Christmas at Rose Hill Farm (19 page)

Billy had been in such a hurry to get to Rose Hill Farm after he received the message from Bess that he'd left without his backpack; it was filled with charts and notes and an important book he'd found on old German roses. He had hoped the rosebud had fully opened by now, but this news from Bess about remembering the Charming Nancy was almost as good. Maybe even better.

Bess had gone up to the house to help Lainey finish baking
for Christmas—only a few days away, she reminded him, and invited him to come for Christmas dinner. He declined, of course, because he knew that meant there would be a large gathering of relatives. And that would mean his father would know he was in Stoney Ridge. He would know and he would ignore him, and Billy would be right back where he started. Forgotten.

An odd feeling came over Billy as he settled into the greenhouse, and he realized he wasn't alone. He turned around and discovered a little girl, the oldest one, standing about halfway up the brick path. She had padded into the greenhouse as soft as a cat. What was the girl's name again . . . Carrie? Kayla? No . . . Christy! that was it—she stared at him with her mouth plump and her eyes unblinking, watching.

“Hi there.”

Christy stared at him with big violet eyes, so like her mother's. She lifted one hand, palm up. Billy strode down the path to see what she had and found a Christmas cookie, a star with cinnamon heart decorations, lying flat in her hand. Two of the arms of the star were crooked, and the cinnamon hearts were jammed into an extraordinary amount of icing that oozed up and over them.

“It's for you,” she whispered with a lisp. “I made it all by myself. It's the Christmas star. It was in the sky over baby Jesus.”

“For me?” His chest tightened and a lump formed in his throat. He wasn't accustomed to children and their gentle ways. “You made it for me?”

Christy nodded and handed it to him. “It's a Christmas present for you. Bess said you'll be all alone. So's it's to wish you a Merry Christmas.”

Billy held the star in his hands, then something quite unexpected happened. Christy lifted her arms for a hug. He leaned down and she clasped her plump little hands around his neck
without restraint. It was so unexpected, so sincere. Then, just as quickly, it was over. Christy wiggled away and skipped down the brick path.

“Hey! Where are you going?”

She whirled around. “Mama's making me take a nap.” She made a distasteful face. And then she slipped out the door.

Billy went back to the workbench and sat on the stool, staring at the cookie star in his hand. It was an odd feeling for a man to whom gift-giving was strange. He'd never had a child give him a gift before, had never guessed how it got to your insides and warmed you through and through. He felt wanted. Cared about. He thought he might never eat this little cookie.

He set the cookie on the workbench and started to refocus his mind on some parentage charts of German rootstocks that he'd brought with him. The door to the greenhouse squeaked open and a man's heavy footsteps echoed down the brick path. He could tell the footsteps didn't belong to Jonah and hoped they weren't Caleb Zook's. Slowly, he turned his head, curious about who had come to see him.

George the hobo.

“Look. Look what I brought!” He held up Billy's backpack.

Billy took the backpack, amazed, and unzipped it. Inside was the book and files he'd just been wishing he'd brought with him. “Thank you, man. You saved the day!” He stacked the books on the workbench and opened one, started skimming through it, then realized he was neglecting George. “I really appreciate it.” He reached into the pocket of his backpack. “I forgot to pay you for the work you've been doing for me.” He handed George a bundle of twenty-dollar bills.

George shook his head. “It's too much.”

“No, I calculated it all out. You've been a big help to me up in College Station these last two weeks, and then there's bus
fare you've had to shell out to get to Stoney Ridge. Twice now.” He pulled a book out of the backpack and set it on the table. “There's a little extra for you. A Christmas bonus.”

George smiled and put the bundle of twenties in his coat pocket. “Well, thank you.”

“I'm the one who's thankful. You've been a big help, filling in for me while I've been in Stoney Ridge. My supervisor has hardly even realized I've been away.” He didn't want to say more, but since he was
this
close to identifying the rose, he wouldn't need George's help any longer. The realization made him a little sad, despite knowing that George didn't want or expect to be tied down. He liked this hobo.

George was poking around the greenhouse and stopped to examine a blooming white rose. “Christmas Snow? Rambler, right? Timely blooms for this special holiday, wouldn't you say?”

Billy nodded. “You sure do know your flowers.”

“Well, I told you my father's a dedicated gardener.”

“So you did. Just where does your father live?”

“He's all over the place. Everywhere.”

“So that's where you get your drifting nature.”

George stilled, then burst into laughter. “I'm not quite like him in that regard.”

Billy was only half listening, rifling through the index of a book, completely absorbed. The greenhouse door squeaked open again and he looked up, grimacing, because he realized he'd forgotten all about George again and that he might have just left. His pen paused above the book of lost roses he was studying, and the corners of his mouth drooped.

Amos Lapp.

Billy straightened and, for a brief moment, he assessed his friend. Amos was a farmer through and through, always had been, and his grown body was strong and fit. He walked up the
brick path and stopped a few feet from the workbench, his feet planted wide in a new way to which Billy was not accustomed. It seemed suddenly intimidating, this farmer's stance, so solid, so self-confident.

Billy extended his hand, and for a moment thought Amos would refuse him. But at last Amos's hand clasped Billy's and their touch couldn't help but bring back memories of years of friendship. There was an ache to restore that friendship, as well as the realization that it would never again be what it once was. Not with Bess between them.

“Hello, Billy.”

“Amos.”

They dropped their hands. George coughed politely and Billy turned to him. “Amos, this is George. He's doing some work for me.”

Amos looked at George curiously. “Have we met?”

“Hmmm, have we?”

“Yes. I'm sure of it. I can't quite place it, but I've seen you somewhere.”

“Well, they say that context is 90 percent of recognition.” George clapped his hands together. “I've got some things to take care of this afternoon. Better keep moving.” He lifted a hand in a wave and walked around Amos, down the brick path of the greenhouse, and out the door.

Amos watched him go. “I know I've met him.”

“He's been in and out of Stoney Ridge this last week. Maybe you've seen him around town. He's a drifter, a hobo. He's been doing some work for me.”

Amos's gaze drifted to the top of the workbench. “So that's the rose Bess told me about?”

An enormous void fell, a void four years wide. It used to be so easy to talk to each other. “Yes.”

“Doesn't seem like much.”

“Not yet. Wait until it blooms. It might be an extinct rose.” He pointed to the open book of botanical drawings on the workbench. “If so, it's an important discovery.”

As Amos leafed through a few pages, Billy watched his hands, remembering them, thinking of the hundreds of times they'd threaded bait for each other at Blue Lake Pond, or sledded down Dead Man's Hill on a winter day. Amos had hard, calloused hands, tanned to leather by the sun, hands of a farmer who'd worked the land.

And those hands had caressed Bess.

A conflict between old loyalty and new rivalry created a turmoil of emotion within Billy.

“That's why you're hanging around Rose Hill Farm?”

Billy replied without looking up. “That's why I stop in every few days.” He leaned a hip against the workbench. The unsaid hovered between them. “But that's not really what you're asking, are you? You want to know if I'm going to stick around.”

Amos lifted his head, a challenge in his eyes. “I'm not giving her up, Billy.”

They confronted each other silently for a moment. “I don't blame you. You may not believe me, but I'm not trying to come between you.”

“And yet you are.”

“Amos, as soon as this rose blooms and I can identify it, I'll be gone.”

Amos dropped his eyes. “That's not what I want, either.”

“So what is it you want?”

“I want you to stay with our people. I truly do. But I want Bess to choose me.”

“Well, I can't do anything about Bess, but I can tell you that I'm not staying. I have no reason to.”

“Aren't you going to see your father?”

“No.”

“Billy, he's not well. He hasn't been at church in months. And your brothers took off long ago.”

“They . . . what?” Billy's gaze snapped to Amos. “Where did they go?”

“Sam left first. I think I heard something about Montana. Ben and Mose got into trouble with the law over poaching without a hunting license. I'm not sure where they are now, but my guess is they're staying out of the county. Far away from the game commissioner.”

“They left my father all alone?”

“Well, the church tries to look after your father. As much as he'll let anybody. He's . . .”

“Stubborn as a mule.”

Amos nodded. “My dad used to say your father was as crotchety as a mule eating bumblebees.”

They were second cousins, their dads, but never close. No one was close to Billy's father. “How sick is he?”

“Not sure. Like I said, I haven't seen him in a few months. Maggie knows more. She's up in the farmhouse now, visiting with Bess.” He walked toward Billy and put out his hand. “I hope you'll consider coming back. But I meant what I said about Bess. I'm not giving her up.”

Billy shook his hand. “You'd be a fool to give her up, and I know you're not a fool.”

Amos opened the greenhouse door. Half out, he turned back, a startled look on his face. “Now I remember where I saw that George fellow. It was Christmas Eve, four years ago, when you—” His eyes went to Billy's wrist. “George stopped me on the road and said I should go visit my cousin, Billy Lapp. For Christmas. That everybody needed to be reminded of Christ's coming. That it was meant for each person.” He shook his head. “It was a strange encounter . . . but not in a bad way. He even told me where you lived. That's why I showed up at your
boardinghouse when I did on Christmas Day. Odd.” He tilted his head. “Really odd. Never saw that man before that day. Never saw him after. Until now.”

As the door closed behind Amos, Billy's heart started to pound and he had to sit down.

So.
George wasn't a drifter.

B
ess waved goodbye to Amos as his buggy drove down the long driveway of Rose Hill Farm. He had stopped by the kitchen to sample Christmas cookies after speaking to Billy in the greenhouse and she would have liked to be a fly on the wall for
that
conversation. No, she didn't. She didn't want to know what Amos might have said, or how Billy might have answered.

Yes, she did.

No, she didn't.

Conscience-torn, she watched Amos's buggy turn onto the road, wishing her thoughts were as easy to steer down the straight and narrow path. He asked her again if she was ready to set a wedding date and she told him she still needed a little more time. The disappointment on his face pierced her heart.

Maggie came outside to stand beside her and slipped a shawl around her shoulders.

“Maggie, are people starting to talk about me? Do they think I'm crazy? Everyone must wonder if I was truly sick at the wedding. Otherwise, we'd have set a new date by now.”

“Everyone wants only the best for you,” she said loyally, which was good of her. “Including Amos. When you're ready to set
the date, then you'll set it. He'll wait patiently. Amos is nothing if not patient.”

Bess gave a slight nod. “Let's go inside and get warm. Lainey made cinnamon rolls that beat Dottie Stroot's.”

Maggie grinned and the two went up to the house, arm in arm. On the way, Maggie told her about what a fine ice skater Amos was and she was sorry again that Bess didn't join them, because she would have been so impressed. “Amos can skate like he was born on ice. Did you know that? He can zig and zag and do figure eights and I don't think he ever fell down. Not once.”

She's falling in
love
, Bess thought, watching Maggie's eyes flash and her hands dance in the air as she went on and on about Amos's ability to skate backward.
I think
she's falling in love with Amos Lapp.

Oh my
, oh my.
This,
Bess thought,
this is a conundrum
.

Not much later, Jonah came in from the barn, stomping the snow off his boots by the threshold. He removed his black felt hat and hung it on a wall peg beside the door in a smooth, accustomed movement.

Bess filled up a mug with steaming hot coffee and handed it to her dad as he sat in his chair at the kitchen table. Christy scrambled up on her father's lap while Lainey cut a generous cinnamon roll out of the pan and set it on a plate.

“Has Billy left?” Maggie said. “I needed to talk to him for a minute. His dad's not doing well.”

“He's still in the greenhouse,” Jonah said. He took a bite of the roll. “It's hard to believe the problem between Billy and his father all stems back to that missing collectible.”

“There'd been problems brewing for a long time,” Bess said. “That collectible was what tipped everything over.”

Lainey picked up Lizzie from her high chair and held her on her hip. “I agree with Bess. It wasn't just the missing collectible. It's never just one thing.”

“What collectible are you talking about?” Maggie asked.

Jonah cut the cinnamon roll with his fork. “A truck had a flat tire near the Lapp farm. The Lapp brothers helped the truck driver change the tire to a spare. In the truck was a load of antiques and collectibles, about to go to auction in New York. Apparently, one box went missing while the tire was being changed. It was found in Billy's buggy—the box—but something valuable in the box was gone. Never has shown up.” Jonah took another bite of cinnamon roll, thoughtfully chewing. “It still rankles me that it seemed to have disappeared at Rose Hill Farm. You'd think it would turn up, sooner or later.”

“Unless Billy's brothers were the ones who took it and sold it,” Bess said. “And they've vanished.”

Maggie looked like a bazooka had just been fired three inches from her ear. “Um, do you happen to remember what that valuable collectible was?” Her voice was weirdly quiet.

Jonah squinted his eyes. “What was it? Bess, do you remember?”

“I never actually saw it, but one of the brothers said it was an old cast-iron bank.”

Maggie's face suddenly blanched, and for a moment she was too stunned to speak. Bug-eyed, breathless, she stammered, “An iron Santa Claus? Like, a piggy bank?”

In the middle of a sip of coffee, Bess's hand froze. “Why?”

“Oh, boy. Oh, boy.” Maggie dropped to a chair at the kitchen table and covered her face with her hands, muttering, “Oh double dinged donged d—oh! I'm sorry, Lainey. I'm working on my cussing.”

Bess pressed a hand to her hammering heart. “Maggie, just what do you know about that bank?”

Maggie jumped to her feet and paced the room. She stopped and waved her hands. “The thing is . . . I didn't know it was worth anything. It looked like a piece of junk. Wrapped up in old newspapers. I figured Billy was tossing stuff out.”

“Slow down, take a breath,” Jonah said. “What are you talking about?”

Maggie was nearly hyperventilating. “It goes back to that last summer before Bertha passed. One of her special roses needed iron and she didn't want to spend the money on buying iron supplement, so she gave me the job of finding an old cast-iron tool or frying pan or something that had iron in it. The rustier the better, she said. So I looked and looked and brought her back one thing after the other—but she complained about anything I found—too big or too small. I mean . . . you knew what Bertha was like. Fussy as could be about her roses.”

Jonah whirled his finger to hustle the story along.

“And then, suddenly, Bertha passes to her glory, right there in her rose field. I completely forgot to keep looking for an iron tool. I forgot about the ailing rose. I forgot for nearly a year! Until I stopped by to see Bess one day and noticed Billy's brand-new buggy. No one was around, so I climbed in and looked it over. You know how good a new buggy smells. Then I saw the big box and got a little curious and it was easy to open—”

Jonah gave her a look.

“It was, Jonah! The masking tape was all undone. Why doesn't anyone believe me? I always tell the truth. It
was
easy to open and inside was a bunch of junk. I figured Billy had cleaned out a closet or was selling scrap metal or something like that—I mean, you know what a dump the Lapp farm is. Then I noticed the Santa Claus bank and remembered Bertha's rose. That bank was just the right size and shape to fit in the pot. It was something I could do for her—the last thing.” She bit her lip. “So . . . I pulled up the rose and stuck the bank in the bottom of the pot and jammed the rose back in and put it in the back of the greenhouse and by the time I came outside . . . there was that big broohaha going on between Billy and his father and brothers . . . and I just forgot all about it.” She
clasped a fist against her mouth. “I really thought it was a worthless piece of junk.”

“A pot in the greenhouse?”

“Yes. One of Bertha's. That rose plant she babied so much.”

The kitchen went silent; all that could be heard was the drip, drip, drip of the sink faucet. Three, two, one . . . Bess and Jonah rocketed out of their chairs and raced to the greenhouse, Maggie trailing behind, offering up excuses, which they ignored.

As they burst into the greenhouse, they startled Billy and crowded him around the workbench. All talking at once, they filled him in on the story. He was shocked at first, then everything slid into focus for him. He put his hands around the base of the rose pot, gently and purposefully, and turned it on its side. He ran a pocketknife around the edges, then carefully, oh-so-carefully, he tugged on the stem of the rose until it finally started to loosen and shift out of the clay pot. There, tucked inside a thick swarm of impacted roots, was the cast-iron Santa Claus bank collectible. For nearly a full minute they all stood utterly still, staring at the root ball of the rose, until Billy said, “So
that'
s
why the pot was so heavy.”

Maggie swallowed. “Jonah, how much did you say that Santa Claus bank is worth?”

“Thousands and thousands of dollars, Maggie.”

“Oh, double dinged donged d—.” She stopped herself. She pointed to the rose and her face brightened. “But look at how healthy it is now. That's all because of me.”

Billy looked at her as if she'd suggested the moon was falling. “Why in the world did you tuck it away in the corner to be forgotten?”

Maggie shrugged. “Bertha said you told her the iron needed time to work its wonders. She told me it needed plenty of time.”

Gently, Jonah inspected the root ball of the rose. “Should we try to extract the Santa Claus bank?”

“No,” Billy said. “Not necessary. It's been paid for, courtesy of my new buggy.”

Bess winced at that comment, but when she glanced at Billy, instead of the tight expression that he wore so consistently, his face seemed relaxed, released. Free.

“I don't want to change anything with this rose,” he said. “Whatever's keeping it alive and making it thrive is working.”

In the quiet, Bess said, “Billy, you need to tell your father about the collectible.”

Maggie's face, alit with joy only seconds ago, suddenly lost its smile. “Oh no!” Her hands flew to cover her mouth. “I completely forgot! That's why I came over here in the first place. Billy—this morning I was listening to my father and Jorie—”

“Eavesdropping, you mean.”

She ignored him. “You need to get over to see your father. Today. Right now.”

“You mean go over there?” The animation left his face and his voice quieted. “I don't think I can do that.”

Maggie exchanged a look with Bess. “Billy—I'm sorry to be the one to tell you, but you need to know. Your father is dying.”

As Billy stood in front of the dilapidated Lapp farm, his heart ticked faster. The shadows lent a velvet richness to the dusky clearing, disguising its rusted junk and dung and weeds. Even still, he couldn't forget how sorry it had looked by daylight. And what a wreck the house was.

Maggie had filled him in on when and why his brothers had left home, one by one, over the last few years. Sam got a girl in the family way and didn't want to marry her, so he fled to Montana. Ben and Mose were laying low in another county. His father had been alone for over a year. Maggie said she thought he had some kind of cancer and refused to see a doctor about
it, despite Caleb Zook's persistence. He didn't want anybody's help, he told Caleb, and he meant it.

If Billy took a guess, his father had lung cancer. He smoked like a chimney all his life and had been warned to cut down, if not give it up entirely. His father would only scoff at the warning and dismiss it as government propaganda. He grew tobacco, you see.

Billy eyed the yard, imagining it clean. He eyed the chickens, imagining them penned. He eyed the woodpile, imagining it chopped, ranked, and filed. He turned in a half circle and gazed out at the fields, imagining the soil to be dark brown, resplendent with minerals.

He walked up to the house, knocked on the door, waited, knocked again. His pulse was a drum in his ears, and his nose was running from the cold. He felt terrified but strong, as if he were swimming for his life.

The door swung open and Caleb Zook stood there. His eyes opened wide in surprise. So Maggie had finally learned to keep a secret. Good for her.

“Billy. Billy Lapp. How did you know? How did you hear about . . . ? Never mind, it's good you've come.” He opened the door wide to let Billy in.

The sour odor of sickness in the house nearly undid him.

“Your father's in the other room. He's not . . . well.”

“I know.”

“He's dying, Billy.”

“Dying,” Billy repeated inanely. He had never expected this. Not now. Not yet. He thought he had plenty of time before he would face this day. Plenty of time to repair the damage. He thought of Bess's comment about Simon—thinking she had time to tell him he meant something to her. And she didn't.

“He doesn't want anyone here, but I was planning to stay until . . .”

Billy looked around the dismal room. “Caleb—I'll stay. You go home and be with your family. Tomorrow is Christmas Eve.”

Caleb took a long time answering. “It won't be long, I suspect.”

Billy nodded. “I want to spend whatever time I can with him. Alone.”

Caleb spun his hat in his hands, hesitating, until Billy reassured him this was what he wanted to do.

At the door, Caleb grabbed Billy's hand in both of his. “It's good you've come home, Billy.” He walked down a few steps, then turned. “I'll stop by in the morning. You can call if you need anything. I left the number on the kitchen counter. I'll check the phone shanty every few hours.”

Billy closed the kitchen door and took a deep breath. It was curious how calm he felt at this moment, despite four years of anticipating and dreading it.