiously avoided difficult things, like math, at all costs. “So why didn’t you go to the Rose Society to identify the mystery rose?”

  “We tried. But the man at the Rose Society slipped on ice over Thanksgiving and broke his tailbone. He wasn’t able to come to the farm, so he suggested calling Penn State. He said they had a champion rose rustler.” She lifted her chin in his direction. “Apparently, that was you.”

  Billy crossed his arms, frowning. “Well, I suppose this exercise hasn’t been a complete waste of time. I’m fairly confident the mystery rose has a European rootstock. Quite possibly, a German rootstock. But I won’t know more until the bud opens and reveals itself.”

  “You sound certain that you’ll be able to identify it.”

  “I shouldn’t sound too sure,” Billy admitted. “Sometimes the trail goes cold.”

  “What happens then?”

  “Well, usually, if a rose has an uncertain origin, then it’ll be given a provisional label, like a temporary tag, until it can end up with a permanent ID. Sooner or later, after doing a lot of comparative analysis, the identity gets tracked down.” He settled himself on the wooden stool. “That’s what being a rose rustler is all about—tracking down clues to a rose’s identity by looking through old botanicals, nursery catalogs. Once, I even traced a rose’s identity through an old traveler’s diary from Bermuda.”

  “I’ve read a little about the Bermuda Rose Society.”

  Billy straightened up like a shot. “You know of the Bermuda Rose Society?” He repeated each word clearly so that there would be no mistake. That Society was the main reason so many genealogical rose puzzles had been solved.

  “Yes, of course,” she said, keeping her voice steady as if she was barely holding back her annoyance with him. “I read about a survivor of a Spanish shipwreck in 1639 who described the roses in Bermuda. It’s supposed to have the perfect climate for roses.”

  Billy nodded. “Bermuda doesn’t have any native roses—they’re all imported by settlers. The chain of islands sits in the middle of centuries-old trade routes. It’s an incredible source for old, old vintage roses. R. galica officinalis—”

  “The Apothecary’s Rose.”

  “—and the R. damascena.”

  “The Damask Rose.”

  Again, he was startled by her knowledge. When did she get so smart?

  “Someday, I’d love to see those roses,” Bess said in a wistful voice. “In the springtime, when they’re in full bloom.”

  A soft look came over her face, as if she were imagining a sea of roses, a riot of color. He had the same dream—to see Bermuda’s roses in the springtime. In fact, that was why he tried to save money and live as sparingly as he could. Dreams were good. One day, he would travel to Bermuda in the spring and see those flowers in bloom. And he would see an ocean that reflected the tropical blue of Bess’s eyes.

  Her eyes traveled to the mystery rosebush, nestled in the corner of the greenhouse. “What should we call the rose?”

  Billy shrugged. “Don’t get too attached to any name. If I can find its true identity, its Latin name, that’s what it’ll be known by.”

  “But that’s not always the case.” She gave him a sideways glance. “Not for Louise the Unfortunate.”

  A slight smile tugged at the corners of Billy’s mouth. Little was known about the actual Louise the Unfortunate, except that she traveled to Natchez, Mississippi, as a mail-order bride and her husband-to-be never showed up to claim her. Desperate to survive, she was forced into prostitution, then died young and penniless. A sympathetic Natchez minister raised enough money for a proper burial. Someone named a rose climber after Louise and the name stuck. “No, not poor Louise. In Bermuda, they call the Louise the Unfortunate climber the Spice Rose.”

  “Maybe because Louise had a spicy life.”

  Before he could suppress it, a laugh burst out of him. Their eyes met; he saw a blush rise in her cheeks as she realized what she had inferred, and he felt something pass between them, like a current. He looked away quickly, breaking the connection, and turned back to the rose.

  “Maybe we should call it the Christmas Rose.”

  Billy shook his head. “Nope. Already used. It’s become a legend, in fact.” He hadn’t thought about the story of the Christmas rose in a long time. As the fable went, a little shepherdess was saddened because she had no gift to offer baby Jesus. She wept and wept, so much that her tears soaked the ground where she stood watching her sheep.


  Suddenly an angel appeared, touched the tear-softened earth, and the ground sprang alive with beautiful roses. Immediately the girl gathered a bouquet of the Christmas roses and carried them to the baby’s manger. As soon as the infant caught sight of the roses, he turned away from the gifts of the Wise Men and reached his tiny hands in the direction of the flowers.

  Ridiculous legend, Billy thought. Ridiculous.

  “You’re not going to try to force the bud to bloom, are you? You’re not planning to use the warming lights?”

  Billy openly stared at her. “I would never do that. This rose will open when it’s ready and not a minute before.”

  “Gut Ding will Weile haben.”

  Billy stilled, swallowed, narrowed his eyes. “What did you just say?”

  “Gut Ding will Weile haben. Good things take time. It’s something my grandmother used to say.”

  His eyes closed, hearing Bertha’s no-nonsense voice in his memory, so vivid it hurt. “I remember. I remember her saying it.”

  “When do you think it’ll open?”

  “Within a week or two, depending on the weather and amount of sunlight we get. I’m going to put it back in the corner of the greenhouse where it was growing. I don’t want anyone or anything to disturb it.” He glanced at Blackie, poking around the pots under the workbench. “In fact, you should keep that cat out of here.”

  “This cat is why I found the rose in the first place.” Bess stooped down to pick up the cat and stroked its gleaming black fur. “Think I should water the rose?”

  “No. Leave it just as it is. There’s enough condensation in the corner to keep it moist. I’ll come back every few days to check on it. I’m going to scrutinize some records and compare findings back at the university. Bess,” he said, peering at her, searching her eyes, “is there anything you know about this rose? Anything at all?”

  She crouched down to release the cat. “Like you said, until that bloom opens, it’s hard to identify.”