Read Online Christmas at Rose Hill Farm by Suzanne Woods Fisher - Free Book Online
Authors: Suzanne Woods Fisher
Ads: Link
gone to roost, and the chill of afternoon had begun settling in. Stay, Billy Lapp. Please stay.
âNo,â he said firmly, bending over to stuff his camera into his backpack. âDark sets in earlier these days. I want to get back.â
âIâll let Dad and Lainey know that youâre leaving.â Tell him? Donât tell him. Tell him ?
âNo need. You can tell them goodbye for me after you get back from dropping me off.â His face set stubbornly as he rose,tugged his hat brim down low, and lunged down the brick path of the greenhouse, pride stiffening his posture and adding force to his shoulders.
Definitely do not tell him. Bess closed her eyes, then opened them, as if to rewind the events of the day. But of course that was impossible. Time moved in only one direction.
The buggy ride to the bus stop was a repeat of the morningâs trip. He had told her quite a bit. And he had told her nothing.
4
A s Billy rode the bus back to College Station, he tried to focus on the characteristics he had gleaned about the Rose Hill Farm mystery rose, but his mind kept flicking back to the events of the day. And he couldnât dispel the image of a pink-clad girl who filled his mind.
Finally, he closed his note pad, stuffed it in his backpack, and stared out the window. Over the years the vista hadnât changed at all: horses, harvest, horizon. Beyond the window the sky at twilight was awash with pink, red, and orange, but it couldnât lighten the tumble of uncertainty that rolled around inside him today: he had gone home.
Home. He thought of what he had left behind, years ago. A father, three brothers, the farm where heâd been born and raised. The town. All the familiar places and people heâd known his whole life . . . yet it wasnât home anymore. He was prepared to feel detached, cut loose, to be reminded of a vague sense of deprivation. But he had been completely unprepared for his reaction at seeing Bess again.
He felt . . . stunned, stricken. Bess, with her womanâs body, hair swept and fastened in a knot, and . . . that face . That breathtaking face, filled with an expression of openness glowing athim, schoolgirlâs cheeks flushed pink, lips shining, azure eyes that seemed to send all the blood in his head right to his heart, causing it to pound like a jackhammer.
By the time the bus arrived in College Station, he was in a state of agitation. He forced himself to a semblance of calm before he reached the camera shop, arriving just after the manager had closed up for the night. It took cajoling, but he talked him into letting him drop off the film cartridges for development. Next stop was the Extension office at the university, where he could find resource books on lost roses. Jill had given him a key so that he could use the small library when he worked weekends. There was a rack of bookshelves and a small table under the window where he had spent many quiet Sunday afternoons, poring over dusty magazines and old books about extinct roses. He grabbed a few books and tucked them under his arm, then hurried to the place he loved best. His greenhouse. Penn State had a number of greenhouses, but one in particular felt like home to him. Even if it was a cheap hoop house, it was his.
He moved through the greenhouse to reach the shelf that doubled as his desk, breathing in the warm, moist, musty air. Here was his domain. Here he had total control. Here nobody laughed at him, like his brothers did, or found him lacking, like his father did. The greenhouse was more than a workplace to him, it was a sanctuary. During his darkest hours, when faith deserted him, his love of plants had sustained him.
This time of day, the greenhouse was clean and quiet, no work to be done. And nobody to listen to his ranting frustrations over the dayâs turn of events.
He went straight to his shelf, turned on the desk lamp, and leafed through the books, trying to narrow
âNo,â he said firmly, bending over to stuff his camera into his backpack. âDark sets in earlier these days. I want to get back.â
âIâll let Dad and Lainey know that youâre leaving.â Tell him? Donât tell him. Tell him ?
âNo need. You can tell them goodbye for me after you get back from dropping me off.â His face set stubbornly as he rose,tugged his hat brim down low, and lunged down the brick path of the greenhouse, pride stiffening his posture and adding force to his shoulders.
Definitely do not tell him. Bess closed her eyes, then opened them, as if to rewind the events of the day. But of course that was impossible. Time moved in only one direction.
The buggy ride to the bus stop was a repeat of the morningâs trip. He had told her quite a bit. And he had told her nothing.
4
A s Billy rode the bus back to College Station, he tried to focus on the characteristics he had gleaned about the Rose Hill Farm mystery rose, but his mind kept flicking back to the events of the day. And he couldnât dispel the image of a pink-clad girl who filled his mind.
Finally, he closed his note pad, stuffed it in his backpack, and stared out the window. Over the years the vista hadnât changed at all: horses, harvest, horizon. Beyond the window the sky at twilight was awash with pink, red, and orange, but it couldnât lighten the tumble of uncertainty that rolled around inside him today: he had gone home.
Home. He thought of what he had left behind, years ago. A father, three brothers, the farm where heâd been born and raised. The town. All the familiar places and people heâd known his whole life . . . yet it wasnât home anymore. He was prepared to feel detached, cut loose, to be reminded of a vague sense of deprivation. But he had been completely unprepared for his reaction at seeing Bess again.
He felt . . . stunned, stricken. Bess, with her womanâs body, hair swept and fastened in a knot, and . . . that face . That breathtaking face, filled with an expression of openness glowing athim, schoolgirlâs cheeks flushed pink, lips shining, azure eyes that seemed to send all the blood in his head right to his heart, causing it to pound like a jackhammer.
By the time the bus arrived in College Station, he was in a state of agitation. He forced himself to a semblance of calm before he reached the camera shop, arriving just after the manager had closed up for the night. It took cajoling, but he talked him into letting him drop off the film cartridges for development. Next stop was the Extension office at the university, where he could find resource books on lost roses. Jill had given him a key so that he could use the small library when he worked weekends. There was a rack of bookshelves and a small table under the window where he had spent many quiet Sunday afternoons, poring over dusty magazines and old books about extinct roses. He grabbed a few books and tucked them under his arm, then hurried to the place he loved best. His greenhouse. Penn State had a number of greenhouses, but one in particular felt like home to him. Even if it was a cheap hoop house, it was his.
He moved through the greenhouse to reach the shelf that doubled as his desk, breathing in the warm, moist, musty air. Here was his domain. Here he had total control. Here nobody laughed at him, like his brothers did, or found him lacking, like his father did. The greenhouse was more than a workplace to him, it was a sanctuary. During his darkest hours, when faith deserted him, his love of plants had sustained him.
This time of day, the greenhouse was clean and quiet, no work to be done. And nobody to listen to his ranting frustrations over the dayâs turn of events.
He went straight to his shelf, turned on the desk lamp, and leafed through the books, trying to narrow
Similar Books
