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 wasâthe 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 aboutâtracking 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 rosesâthey'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
â”
“The Apothecary's Rose.”
“âand 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 dreamâto 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.”
Something in the way she responded reminded him again of Bertha Riehl, a master at finagling her way out of a tight spot. What did Bess know about this rose that she wasn't telling him?
Avoiding his eyes, she straightened and bent over to examine the mystery rose. “I think the capsule is starting to expand. It looks different from yesterday.”
“I'll measure and see if there's any significant difference.”
Suddenly she turned and caught him studying her. Something
odd happened in his chest. A brief catch, a tightening that caused him to drop his gaze to the workbench.
“Billy, why don't you just stay at Rose Hill Farm until it opens?”
He bent down to take a file out of his backpack as if she hadn't spoken. Where was that book on lost roses? He was sure he packed it.
“You could stay in the guest room. It's no bother.”
“I'm going to check a few things, then get back to College Station as soon as I can this morning.” He settled back down on the wooden stool and opened the file.
“If you're worried about what Caleb Zook might say, I don't thinkâ”
He hopped to his feet as if he'd been stung by a bee. “Don't you get it?”
“Get what?” Bess's voice carried genuine confusion, but Billy paused for only a fraction of a second. Then he ceased to think at all. Suddenly, the frustration and anger he'd bottled up the last two daysâthe last few yearsâstarted to bubble over. “LookâI don't belong in Stoney Ridge anymore. I don't want to be here. I wouldn't even have to be here at all if that stupid rosarian hadn't slipped on ice and hurt his rear end.” By the look on her face, he could tell she was getting more upset by the minute at his high-handedness and the insulting tone of his voice. He knew he should have stopped, but he couldn't help it. “So quit tryin' to get me to stay.”