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.
16
Bess 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 h
er 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.
He found his father lying on the La-Z-Boy recliner in the living room and was shocked by the changes in his appearance. Painfully thin, a gray pallor to his skin, less of his thinning swoop of gray hair on his head than ever. His eyes were closed and for a second, Billy thought he might have already passed.
“What do you want?” His father’s voice sounded flat, wary, deeper and gruffer than usual.
“It’s me.” He moved no closer, but stayed where he was at the edge of the kitchen door. “It’s me, Dad. It’s Billy.”
His father’s eyes flew open and Billy was shocked to see the whites of his eyes were yellow-tinged.
His father squinted for a closer look. “Take off your hat so’s I can see you.”
Once the ha
t was off, Billy stood fidgeting, letting his father get a look at his face. “So, boy. Where you been?”
He curled a hand around his hat brim. “Here and there.” He lifted his chin defiantly. “Working with roses.”
His father gave up a short snort. “Figured.”
Billy moved closer to the recliner and studied his father’s form. “I heard that Sam and Ben and Mose are gone.”
A spasm of coughing gripped his father and Billy felt a spike of concern. The room was so cold, the air so dank. He moved to add some chunks of kindling to the fire Caleb had started in the wood-burning stove, and filled up a teakettle with water to set on top of it.
He sensed his father’s eyes following him as he moved about the dimly lit room. He washed a mug and found a tea bag in the cupboard, then brought a cup of soothing chamomile tea to his father. When he reached for it, he shifted into a sitting position and Billy put some pillows behind his back to support him.
“Sit down. You’re making me dizzy.”
Billy scraped a chair up to sit next to his father and stared into his familiar eyes. The lines on his face had deepened. He looked old, tired, and beaten, and an unexpected urge to protect him rose within Billy. “Maggie Zook tells me you’re dying.”
His father waved his palm. “You know how Maggie tells tales. I’m just a little under the weather.” But they both knew that wasn’t true.
Billy looked up and met his father’s eyes squarely. “We have some things to settle between us.”
As Billy’s father studied his face, he saw a weariness in his eyes that went bone deep. “Yeah, I know.”
The room grew still. Outside, a soft snow had begun, but inside the fire glowed gold and pink. In the firelit room all was silent, waiting for the words that hovered between them to be spoken. “Dad, I never stole that cast-iron bank.”
For a moment, his father’s eyes were tormented. “I know. Your brothers did.” His voice fell to a murmur. “I suspected it all along.”
“You knew? You never thought to come find me? To tell me that?”
“I was . . .” He gulped to a stop and Billy saw his body tremble. His father’s eyes pinched tightly closed. “I was angry about the Bann. Too stubborn.”
Christmas at Rose Hill Farm Page 18
