Read Christmas at Rose Hill Farm for Free Online Page A

hat brim, and said, “Well, let’s get this over with.”
    And Bess’s spirits sank.

3
    F rom behind him, Billy Lapp heard the kitchen door open and the sound of a man’s familiar gait on the porch steps. It was strange—Billy knew Jonah’s walk, recognized the sound of his limp, without even seeing him. It all came rushing back to him. Bertha Riehl’s mentoring, grafting roses in the greenhouse, Bess working beside him. The smell of this farm—the unique scent of rose fields, faint but present to him, even in December. He thought he had forgotten everything—put it all behind him. How many memories were locked up in a person’s head? Just waiting for the right trigger to unleash them.
    Slowly, he turned in a half circle to face Jonah Riehl, startled by the look of delight on his face.
    â€œBilly Lapp.”
    He swallowed. “Hello, Jonah.”
    â€œHow good to see you.” Jonah reached out his hands and grasped Billy’s hand, pumping it enthusiastically. “What brings you to Rose Hill Farm? Are you back in Stoney Ridge? Back to stay?”
    â€œI’m from . . . I’m the . . .” Billy cleared his throat.
    Lainey helped him out. “Penn State sent him. He’s the rose rustler. Here to look at the rose.”
    Jonah nodded. “Ah, the rose Bess happened upon.”
    Bess smiled again, and Billy saw the color in her cheeks deepen, causing a sudden shakiness inside him. “I’d . . . uh . . . better get a look at it.”
    â€œThen,” Jonah said, “let’s go.”
    Billy followed behind Jonah and Bess, hoisting his heavy backpack over his shoulder. He knew that Jonah was carrying on more than his share of the conversation, aware of how uncomfortable Billy was—and he was—and kindly trying to spare him. He talked about Lainey, and their two little girls, and a little about church news, but not too much. He skirted carefully around topics, as if he knew some things might make Billy skittish.
    Billy was only half listening. He had his eyes on Bess’s figure as he trailed behind her on the way to the greenhouse. He still hadn’t recovered from the sight of her waiting for him at the bus stop. He could feel his heart still racing though he took pains so that she wouldn’t notice. Yet there she was, just the way he remembered her. Hair as pale and shiny as corn silk. Eyes so blue they seemed like a tropical ocean. He didn’t know what to do or what to say, as directionless as if suddenly lost.
    It wasn’t supposed to be this way. Rose Hill Farm was supposed to be a pleasant memory pasted in a mental photo album, not a reminder of all Billy had lost.
    He was curious about Bess, but she volunteered nothing and he wasn’t about to ask. He had been sure she would have married and moved to her husband’s farm by now, maybe had a child or two. He never would have come had he known she was still living at Rose Hill Farm. He would have insisted that Penn State send someone else, though there really was no someone else. He was the go-to guy for all things roses.
    They walked along a path that led to the greenhouse, positioned a distance from the barn, out in an open area on a smallrise to maximize sunlight exposure. As he saw the modest glass greenhouse, so familiar to him, so dear, Billy felt a hitch. Many hours of his youth had been spent in that post-and-rafter building, long and happy hours. His eyes swept the exterior of the greenhouse, looking for any maintenance concerns: dry rot in wood around the glass panels, impact from snow load, any cracked glass. It looked surprisingly well maintained—the way Bertha Riehl would have kept it.
    As he followed Bess into the greenhouse, he gasped, stunned by the sight. Roses! Everywhere, roses . . . blooms of every shade and tint that nature had ever produced. And it was a pleasant temperature, almost warm. “A few