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

tickle of admiration for the hobo’speaceful 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.
    â€œMaybe 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.
    â€œThis 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.”
    â€œLove 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.
    â€œYou knew what it was. You knew and you didn’t tell me.”
    â€œWhat 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 workalongside 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