Christmas at Rose Hill Farm (2 page)

On Friday morning, Billy Lapp gave an all-over shudder as he walked into one of Penn State University's greenhouses, happy to be out of the biting wind. There was a pleasantness to the greenhouse at this time of day that could always manage to take the edge off a man's early-morning surliness, especially when the weather was bad. Even when snow, sleet, or biting cold pressed
against the glass windows, inside the greenhouse, with the door sealed tightly, it was never chilly.

Billy Lapp's supervisor, Jill Koch, was waiting inside for him, examining some drought-resistant wheat seedlings he'd been experimenting with. She straightened when she saw him. “Morning. I got a call from someone who might have an unidentified rose on his property. He's spent a week trying to find someone who could identify it and was directed to us by a Rose Society. I asked if he could send a photograph, but he said he didn't own a camera.”

Billy set down his thermos and brown-bag lunch on the shelf that served as a desk, yanked off his coat, and tossed it next to his lunch. “What kind of a rose?”

“He's not sure.”

He rolled his eyes and groaned. “It's probably an American Beauty.” The most common of all garden roses. No wonder the Rose Society shrugged it off.

“I don't think so,” she said thoughtfully. “He seemed to know his roses. He said he thought it might be an old rose.”

Billy stilled. He was passionate about finding old roses. It was the reason he was given the unofficial job of being the university's rose rustler. “Where did he find it? In a cemetery?” Old cemeteries were the best places to find old roses. It was an old custom to plant a mother's favorite flower beside her grave and, most often, that favorite was a rose. Unlike gardens, cemeteries weren't usually re-landscaped, so old roses survived long after they were pushed out of gardens. Many of those old heritage roses were sturdy, disease resistant, and survived complete neglect. Just wanting for someone, like Billy, to find them.

“He didn't say where he found it, but I think he said it was potted.”

Billy was intrigued; nothing in the world matched the intrigue of discovering a rose's identity. Nothing. “What did he want?”

“He wanted someone to come out and identify the rose. The Rose Society told him we have a rose rustler on staff to track down unusual finds.” She lifted her eyebrows and gave him a smug smile. “You.”

He glanced around the greenhouse to assess how much work he needed to finish before he could take a few hours away from it. “I suppose I could check it out on Monday. Did you get the address?”

“I wrote it down the way it sounded on the answering machine. Not sure I got it all, though. I could have sworn I heard a horse passing by.” Jill handed him the slip of paper but held on as he reached out for it. “Do you have plans for Christmas?”

He tugged the paper out of her hand and stuffed it in his jeans pocket. Over her shoulder he noticed that a PVC joint was coming undone in the skeleton of the greenhouse. He hated these cheap, plastic greenhouses, called hoop houses, that had sprung up in the last decade. Hoop houses with their plastic sheeting just weren't made to last. He sidled around Jill to jam the PVC joint back together with the heels of his hand, pondering how much he longed for a good old-fashioned glass greenhouse. “Is it already Christmas?”

“You're kidding, right? It's only a few weeks away.” She fingered the collar of his coat, hanging over the shelf. “Are you planning to spend it with your family?”

He knew where this conversation was going and wished it were over. “To be honest, I haven't given any thought to Christmas.” That was an honest comment. He scrupulously avoided any thoughts of Christmas.

Jill walked up to him, standing just a little too close. “You never talk about yourself or your family. Sometimes I wonder if you're part of the Federal Witness Protection program.”

He grinned. “There's just not much to tell. I'd rather hear about you.”

“You're not going to get away with that kind of talk. Someday, I'd like to find out all about you.”

“Absolutely.”
Not a chance.
A girl like Jill Koch would turn tail and run if she knew about his humble upbringing.

“So . . . would you like to join me for Christmas? Come for dinner?”

He stiffened. “Let me get back to you on that.”

The smile on her face faded into a frown. “Why am I not surprised that you're dodging the question?”

She leaned closer to him, lingering, and he stepped back, touched his hat, and said, “Thank you for bringing the message.”

“One of these days, Billy Lapp . . .” She turned and sauntered down the long narrow aisle, stopping to check a plant here and there. She stopped at the wheat seedlings and turned back to him, all stiff and starchy. “They're too dry. Get them watered.”

Jill Koch was an attractive girl and had made no secret that she was interested in him, but he knew it wasn't smart to combine work and romance, especially when she happened to be his supervisor and she reported directly to the greenhouse manager—who happened to be her uncle. If it didn't work out between them, and it probably wouldn't, he'd be the one out of a job.

He needed this job. He loved it. He'd worked at Penn State Extension for almost four years now, pruning, transplanting seedlings, cultivating flowers, schlepping large bags of soil around, fertilizing, studying and implementing pest control, and gleaning as much about horticulture as he could. The work suited him perfectly.

Everything was finally going right for him.

Why, then, did something keep gnawing at him? An aching loneliness, a feeling that he was missing something. Out of habit, he tugged the end of his sweater sleeve over his left wrist. It was the holidays, he supposed. Christmas was the hardest time of all for him. Like he was always outside looking in at others.

He unrolled the hose, turned it to low, and gently sprinkled the seedlings with water as he heard a soft, rhythmic knocking, just audible over the hiss of the hose. He turned off the hose and walked to the end of the greenhouse. Swinging the door open, Billy blinked twice. A dark-skinned man stood in the dim, gray morning. Tall and lanky, a fellow down on his luck, wearing a thin overcoat that wasn't suited for a cold Pennsylvania winter.

The greenhouses were at the back of the university campus near a run-down part of town and it wasn't unusual for a stray fellow to wander in, looking for a place to warm up for a while. Hobos, tramps, vagabonds, and vagrants, Jill called them, rough customers. She warned him to chase them off, but Billy never did. To his way of thinking, everybody needed a little help now and then. Where would he be without the help a few had given him during that dark period when he first left home? “Why don't you come sit by the heater and warm yourself?”

“I don't mean to intrude,” the hobo said. “I can see you're busy.”

“I'm not going to let you go without a cup of coffee to warm your belly.” Billy grabbed his widemouthed thermos and handed it to the hobo. Glancing at his face, he was struck by the unusual color of his eyes. Neither blue nor purple, they were a near-perfect match for the amethyst crystal interior of a geode he remembered that Dawdi Zook, his mother's father, had kept on his fireplace mantel back in Stoney Ridge. He could envision it clearly, though it had been a decade since he'd seen it up close in his grandfather's work-worn hands. Transfixed, Billy could practically hear his grandfather's deep, rumbly voice:
While the minerals on the
exterior created a hard shell, the ones that seeped to
the interior were transformed into beauty. An example from nature
to show how God brings good out of bad.

The hobo handed the thermos back to Billy, pulling him into the present. As Billy screwed the lid on the thermos, he was sur
prised to realize the man was younger than he had assumed—or maybe it was that his face was unlined. Untroubled. Without stress or strife. And he didn't act defeated like so many of the other men who wandered through College Station.

The hobo was admiring a set of orchids with their delicate blooms. “Beautiful, aren't they? So intricately designed. Fragile yet long lasting.”

“Are you a flower lover?”

“Yes. Always have been. My father's a top-notch gardener.”

Beyond the hobo's shoulder, Billy spotted his brown-bag lunch. “Are you hungry? I made two sandwiches.” He reached for the bag, opened it, took out one sandwich, wrapped in waxed paper, and handed it to the man. “Nothing fancy—just peanut butter and jelly. Made it myself.”

“I am a little hungry. Had a long way to go this morning.”

“Wait here.” Billy extracted a metal stool, grimy but sturdy, from under the rows of plants. Brushing it off with his hand, he set it down and beckoned the hobo to it. “Sit a spell. I'd enjoy the company on this cold morning.” He pulled a crate from under a shelf and turned it over to sit on.

The hobo sat down and smiled at Billy. There was something calming about him, as if he had all the time in the world and there was no place else he'd rather be than right there, in a greenhouse with Billy.

Before the hobo unwrapped his sandwich, he bowed his head and Billy thought he heard him offer some kind of quiet prayer spoken in another language. It was mumbled so softly, he might have been mistaken. Or maybe the man was drunk, though he didn't seem to be. A few weeks ago, a drunk wandered into the greenhouse and Billy sobered him up with high-octane coffee, so thick you could cut it with a knife, before he sent him on his way.

“So you've got quite a knack for plants, from what I hear.”

Billy glanced up. “Where'd you hear that?”

The man took a bite of the sandwich. “Skippy peanut butter?”

Billy nodded. “I'm Billy, by the way.”

“Call me George.”

George took a swig of coffee to wash down the peanut butter sandwich. He looked up at Billy. “Folger's?”

“Yup.” It was on sale at the grocery store.

“Old Quaker family from Nantucket. Benjamin Franklin's mother was a Folger. Did you know that?”

“No. No I didn't.” Billy took a bite of the sandwich, chewed, swallowed. “George, mind if I ask how you ended up as a hobo?”

“A hobo?” A smile flickered like a candle across George's face. He stretched his legs out in front of him and leaned back on his elbows against the shelf.

“You're obviously a bright guy. Have you had trouble finding a job?”

“Not so much. Work comes along just when it's needed.” He finished the sandwich, swallowed one last swig of coffee, and rose to his feet. “Well, I'll be off then. Thanks for sharing your lunch.”

Billy looked at George's threadbare overcoat. There was no way that thin coat could keep him warm. He grabbed his blue jacket from the shelf and tossed it at the hobo. “Take it. I have two.”

A soft look came into George's eyes as he gripped the jacket in his hands. “Thank you, Billy.” He slipped it on and slowly zipped the coat up to his chin. Then he reached out and wrapped his arms around Billy.

Billy stood there, stiffly, awkwardly.
Men
don't hug!
He could never remember receiving a hug from another man. Not once. Receiving a hug from a man—a stranger! a hobo!—was awkward and uncomfortable. And yet, it felt like George was giving Billy a blessing and a benediction, wrapped up in a hug. A deep calm surrounded Billy and he felt himself relax, ever so
slightly. George released him, gripping Billy's upper arms and smiling gently with that calm old-soul smile. “Until we meet again, Billy Lapp.”

George turned to leave and it occurred to Billy that he wanted him to stay. The desire to remain in the company of anyone—much less a hobo—was so unfamiliar that Billy wondered if he might be coming down with something. A cold or fever, perhaps.

George stepped around Billy, then stopped and bent down to pick up a piece of paper. “I think you dropped this.” He handed it to Billy and passed him to reach for the door, then glanced over his shoulder. “This has all the makings to be a wonderful Christmas, Billy Lapp. One of the best.”

As the door clicked shut behind George, a disturbing thought emerged. How did this hobo know Billy's last name? That was creepy. Had George been watching him? Was he a psycho? Then Billy remembered that his nametag was pinned to his shirt pocket.

He glanced at the slip of paper in his hand. It was the information Jill had given him about the caller with the unidentified rose. He unfolded the slip of paper and swallowed. The address was Rose Hill Farm in Stoney Ridge.

Bess's home.

Billy's peaceful mood turned sour.

A
s Amos Lapp tied the horse's reins to the hitching post in front of the hardware store on Saturday afternoon, he went through a checklist of the things he needed to buy to prep and paint the apartment above the garage. In just a few days' time, those two little rooms would be his and Bess's new home. This task should have been done weeks ago but the holdup was Bess. She couldn't decide what color to paint it—which struck him as odd, because their church didn't offer much of a choice. Pale green or pale blue.

Yesterday, Amos visited Bess at Rose Hill Farm and gently tried to press her to make a decision. She told him to just go ahead and choose, so he did, and he hoped she'd be happy with it. It was hard to tell with Bess. She was agreeable to everything he suggested, said she'd go along with either color he chose—but he didn't want her to just go along with it. He wanted her to love it.

His mind drifted back to church last Sunday, as the bishop announced they were to be published, and color drained from Bess's face. He saw it happen, right before his very eyes, the way he'd read about in books. For a moment, he thought she might
faint. He knew she felt anxious about being the center of attention, but was it typical for a girl to nearly lose consciousness?

“Pssst.”

Amos twitched, thinking a fly was buzzing near him, though it was too cold for flies.

“Pssst. Over here.”

He spun around and found Maggie Zook standing over by the community bulletin board on the wall, under the covered porch of the hardware store. “What are you doing?”

She put a finger to her lips and shushed him, the way a teacher might. “Looking for new job postings.”

He walked over to her. “Why are you whispering?”

“I didn't want to broadcast to everyone in Stoney Ridge that I'm looking for a job.”

Amos squinted in confusion. “How are you going to find a job if you don't want anyone to know you're looking?”

She glanced up and down the road. “Maybe not everyone. Maybe just my father.”

“Ah.” Maggie's father was Caleb Zook, the bishop. “I don't want to know why.” Amos wasn't sure if it might be a church issue, or a father-daughter issue—but either way, he wanted none of it. As soon as he said it, he felt a tug of regret. Her small face grew troubled. Gentling his tone, he added, “I'm sure you've got a good reason.”

Maggie followed on his heels as he went in the store to look at rows of paint chips. “There's a job opening here at the hardware store. I thought you might put in a good word for me.”

Oh no.
Heat climbed up Amos's neck. He wasn't going to get roped into this again. The last time he helped Maggie get a job, she lasted less than a day. After she begged him, he acquiesced and recommended her to the owner of the Hay & Grain. She forgot to latch the cage filled with live mice—the owner kept a
pet snake—and during the night the mice escaped. Months later, the Hay & Grain was still overrun with mice. An infestation, the owner said. Maggie claimed it was an accident, that it could have happened to anyone, but Amos had a suspicion that her humanitarian streak beat out her practical streak. Knowing her like he did, he figured that she wanted to give the mice a fighting chance to survive. She hated snakes, Maggie did.

Worse still, the owner felt Amos was partially responsible and no longer gave him a discount on bulk purchases.

And the hardware store—well, now, this was his special place. His home away from home. He enjoyed spending Saturday afternoons wandering the aisles, tinkering with gadgets. If he helped Maggie get a job here and she did something disastrous, which was very, very likely, he would be sunk.

She was gazing up at him with that riot of tangles poking out under her black bonnet, with those big liquid brown eyes of hers, like he was quite possibly the most wonderful man on earth, and his gut twisted. His firm resolve started to weaken.

Started . . . and then . . .

He had a stroke of genius. “The Sweet Tooth Bakery is hiring, at least until Christmas. Dottie Stroot told my mother that very thing just a few days ago. Dottie Stroot said she's swamped with Christmas orders and can't seem to keep good help.” No surprise there. That woman might be a talented baker, but she held people, including her customers, in disdain.

Maggie brightened, the dimples in her cheeks deepening as her smile grew. “Just through Christmas?” More thoughtfully, she added, “That would be ideal. Just enough time.” She turned and started for the door.

“Maggie, wait!”

She stopped and spun around.

“Which paint color should I get?”

She walked back to peer at the paint chips he held up and
immediately pointed to the blue. “Oh, definitely that one. No doubt about it. That's the one.”

“You're sure?”

“Absolutely. It's the color of a robin's egg.”

Why, so it was.

“That awful green is the color of the inside of the schoolhouse.” She shuddered. “Would make me feel like I was right back in jail. Eight long painful years of prison.” School, she meant.

From the door of the hardware store, he watched her skitter across the street to the Sweet Tooth Bakery. Maggie skittered. He couldn't hold back a grin. One thing about Maggie Zook—you knew what she was thinking. If she didn't come right out and say so, her face would give it away. His attention fixed on his task and he went to get the paint mixed robin's egg blue for the apartment. To prepare a home for his bride.

Bess Riehl picked up a knife and sliced off a generous width of freshly baked bread. She lathered it with butter and closed her eyes as she chewed the first bite. The bread was still warm from the oven, soft inside with a crisp crust. Was there any taste on earth that beat fresh-baked bread? “Oh, Lainey, it's good.” She took another bite, chewed, swallowed. “It's better than good. It's the best bread you've ever made.”

Lainey watched Bess as she ate. “You really think so? It's from a sourdough starter I made.” She handed her a crock of strawberry jam. “Starters can be tricky.”

“The best bread ever. Definitely.” Bess spread the ruby-colored jam to the edge of her bread, expression thoughtful. “Did Dad hear back from Penn State yet?”

From upstairs, the sounds of little girls starting to stir—four-year-old Christy and two-year-old Lizzie—floated down to the kitchen.

Lainey cocked an ear, listening, then hurried to finish preparing a breakfast tray for Bess's father, Jonah, moving slow this morning with a stiff back. “Someone said they would send a rose rustler to come look at it.”

“I wish I could remember the name of that rose. Mammi loved all her roses, but that one was special to her. I just can't remember why.”

“Well, you were young. The rose rustler will probably be able to figure out what rose it is.”

“Rose rustling.” Bess sliced a few more pieces of bread and tucked them under the oven broiler to toast. “Sounds like something Mammi would have liked to do, especially if it was illegal.” She kept one eye on the broiler and lunged for the oven with a mitt as soon as the toast was dark but not yet charcoal.

“Rustling's kind of a funny name for it, because it's not stealing anything. Just the opposite—a rose rustler tries to preserve it. He hunts for forgotten old roses that have survived for generations.” Lainey took a mug off the wall hook and poured a cup of coffee to set on the tray. “Anyway, the rose rustler will be here later this morning.”

The calling of the little girls for their mother could no longer be ignored. Bess lifted the tray. “I'll take it up to Dad. You go to the girls.”

Lainey started toward the stairs, then pivoted at the kitchen door. “I doubt your dad's back will be able to handle the bone-rattle of a buggy ride today. Would you mind fetching the rose rustler at the bus stop?” She didn't wait for an answer but hurried upstairs to help get her little daughters dressed for the day.

Buttering the toast, Bess's knife stilled. She was being sent to fetch a rose rustler? What would she talk about with him—a stranger—on the ride home? Then she quelled her dismay and nearly smiled. Roses, of course. That's what they could discuss on the short ride to Rose Hill Farm. She wished Maggie
Zook were here. Maggie could effortlessly keep up a one-sided conversation with anyone. “It's a gift,” she had once told Bess, as if it was bestowed on her like the color of her eyes or hair.

A few hours later, Bess prepared to head to the bus stop in town. She put one arm into a coat sleeve, then another. Taking her black bonnet from the wall peg, she knotted the strings swift and taut, then made her way to the barn to harness Frieda to the buggy and head to town. There, she waited in the cold buggy for over thirty minutes until the bus rumbled around a bend and turned onto Main Street, coming to a jerky stop.

Forcing a confident air, Bess opened the door and climbed out of the buggy. She wondered if she should have brought a big sign that said R
OSE
R
USTLER
, but then thought she might seem ridiculous, and if there was one thing Bess didn't want to seem, it was ridiculous. She wasn't nearly as acutely self-conscious as she used to be, the way she was when she first came to Rose Hill Farm and her grandmother said she acted scared of her own shadow and hoped nobody could tell. She was much bolder now—nowhere near as bold as her grandmother had been, though few could be
that
bold.

She studied the bus steps, waiting for the rosarian to emerge. At the top of the stairs, a young man appeared and paused, his face turned away from her as he peered down Main Street. Bess's jaw dropped open and a sharp breath gusted in; her heart hit her throat, and she felt her face heat up. She knew him immediately by the set of his sturdy shoulders and the overall familiarity of his form. Even in his big coat, she knew who he was. Speechless, she drank in every inch of him. Broader yet more angular than he used to be, a full shock of hair with long sideburns instead of the bowl cut common to her people, dressed in a dark brown coat and blue jeans over solid construction boots. She thought she might fall down and faint, right there, right on Main Street.

Bess opened her mouth as if to speak, closed it, swallowed, then opened it again. “Billy Lapp?”

Billy's head snapped around when he heard his name. His face suddenly blanched as he made a quick pass over her bonnet and dress. His eyes widened in disbelief while he stiffened as if struck by lightning. “Bess? Bess Riehl?” He quickly recovered his shock and his face closed over. “I expected your father to be coming to get me.”

She moved forward with uncertain steps. “You? You're . . . the rose rustler?” She tried to hide her delight and knew it wasn't very successful. But her smile was met with a scowl that made her bristle. She tried again. Questions galloped through her mind—Where had he come from? What had he been doing?—and she found it nearly impossible to form words into a complete sentence. “So is that where you've been living? Over in College Station?”

When he spoke again, there was a hard edge to his words. “Where's your father?”

“The first snowfall of the year always causes his back injury to flare up—he can't handle the cold well. He was moving slowly this morning so I was given the job to pick up the rosarian. He'll be thrilled to see you. We never expected the rose rustler to be you.”

Brows furrowed, he gave her a sharp, quelling glance. “You gonna show me this rose or what?” The question shot out like a challenge.

Bess's mouth dropped open. The nerve of Billy Lapp to treat her as if she were nothing to him but . . . a taxi driver! She squared her shoulders and turned toward Frieda, the patiently waiting buggy horse, leaving him to silently follow behind. When she reached the horse, she turned and saw his hesitance. “Are you coming?”

His eyes flicked to the buggy, then back again. “You're not supposed to be in a buggy with the likes of me.”

A crack in his hard veneer. Maybe it was a sign—the old Billy was still there. “I'll risk it.”

But her hope extinguished and her disillusionment continued as she snapped the reins and clucked to Frieda. Billy didn't look at her and she didn't look at him. Not too often, anyway. Only when she couldn't help herself. They drove a mile west, then turned south, and the land looked all the same: rolling fields of brown stubble lying silent under winter's chill. There wasn't much snow left from Sunday's covering, only in the shade, and though the day was sunny, the mood in the buggy was dour.

Bess wondered what thoughts were running through Billy's mind. Her head buzzed with questions. She wanted to ask where he'd been these last few years, why he hadn't tried to get in touch with her, what had happened to Betsy Mast, but she felt tongue-tied. Neither of them said a word.

She found herself remembering what he'd looked like as a young man of eighteen, just before full maturity set in, before he had whiskers and muscles and the brittle aloofness he was displaying. He had changed dramatically. He was still every bit as gloriously handsome as he always was—man-sized, broad shoulders, with curly brown hair and blue eyes rimmed with dark eyebrows. But the roguish twinkle in his eyes was gone. His face was drawn tighter than the lids of Mammi's rose petal jam jars. Those eyes were cold now. It seemed as if he could barely tolerate being here, as if she and all of Stoney Ridge were nothing but a great inconvenience to him.