Christmas at Rose Hill Farm (9 page)

“Is that right?” George stroked his chin. “If you really need some help, well, why not? I suppose I could help.”

Billy nodded. “It would be a big help.” Not really, but he wanted to straighten this guy out. “I could leave a list and you could come in during the evening. But . . . I'd rather keep this just between us. My supervisor might not be copacetic with our arrangement.”

“Not a problem. You leave me a list and I'll make sure the work gets done.”

“Who knows, George? If you do good work, I might be able to recommend you to get hired on after the holidays.”

“Hmm . . . I'd better check that first with upper management.” He grinned and wiggled his eyebrows.

Upper management? For hobos? It crossed Billy's mind that George might be delusional; he hoped not. He liked the guy, even if he did seem to be allergic to regular employment. “Are you heading back to College Station? If you don't mind waiting, I'll go back with you.”

“Actually, I'm not headed back that way just yet. I've got an errand or two to do around here.” George grinned at the puzzled look on Billy's face. “Don't ask. You'd be surprised. Even drifters have things to do.”

“Okay. I guess I'll see you back at College Station.”

As George walked down the length of the greenhouse, he stopped to bend over a blooming deep pink Gertrude Jekyll and breathed in deeply. He turned his chin toward Billy. “A rose always gets the last word in, doesn't it?”

“How so?”

George smiled in that amused way he had. “Lingering fragrance.”

Billy went back to his books and notebooks, but thoughts of George kept distracting him. He was such a quirky guy, but there was something calming about him. Whenever Billy was in his presence, he felt his whole self settle. It had been a long, long time since he had felt that kind of calm in his gut. It reminded him of when he was little, those rare moments when his father and brothers were out of the house and it was just him and his mother. Peaceful.

He thumbed through pages in the book of lost roses, but his thoughts drifted again to the way George cupped the base of the pot, as if it held the answer to the rose's identity. He was eager to examine the root ball, to see why it was so heavy and what the tangled roots might reveal, though he had promised Jonah and Bess that he wouldn't disturb the rose in any way until the bud opened. He shouldn't change a thing. Not a thing.

Billy frowned. He wished Bertha Riehl were here to ask. He
knew
she had the answer to this rose.

He glanced up at the farmhouse. If he could just slip the pot off, get a quick look at the base of the plant, slip the pot right back on—it shouldn't disturb the rose.

On the other hand, if he were to disturb the rose's root system, it might cause the bloom to wilt, to be stressed. It might never open at all. And that could mean jeopardizing the biggest rose found of the decade.

On the other hand, the rose had survived this long. It must be hardy.

On the other hand, the rose still struck him as somewhat fragile, as if it were just coming back now after a long period of dormancy.

What to do, what to do, what to do?

Gut Ding will Weile haben.
Good things take time.

Bertha used that phrase whenever she noticed Billy get itchy and impatient. Like now.

Gut Ding will Weile haben.
Good things
take time.

Bess squared her shoulders before she put her hand on the greenhouse door. Billy spun around at the sound of the squeaky door with an odd look on his face as she walked inside.

“I thought you were George. I thought he'd changed his mind and was going to stay.”

She glanced back at the door. “Who?”

“George. A hobo, a drifter.” He peered past her toward the open door. “He was just here. You couldn't have missed him. He's a black man, dark as midnight, with these cool-looking eyes.”

“No. I didn't see anyone.”

He pointed to the door. “But you must have . . .”

Bess saw the scar on his wrist and something tripped in her mind. One glimpse of his face and she realized something was very wrong. One hand came from behind her back and covered her lips. “Oh . . . ,” she breathed, the truth at last registering.

He turned fiery red, jammed his hands in his pockets, and refused to look up. “It was a hard time,” he stammered at last.

“Billy, I had no idea. Really, I didn't.” She bit back the urge to say more, surprised he'd even acknowledged what she had plainly seen on his wrist. They stood between rows of clay pots holding shoulder-high Compassion canes, a climber tea hybrid, being propagated for winter blooming. Bess leaned forward just enough to grasp Billy's arm. He neither pulled away nor returned the pressure, but stood with his head turned away.
Oh Billy, Billy, who hurt
you so badly? And what would it take to make
you forget it?

“It doesn't matter.”

“Yes, it does. You do. You matter.”

At her words, she looked up, he looked down. Billy was gazing at her in that soft way he once had. She felt the pull again, strong, undeniable, elemental. “Billy,” she whispered. “I'm so glad you've come back.”

His glance rested steady on her. Something good happened between them. Something warm and rich and radiant. Slow, matching grins grew on their lips.

A few strands of hair had come loose from Bess's prayer cap and he reached out to tuck it behind her ear, letting the back of his hand gently graze her jawline. There was no mistaking the touch for anything but what it was—a lingering caress.

O, Lord, to
go back and regain what was lost . . .

Abruptly, Billy dropped his hand and stepped back, as if suddenly realizing his folly. His face went stern and stiff again, all traces of tenderness and vulnerability had disappeared as if they dropped through a trapdoor.

The door squeaked wide open. “There you are, Bess! Are you ready?” It was Amos, interrupting the harmonious moment.

Bess swallowed. Billy spun around to face the door.

Amos's face, alit with joy only seconds ago, suddenly lost its smile. He turned a quizzical expression to Bess. Speechless, he shot a questioning glance at Billy before returning to her.

Amos was the first to recover. He forced a welcoming smile and came forward with hand extended. “Billy! Billy Lapp. It's good to see you, man!”

“Hello, Amos. Long time no see.”

Dear friends all their lives, the two clasped hands and pounded each other's shoulders the way men do, but the hearty clasp of their hands did little to lighten the strained atmosphere.

Bess's throat constricted and she turned away. Her mouth went dry, her palms went damp. She should have told Amos about
Billy's return. She had a chance last night, when he stopped by to show her the paint sample he chose for the apartment. But how do you tell a man such a thing?

And then another thought pushed that one away.
How long had Amos been standing at
the door?

Amos had come to Rose Hill Farm this morning for a special tradition—the baking of the wedding cake. In his church, as in most Plain churches, a bride and groom did the task together, sifting and stirring and measuring. A metaphor, it was thought, of an upcoming marriage. He didn't know his way around a kitchen, but he had been eagerly looking forward to this particular task.

Until now. As Bess preceded Amos out the greenhouse door, he watched the stiff way she held herself. Tight-lipped, he stayed a half step behind her.

Of course he was glad to see his cousin, whole and healthy. A succession of uninvited pictures flashed through his head, of Billy's well-being the last time Amos had seen him. Of the close relationship Bess and Billy had, years ago. Of the guilty looks on their faces as he found them in the greenhouse, standing close together.

As Amos and Bess walked toward the house, four-year-old Christy ran from the barn toward them. She spotted the brown paper bag and tugged his sleeve. “Hey, Amos, what you got in there?”

Amos reluctantly pulled his attention from Bess and went down on one knee to talk to the little girl on her level. “Well, what do you think?”

Christy shrugged, her eyes fixed on the sack.

“Maybe you better look inside and see.”

Her hazel eyes gleamed with excitement as she peeked into
the bag, reached in, and withdrew two candy bars. “Candy,” she breathed, awed.

“Chocolate.” Amos crossed his elbows on his knees, smiling. “One for you, one for your little sister.”

“Chocolate,” she repeated, then to Bess, “Look it! Amos brung us chocolate!”

“Mind your manners and tell him thank you,” Bess said. “And go ask your mother before you eat them.”

“We'd better start baking our wedding cake,” Amos said. “Christy, listen to Bess. Go on up to the house and show the chocolate to your mother. We'll be there in a moment.”

Christy took a few steps, then whirled around. With the intuitive accuracy of a child, she shot a question that hit two marks with one stone. “Why didn't you want to tell Billy Lapp that you were going to marry Amos?”

“Go, Christy,” Bess said.

“But during breakfast, when Maggie came around—”

“Go!”

Hurt by the sharp tone in Bess's voice, Christy turned and ran to the house.

Amos's and Bess's eyes met, then she dropped her gaze.

“There was no need to speak so harshly, Bess,” he said gently. He watched the red creep up Bess's cheeks while he wondered again what had been going on at Rose Hill Farm today.

He searched his mind for something to say, something to ease the new discomfort between them, but as they stood there, it became more and more palpable. He glanced over at the greenhouse and quietly said, “It was quite a shock to see Billy.” Billy Lapp. His favorite cousin. His rival for Bess's hand.

“Last week, I happened upon a rose that we couldn't identify. Dad called Penn State and asked them to send out someone to identify it. They sent Billy. Apparently, he's been working up there.”

“So is he back to stay?”

“No, he says not. Just to identify the rose.”

First relief, then guilt bubbled up inside Amos. He wanted Billy to return to the flock. And yet he didn't.

“Has he been to see his father? Does he know?”

She cocked a wrist and touched her fingertips to her heart. “No.”

Amos gazed at Bess's downcast eyes. With a face like Bess's, it was easy to see how fellows were knocked off their pins. He certainly had been. Sometimes, he found it almost painful to look at her directly. Her pale skin was nearly translucent, her eyes a bright, demanding shade of blue. In every weather, her blonde hair shimmered as if reflecting summer sun. Gazing upon something so inarguably lovely was lulling. Whenever he looked at her, Amos wanted to keep looking, and then he found himself tongue-tied and confused, awkward even in the simplest conversations.

Amos had won Bess mainly through persistency. He just didn't give up; he steadfastly pursued her until she couldn't help but love him back. He had always known there was something between Bess and Billy. He respected it as any man would, but when Billy left town and had no plans to return, Amos was free to court Bess. And yet there was always a light cloak of guilt Amos felt on his shoulders. Billy's leaving had cleared the way for him, yet he was sickened by that knowledge.

Amos knew he wasn't Bess's first choice, but she was his now. He loved her more than she loved him, he was aware, but he figured that was typical of most marriages. One who loved more, and in this one, it was Amos. He didn't have a problem with it because he knew that the man who'd once claimed Bess's heart was no longer here. Until now.

Suddenly, she looked up at him. “Amos, do you like roses? You've never said . . .”

“Sure, of course. Why not? Everybody likes roses.”