Christmas at Rose Hill Farm

by Suzanne Woods Fisher

  Billy was crossing the yard to the barn with a sack of rose blooms slung over his shoulder. Mammi dried them in the barn and used them to make soaps and jam. Mammi shouted out the kitchen window at him. “Billy Lapp, why would a rose leaf turn yellow?”

  Billy stopped and looked up at the house. “Could be a lot of reasons. Is the vein dark?”

  “Yes,” Mammi barked.

  Billy set the sack on the ground and shielded his eyes from the sun. “It might be your soil needs some amendments. When the veins stay dark green but the interveinal areas turn light green to yellow, that usually means it needs something. My guess is iron.”

  “It’s never happened before.”

  “It’s not unusual,” he intoned, folding his arms on his chest in what Bess came to recognize as his schoolmaster mode, “especially since soil around here—” he swept his arm in a half-circle—“doesn’t have much clay in it. You see, iron aids chlorophyll formation, and forms sugar-burning enzymes that activate nitrogen fixation. Iron is required for healthy, vigorous plants with dark green leaves. An iron deficiency usually affects younger plant leaves first with a general lightening of the leaf color.”

  Mammi’s lips puckered in disgust. “Can’t you speak plain English?”

  Billy grinned. “It means you need to find a way to add iron into the soil.”

  “How?”

  “You buy soil amendments.”

  Big mistake. Mammi didn’t like to part with her money. She could squeeze the eagle on a quarter until it begged for mercy. “What else?” she shouted. She meant business.

  “Well,” Billy said in a droll tone, “you could bury a cast-iron fireplace poker along with it and wait a few centuries.”

  Mammi slammed the windowsill shut on that suggestion and turned to face her ailing rose. She patted her hair in a satisfied way, the faintest ghost of a smile flickering across her face.

  ———

  Thinking back on that interaction, Bess laughed out loud. Could it really be this rose? It was followed by another thought that left her feeling sad and sorrowful. Mammi died before she had a chance to tell the story of the rose on the Charming Nancy. It seemed as if the last few weeks had been filled with reminders of lost opportunities, past regrets. She sighed, then shook off her remorse. If nothing else, these reminders served as a lesson to not allow more moments to pass by without saying what needed to be said.

  After leaving a message at the Penn State Extension office for Billy, Bess spent the rest of the morning helping Lainey and Christy make Christmas cookies and candy. She kept one eye on the road, waiting for the sight of Billy’s long stride. It was past lunch when she spotted that familiar black hat bobbing up the driveway. She threw on her coat and mittens, told Lainey she’d be back soon, and practically flew down the driveway to meet him.

  “I got your message to come right away,” Billy said. “Why? Has the bud opened?”

  “Not yet.”

  Billy frowned, so Bess quickly added, “I remember! I think I remember what it was called. Or at least what Mammi called it and where it came from, originally.”

  “So,” Billy said, growing impatient. “Tell me.”

  She smiled. “Not here. Let’s go to the rose.”

  Together, they went to the greenhouse and Billy made a beeline to the rose, dragged it from its corner, and hoisted it up on the workbench.

  “Mammi said that her great-great-something grandmother—I’ve lost count of how many greats—came over from Europe on the Charming Nancy, and smuggled a rose with her.”

  “What?” Billy whispered, incredulous, turning his face to Bess. “On the Charming Nancy? The Amish Mayflower? Are you kidding me?” He drew in a breath and spoke with urgency. “Was it a rootball? A cane? A slip? A rosehip?”

  “I don’t know. Mammi was mostly annoyed that I’d never heard of the Charming Nancy.”

  “So this rose might have come over on the Charming Nancy ship.” There was a hushed reverence in his voice. “I think the ship came over in 1737. This lone rose could be centuries old. Older than the Perle von Weissenstein. It could be the oldest known rose of German rootstock. An extinct rose.”

  “You really think this is that rose? I mean, I hope it is, but how could you know for sure? It’s just a story Mammi told me—and you know how she embroidered the truth.”

  “Oh, we’ll know all right. As soon as that rose opens up.” The sepals were off, the rosebud was swelling, partially opened. And the fragrance! Its perfume was starting to lift and float through the greenhouse, its scent strongest near the workbench. For now. He grinned, then smiled broadly. “Just another day or two.”

  His smile, when he turned it on full force, was numbing. It turned her bones to butter and made her heart dance.

  Maggie Zook was still spending her days studiously away from Beacon Hollow during her father’s search for a new teacher. This morning, she stopped for coffee at Windmill Farm, said she was making her way, slowly, to Rose Hill Farm, and Amos jumped to offer to drive her there. He was eager for any excuse to see Bess, hoping more interaction might repair the strain between them. Last night, after he and Maggie dropped by Rose Hill Farm after ice skating, he felt even more uncomfortable and distant with Bess. He left her home wondering if it would ever be the same between them again. Whether Billy stayed in Stoney Ridge or not, he was never far from Bess’s thoughts. Obviously, she still had feelings for him.

  As the horse trotted down Stone Leaf Drive, Amos told Maggie that she couldn’t keep up this facade of working at the Sweet Tooth Bakery much longer. “You’re going to be found out. And what then?”

  “I know, I know,” she said in a glum tone. Then her face brightened. “But I think today will be the last day. I heard Dad tell Jorie that he was going to ask Tillie about taking the teacher’s job.”

  “Tillie Miller?” Amos shuddered.

  Maggie nodded vigorously.

  The poor scholars. Tillie was peculiar even for a schoolteacher. She was a beady-eyed, sour spinster with a reedy, chirping voice like a rusty hinge and she made school a misery. Her only pleasure in life was to use large unnecessary words, as if she’d swallowed a dictionary. “Isn’t she a little . . . old?”

  “Gross is die Lehr.” There is nothing like knowing how.

  “Es is en langi Lehn as ken End hot.” It’s a long lane that has no turning. Long and dull.

  Tillie Miller used to teach when he was a scholar. Once, in the prime of spring, Amos and Billy concocted a brilliant plan: they coughed and gagged like they were coming down with tuberculosis. Teacher Tillie pinched up her face like a prune, sent them home to bed, and off they went, sneezing and gasping for air, until they reached the bend in the road and took off in a gallop toward Blue Lake Pond. They spent the entire week fishing and swimming and lying in the sun. Somehow, their parents were never the wiser for it. Until the report cards came out. Billy and Amos were given big red Fs in every subject, with a note that they would need to double back for seventh grade.

  “Yes, Tillie Miller. And stop making a face like that.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like you just bit down on a popcorn kernel and broke a tooth.” Maggie’s spine went all stiff and starchy, reminding him of a schoolmarm. “Children learn best when they’re given clear expectations. Tillie will bring order to the classroom. You have to give her that.”

  “Order, sure. With a ruler, she’ll bring order. Wham! Those poor little children will have bloody knuckles by the end of the first day.”

  “Sore knuckles will cure a wandering mind.”

  Amos found it interesting that Maggie was such an expert on what was required to educate children, considering she wanted nothing to do with teaching. “Tillie will scare them into submission.”

  Maggie bit her lip. “She’s the only choice left. Everyone else said no. Dad’s asked six others. He’s scraping the bottom of the barrel. Getting desperate.” She started chewing on her thumbnail, a cue to Amos that she was getting nerv
ous.

  He eyed Maggie a little longer, wondering if she might be weakening her position toward the notion of teaching, then settled back again, staring at the road ahead. From far away came a faint sound like the rusty hinges of a swinging gate. It amplified into the rusty squawk of Canada Geese heading toward the Atlantic flyway. He and Maggie watched them grow from distant dots to a distinct flock. “Oh, pull over, Amos. Let’s watch!”

  She didn’t even need to tell him. Amos was already turning the horse to the side of the road. Maggie leaned near him to peer out his window, so close he could smell the clean scent of starch from her prayer covering.

  The wedge of geese came on, necks pointing the way south, wings moving with a grace that filled the buggy with silent reverence. They watched and listened, thrilling to a sight that stirred their blood.

  Maggie suddenly looked up at Amos as if she knew his thoughts. Their eyes met briefly before returning to the sky. As if unaware of its action, her hand moved gently to fit in his. He looked down at her hand, so small and soft, then closed his hand around hers. The cacophony of geese became a clatter that filled the air over the fields, passed over them, then drifted off, dimmer, dimmer until the graceful birds disappeared and the only sound remaining was the rustle of the wind in the treetops.

  Seconds later, when she took back her hand to clap with delight, his hand felt remarkably empty and cold. The touch of her small hand still lingered, as though it had left its memory.

  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.”