Read Online Christmas at Rose Hill Farm by Suzanne Woods Fisher - Free Book Online Page A

down the parentage of the mystery rose. If only he had a better idea of what characteristics the bloom would reveal, identifying it would be much easier.
    He suddenly felt a gust of warm air, looked behind him, and there was the hobo from Friday, smiling broadly as if he’d just been waiting for Billy to return so he could come in for a visit. He looked at Billy as if he was something special.
    â€œHello there, Billy Lapp.”
    Oh no. He hoped this guy wasn’t going to come around to bother him every day. “George, isn’t it?”
    George nodded. “You’re working late.”
    â€œI got something important on my mind.” The hobo didn’t catch his hint, so Billy added, “I’ll give you a cup of coffee, but then I gotta get back to work. Not even sure the coffee’s still hot, but you’re welcome to it.”
    â€œWhat are you working on?” George glanced at Billy’s sketches and the open books on the shelf.
    â€œI’m trying to identify a rose discovered at an Amish farm.” Billy had bent over to unzip his backpack and get his thermos. He opened it and sniffed. Not hot, but not cold.
    â€œWeren’t you raised Amish?”
    He snapped his head up to look at George. “How do you know that?”
    â€œYour accent, for one. I can tell English is your second language. And then there’s that.” He pointed to Billy’s hat on the metal stool.
    His old felt hat, distinctly Amish. Billy loved that hat. It had been his grandfather Zook’s hat, the one thing from his old life that he couldn’t get rid of. “Yeah, well, that was a lifetime ago.”
    George had an odd look on his face: surprised, amused, he couldn’t tell. “Interesting choice of words.”
    Suddenly, Billy felt stupid. Here was a man who had once lived another life, was clearly well educated, and was currently just down on his luck. He could practically read the hobo’s thoughts: What would Billy Lapp, at the ripe old age of twenty-three, know about other lifetimes? He probably thought Billy was a fool. Perhaps he was.
    In the quiet of the evening, Billy found two fairly clean mugs and wiped their insides with a paper towel. It surprised him to discover he didn’t mind the hobo’s company so much; it eased the burden of his loneliness.
    George walked halfway down the length of the greenhouse and stopped to sniff the orange blossoms on a potted tree. “Did you know that oranges were only eaten, not made into juice, until Albert Lasker sold packaged orange juice?” He grinned, revealing a row of bright, white teeth set against his dark face, and clasped his hands as if he held something secret in them. “I marvel at all there is to discover on earth. Just a hint of what’s to come. An eternity of discoveries.”
    Billy gave a nod, but he had trouble parsing meaning from the hobo’s curious sentences. He poured lukewarm coffee into the mugs and handed one to George. “Do you take anything in your coffee?” He looked around the shelf where he kept supplies. “Not that I have anything to offer. Maybe I could find some sugar someplace.”
    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?”
    â€œAsk me anything you like. I’ll answer anything I like.”
    â€œDon’t you want more for yourself than just being a drifter?”
    â€œWell, drifting isn’t all bad.”
    â€œBut 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.”
    â€œA 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