Christmas at Rose Hill Farm (12 page)

“Any questions?”

So many.
But how could Bess even begin to reveal the questions and doubts that were flooding through her?

Lainey gave her a thoughtful look. “Bess, if you—”

A shriek split the air, then silence . . . followed by a mournful wail. Either Lizzie or Christy had taken a tumble, and Lainey flew out the bedroom door to see which one was hurt and how badly.

Through the open door, Bess heard Lainey comfort her daughter and the sobs subside. Slowly, she closed her bedroom door and went to curl up on the window seat. Soon, she would be needed downstairs to help cook chicken and chop celery for tomorrow's wedding meal. She saw a buggy arrive, then another and another. She heard an uncle's voice call out a jovial greeting to her father. “Jonah, why don't we have any boys in this Riehl family? With five daughters, all I ever do is cook wedding meals.”

She saw her father walk over to greet his uncle, laughing. Everyone was laughing, happy and cheerful. Everybody loved a wedding. She dropped her forehead to her knees and sighed.

Bess turned away from the window and noticed her blue wedding dress on the bed where Lainey had set it. Wrinkled, it needed a good ironing, and now, Bess decided, was just the time, plus the iron and ironing board were set up in her room, away from the gathering crowd in the kitchen. And it gave her an excuse to delay going downstairs. She took extra care with the white apron, starching it crisply, because the organza fabric always bunched up on her. Once a crease was ironed in, it was a bear to get out. Bess had to keep sprinkling water on the fabric, then starch. She spread out the new blue wedding dress on the ironing board, and suddenly, as she thought about the wedding, about standing in front of everyone, she felt as if her hands couldn't stop shaking as they pressed the heavy iron on the blue material. Her palms started to sweat and her heart felt like it might club its way out of her body.

Down the hall, Lainey was the first to notice the acrid odor of burnt fabric. “Bess! The iron!” She rushed into Bess's bedroom.

Bess lifted the iron and found a dark burned triangle right on the front of her dress. “No! Oh no!”

Lainey held the fabric up against the light and waved it to cool. “I think it'll lighten up as it cools off. Sometimes that happens.” It didn't. The triangle shape of an iron remained—not even a dark blue. It was nearly black.

Bess's eyes filled with tears. “What have I done?”

“I wish there was some leftover fabric to redo that panel, but we used it all up.” Lainey tried to make light of it. “Not to worry. Your apron will cover it up. No one will ever notice.”

But Bess would know. A bride should look her best on her wedding day. She shouldn't have to worry about covering up a burned iron mark on her dress.

And then she caught sight of Billy walking up the long driveway and heading straight to the greenhouse. Lainey noticed that she noticed.

“Bess . . .” Lainey's voice held a note of warning.

Bess avoided Lainey's eyes and set the iron upright on the ironing board to cool. She put her dress on a hanger and the starched prayer cap on top of her dresser, where it sat like a plump hen. She could feel Lainey's eyes on her and felt a wave of relief when she heard someone down in the kitchen call up to her. As soon as Lainey left, Bess looked in the mirror, smoothed her hair, pinched her cheeks, bit her lips to put a little color in them, and crept down the stairs and out the side door to hurry to the greenhouse.

Billy seemed to be expecting her. He turned and glanced briefly at her as she slid in the door and walked down the aisle to meet him.

He was so much more of a man than she remembered. So tall and filled out. She lifted her chin toward the rose still tucked in the corner. “No real change yet.”

“Slightly measureable. I didn't expect much of a change with the weather so cold. I only stopped by because I was sent to check out another lost rose in Gap.”

“That's the only reason?”

“Yes,” he said firmly.

“Was it? A lost rose?”

“No. It was an Albertine, a climber. Old, but not so rare.” He turned and his elbow bumped the pot of a blooming yellow rose. He dipped his head to breathe in its scent and for a moment his face softened. “Magician. Known for its array of colors.”

“Yes. One of my favorites.”

“Magician,” he said, rolling the word around on his tongue. “My father always said—” Suddenly his lips clamped, his head came down with a snap, and he shot her a cautious sideward
glance. Enjoyment fled his face. “I better finish this up and be on my way,” he mumbled, turning his attention to the mystery rose.

She stood next to him. “What did your father used to say?”

He crouched down and reached forward to drag the pot out. “Man! I don't know why this pot is so heavy.”

“And your father always said . . .”

“He always said roses were nothing but fool's gold,” he said softly, so quietly she barely heard him.

Without thinking, she knelt beside him. She could see his hands were trembling a little. Sensing how hard it had been for him to admit such a thing, she wanted to reach out and touch his hand, hold it to her heart, but she didn't dare. “Billy, you know that not all men are like your father and brothers. You know that.”

He kept his eyes fixed on the rose. “What I know is that what my father thinks doesn't matter anymore. And that's why I want to spend my time doing what I love best—hunting down rare roses. Speaking of that, I'd better get back to work.” With a grunt, he hoisted the pot up onto the workbench.

Slowly, she straightened, watching him. Though Billy tried to act nonchalant, something in his eyes—a glassy look—told Bess he was struggling with finding a way to overcome his prideful nature, a way to turn from the wrongs he'd been dealt and still maintain his self-respect as a man. “Did you know that Simon passed?”

“Bertha's brother?” He lifted his eyes momentarily and met hers self-consciously. “The one you gave your bone marrow to help cure?”

“Yes, but he didn't die of Hodgkin's Disease. He had a heart attack, just like Mammi.”

“How long ago?”

“Over a year ago. Very sudden.” She picked up a gardening glove and ran her finger along the leather edge. “I was always
sorry I hadn't told him some important things before he passed. Things like . . . I had grown to care about him, as salty and blustery as he was. It was true. I even grew to love him, in a way. I meant to tell him. Seems like that's something that should be told to a person, but . . . there was never a good time. I thought there was plenty of time for that conversation. But then . . . time ran out. It does, you know.”

His eyes flicked to hers, then immediately away. “Are you telling me this because of my father? Because if you are, you can save your breath.”

That sharp edge had returned to him. She wondered what to make of Billy Lapp, so disagreeable and cranky at times, so vulnerable and vague at others. She stood beside him as he studied the flower bud and scribbled down measurements, resisting the urge to seize his hand and press it to her cheek, to make him look at her, really look.

He glanced out the window when he heard a buggy roll up the driveway to stop beside three parked buggies, then another and another. A swarm of black-bonneted women spilled out of the buggies and made a beeline to the kitchen. “I'll be on my way in a few minutes. Looks like you've got a quilting bee going on.”

“No. Not a quilting bee.” She swallowed, her breath shallow and quick. “They're here to help with the wedding.”

The pencil in Billy's hand stilled for one brief second, then he carried on.

“Tomorrow. I'm to marry Amos tomorrow.”

“Well, congratulations to you both.”

Their eyes met, spoke silently.
You don't mean that,
Bess thought.
You just can't let down your defenses.

“Tell me one thing. How long after I left did Amos start to court you?”

“What? Why should that matter?”

His voice was throaty. “How long?”

“We started courting two years ago.”

“So at least he waited . . .” He shook his head, looked away.

She tugged at his elbow to make him look at her. What exactly did he mean by that? “Waited? For what?”

“To make sure I wasn't coming back.”

“But you did come back.”

He spun toward her and pointed at her with his pencil. “No. No I didn't. I've told you that. I'm here to identify this rose. That's all.”

“That's all? No other reason?” Her eyes were wide and serious. “Is there, Billy? Any reason I shouldn't marry Amos?” she asked at last. She meant for her voice to ring out, but it emerged as a whisper. She held her breath. Everything hung on this moment—her future, Amos's, Billy's.

His brows furrowed in stern reproof as he stared at her from beneath the brim of his black felt hat. When he spoke, his voice was flat and crisp, cracking at the edges. “None. None at all.”

She saw how fast he was breathing. She saw him fight with himself. She felt threatened by tears, and she swallowed fiercely to drive them back. Her cheeks burned, and her throat felt parched. Everything in her rushed toward him in a silent plea:
You stubborn, stupid, prideful man! Can't
you tell what's in my heart?

His eyes darted around the greenhouse as if seeking an escape, swept back to hers, then abruptly, he turned his attention to the workbench. To the rose. The light coming through the greenhouse ceiling played on and off the leaves of the rose like sun upon waves.

“Thank you for telling me, Billy,” she offered softly, then, discomposed, swung away toward the door of the greenhouse.

B
illy didn't need to turn around to know Bess had left, just as he knew when she had entered the greenhouse. His body seemed to have developed sensors that went on alert whenever she approached. In the silence that followed, the sensation withered, dulled, leaving him sitting on the wooden stool with a pencil gripped tightly in his hand, motionless. He turned his head, stared out across his right shoulder through the frosted window as Bess crossed the yard toward the house, head tucked down against the wind. Only when she had disappeared into the house did he release a rush of breath; his shoulders sagged, his eyes closed.

He'd known it would come down to this, but he hadn't expected it to hurt quite this much. He knew his words had hurt her. It was a lie that hurt him as badly as it hurt her. He saw the shock of rejection riffle across her face and steeled himself against rushing to her with an apology, taking her face between his hands and kissing her. But that wasn't fair to her or to him. Or to Amos.

He collected himself, exhaled deeply a number of times.
It's over. It'
s got to be, because she doesn't belong in
my world any more than I belong in hers.

He heaved an enormous sigh, dropped his hands, lifted his head, and got back to work. He finished measuring the rosebud, put his tools into his backpack, replaced the heavy rose back in its corner, walked out of the greenhouse and down the driveway without looking back.

For the rest of the day he felt out of sorts, crotchety and malcontent. That evening, back at College Station, he accepted Jill's invitation to go out for a quick burger, but afterward, she looked vexed when he told her he needed to get back to work. “I thought you said this Stoney Ridge rose was no big deal.”

“I never said, one way or the other.” He fished for a response. He didn't want to lie, but he also didn't want to let on that this rose could be a found. Hedging was his best bet. “As soon as the rose opens, I'll be able to make a clear identification.”

“I don't believe you. Something happened.”

“What do you mean?”

“You've changed.”

“In what way?”

“You seem distant. Preoccupied. Moody.” She scrutinized Billy's face. “Did you meet someone?”

Billy felt his jaw drop and snapped it shut. “No. Nothing like that.”

“People have hardly seen you around the greenhouses this week. Everyone's noticed.”

The idea that his co-workers had noticed his absences bothered him. “Jill, you're the one who sent me to Gap to check out that rose. Do you have any complaints about my work?”

Slowly, she shook her head. “No, no. Your work is getting done, but I don't see you doing it.”

Billy's stomach tightened like a fist. Had she seen George hanging around the greenhouse? He knew Jill would blow the whistle on the arrangement he'd made with the hobo. But from the look on her face, she didn't seem to suspect anything. If
she didn't ask, Billy wasn't saying, and he wasn't staying. He rose to his feet. “I've been working late. In fact, I'm going there now. Need to check on those drought-resistant wheat seedlings. They're at a delicate stage.” She didn't buy that, and he didn't really care. He just wanted to be back in the greenhouse, alone, where he could find peace.

The moment he walked into the warm, woodsy-scented greenhouse, he heaved an enormous sigh, tossed his backpack on the ground, and leaned his palms against a shelf. Suddenly Billy's life stretched out before him like a bleak, lonely purgatory. He hadn't felt this low, this full of despair, since that hard time. That awful Christmas.

He thought he had come so far from that day. He had diverted his pain into a kind of moat, buffering himself from despair. Rose rustling gave him a sense of purpose, a reason to get up each morning. His life held some meaning . . . and then
this
rose interrupted all that, reminding him of the life he'd lost. He felt like he'd climbed up a steep hill, only to slip near the summit and tumble back down again.

He heard the click of the greenhouse door and barely stifled a groan when he saw George amble in.

“What do you think?”

“Of what?”

George lifted an arm in a semicircle. “The pots. All rotated. And I swept the shelves clean.”

Billy's eyes took in the changes. He hadn't even noticed the plants had been rotated from back to front, to allow for more sunlight, just as he had wanted them to be—though he didn't remember leaving a note for George to do so. And the wooden slats that held the flats of seedlings were swept clean of dirt and leaves and debris. “It looks . . . great. Wow.” It was heavy, time-consuming work that must have taken him all day. “Really, really great.”

George walked in and sat on the lone metal stool near the shelf that served as Billy's desk, then reached for a book tucked against the edge. “I noticed this while I was cleaning up.” It was Billy's Bible, one that Amos had left with him at the hospital. He made a show of brushing off dust from the top of the weathered Bible, hacking and coughing and choking.

A smile tugged at the corner of Billy's mouth. “I guess I haven't read it much lately.”

“Guess not,” George said, leafing through it. “But this is how to know God. As you read it, your heart burns within you. As Jesus said, ‘The Scriptures . . . testify of me.' John, I believe.”

Billy stared at him. That was the second time George quoted Scripture to him. “How well do you know the Bible?”

“Not as well as some, better than others. Where I come from . . . well, it'd be like riding in a hot air balloon and reading a travel book with my head down instead of looking around.”

Billy took off his coat and tossed it on the metal stool, trying to puzzle out George's words. There was surely no knowing or understanding him. “Where in the world
do
you come from?”

George's face took on a look of longing. “Quite a distance, Billy Lapp.”

“Oh. You mean, like, Texas?”

George grinned. “Even farther away. Someday, I will take you there and show you around. Introduce you to my friends. They'd get a kick out of you.”

Fat chance of that happening.
Billy could just imagine the kind of place George came from. An empty railroad car, a highway underpass, a grimy soup kitchen.

George's eyes were on him, as if reading his thoughts. “So . . . since you seem to be back in Stoney Ridge pretty often, don't you think it's time to mend the rift with your family?”

“Rift?” More like a yawning crevice.

“No?” George scratched his head. “Isn't there a rift?”

“Do you realize you always answer a question with a question?”

“Do I?” He seemed astounded by that. “So, isn't there a rift?”

Billy's back stiffened, his shoulders tensed. Then, resigned, he felt the tension drain from him and he let out a puff of air. “Yeah. There is.”

“What's it going to take to get you back home?”

Billy coughed a laugh. “Not gonna happen in this lifetime.”

“Ah,” George voiced knowingly, “pride.” He leaned back so his elbows rested against the shelves. “So you're just going to keep on living this solitary life, cut off from everyone you love. From your family. From your church. From Bess.”

Billy's mouth dropped. George was getting onto ground, in more ways than one, where he did not want to be. “Whoa right there,” he said testily. “I know for a fact that I never mentioned anything about Bess to you.”

“You don't have to. You turn into a bundle of raw nerves whenever you've been near Rose Hill Farm.” The greenhouse was warm and George unbuttoned his coat. “So are you ever going to let Bess off the hook?”

“Let her off the hook?” Billy was getting steamed. “Bess overheard my brother say I was seen with my old girlfriend and she jumped to the conclusion that I was cheating on her.”

“And you weren't trying to be the big hero to your old girlfriend?”

Billy fit the edges of his teeth together and said nothing. He was incensed. Incensed and guilty. He
had
enjoyed the feeling of saving the day for Betsy Mast. She was desperate and needed cash, and it made him feel wonderful that she had sought him out for help. But it didn't mean he was two-timing Bess. He wasn't.

George the hobo was getting downright annoying. Billy turned back to the makeshift desk. As calmly as a frustrated man could, he pointed out to George that there was work to be done in the greenhouse. “You work for
me
, remember? You forgot to
move those orchids on the lower shelf. I want them moved up a row. They're not getting enough light.” He put on his work gloves and busied himself with an ailing potted rhododendron.

“Bess is only human, Billy. Everybody makes mistakes.” But when Billy didn't respond, George moved quietly to the far end of the cylinder greenhouse, shifting delicate orchids from the lower shelf to the high one.

Blast it all!
Billy tried to ignore George's comments, but they kept intruding in his thoughts. That old hobo had a way of rubbing salt in a wound. And yet he couldn't deny that George's insights were spot-on. About living a solitary life. About missing his family, his church. About Bess.

Tomorrow she was going to marry Amos. Knowing it was about to happen and he couldn't,
shouldn'
t
do anything about it—it upset him to the core.

He thought about whether he should have told her that he still cared for her, but what would that prove? She didn't love him. If she had, she wouldn't have let him down when he needed her the most. His life had lost value in the moment when Bess looked at him with doubt in her eyes. When would he learn?

Why? Why? What did he lack? What more must he prove?

Grow up, Lapp. When are
you gonna realize that you're alone in this world?
Nobody fought for you then, nobody'll fight for you
now, so give it up.

George must have come up the aisle when Billy wasn't paying attention, because suddenly he was on the stool, sipping coffee, reading aloud from Billy's dusty Bible: “‘Then they cry unto the L
ORD
in their trouble, and he bringeth them out of their distresses.'”

Slowly, Billy straightened up and watched George—irritated at first, then calmer as he listened to the words, and, finally, a conviction from the words read aloud. It had been so long since Billy had dared have faith, and even then what good had come of it?

“‘He maketh the storm a calm, so that the waves thereof are still.'”

Dare he trust it?

“‘Then are they glad because they be quiet; so he bringeth them unto their desired haven.'”

What was Billy's desired haven? Where was it? This greenhouse. Any greenhouse. It was his safe haven. But was that enough?

What about someone to love? A family to care about, to be cared for? Why was such a haven denied to him?

George read the last few lines of the psalm, closed the book and then his eyes, reverently.

Billy turned away from George, feeling hard again.

“Billy, do you know much about the Pharisees?”

“A little. They were around in Jesus's time.”

“They knew their Scripture. They knew their laws.”

Billy looked up at George. “Maybe they were just trying to do what was right.”

“Perhaps. They were certainly trying to please God. But they ended up smothering the Word of God with all their unbiblical traditions.”

Billy wasn't sure where George's peculiar line of thinking was wandering to in this conversation. “Half the time I don't know what you're getting at.”

George smiled. “The Pharisees tried to obey the law. They thought they were pleasing God, but in their efforts, they forgot the most important thing.”

“Which was . . . ?”

“Loving God, loving others.” George folded his arms across his chest. He stared at Billy a moment in that intense way of his, with his hand still on his Bible. In a quiet but firm voice, he added, “Billy, has it occurred to you that you've forgotten how to love your father?”

Billy stilled, deeply indignant though he tried not to show it. “Me? I didn't do anything wrong.”

George reached into a box of crackers that Billy had left on the shelf. “Mind if I have one?”

“Help yourself.”

“You might not have done anything wrong, but you didn't really do anything right, either.” George chewed a few crackers with a thoughtful look on his face. “These need more salt. Speaking of salt . . . how are you going to be salt to your family when you're hiding away in a greenhouse in College Station? By staying away like you've done, you've only made things worse for your father. He has no one to pull him up. You might be standing on principle, but you're all alone.”

“I'm not hiding away,” Billy growled. “You're forgetting that my father didn't care whether I stayed or left.”

“I'm not forgetting. But things aren't always what they seem. Your father needs you, Billy. He needs God even more. Be the son he needs you to be.”

Billy's heart was pounding so hard, he clapped a hand to his chest to try to calm it. “So you think I'm a Pharisee?
Me?
All rules and no love?”

“When those rules didn't work for you, you tossed everything out the window, along with the most important things in life. About faith in God, about love, about forgiveness.”

Furious now, Billy practically spat out the words. “You have no idea what it was like to be a child in that home. With
him
for a father.”

Unruffled, George said, “You're not a child anymore.”

Billy's throat went dry, resentment twisted his gut. The effort of revealing himself was mighty, and he felt a wave of fatigue. His gaze jumped to George, who stared back in earnest. When he spoke, his voice had a raspy, sharp edge. “It's been a long day. I think I want to be alone.”