Free Christmas at Rose Hill Farm by Suzanne Woods Fisher

grandmother and she had a rose she wanted me to identify, but I couldn’t—all the leaves were off and I thought it was about to die.” He pointed his thumb in the direction of the greenhouse. “ That rose.” He walked up to her. “You remember. You must remember.” He came a few steps closer to her. “I stayed up half the night last night trying to identify that rose. You would’ve saved me a heap of trouble if you’d just told me about it yesterday. So why didn’t you say something?”
    Billy’s words sounded like an accusation, and Bess felt a storm brewing in her throat.
    He glanced at the farmhouse. “Maybe I should just talk to Jonah about the rose.”
    What? How dare he! Now he’d crossed the line. She wasn’t sure if he intended that comment to sting, but a flash of indignation threatened to voice itself anyway. Just who do you think has been tending Mammi’s roses for the last few years? she wanted to say. Who do you think has been encouraging my father to expand the business? Certainly not you .
    She shot him what she hoped was a withering look. “And a good morning to you too, Billy Lapp.”

    When Billy caught sight of Bess on the kitchen stoop in a white, ankle-length nightgown, she looked so lovely that, for a moment, his heart did a stutter step and suddenly all thoughts of roses fled from his head. She had curves in places where she used to be stick thin and it definitely became her. He felt his cheeks flare and he tried not to stare as she unconsciously splayed her hand over her chest. Her hair was flying every which way, outfrom under her prayer cap, her feet were bare, and from this distance she looked carefree and happy.
    A feeling grew inside of him, something he hadn’t felt in a long, long time. Desire.
    But then the door slammed and Bess disappeared.
    Frustrated by her lack of response to his questions, Billy spun around to head to the greenhouse. Initially, he was annoyed to discover Jonah hadn’t taken his advice to lock the greenhouse and protect the rose, but then he was grateful because it was warm in the greenhouse and he was freezing. Hungry and tired too.
    After midnight, he had gone back to the Extension office to search the database for more information about the Perle von Weissenstein. There wasn’t much, but he did learn that this variety was a cultivar of Daniel August Schwarzkopf, chief gardener of the castle of Weissenstein near Kassel, in Germany. Dating as far back as 1773, it was considered to be the oldest known rose of German origin. Class: Gallica. A large, strong-scented flower, dark in the center, pale at the edges.
    A silky black cat showed up out of nowhere, its tail straight as a poker. The cat leaned into Billy’s ankle and he paused to scratch it. “What’s your name?” It stood on its hind legs, braced its forefeet on his thigh, begging. Its fur was soft and warm as it jutted against his fingers. Blackie! He’d completely forgotten about Bess’s old cat.
    He looked through his backpack for the Xeroxed copy he’d made of the botanical print of the Perle von Weissenstein, found it, pulled out some files he’d brought with him and some tools to measure and chart the rose. He crouched down to pull the mystery rose from its corner, inhaled, then hoisted it up on the workbench. “What’s your story, little rose?” he said, wishing it could answer.
    He saw Bess come out of the house, dressed now, wrapped ina warm coat and a kerchief knotted under her chin. She juggled two mugs of coffee in her hands as she traversed the yard toward the greenhouse. Once inside the greenhouse, she walked to the workbench where Billy stood and held out a mug. He reached out to take it and grazed her fingers with his. Suddenly self-conscious, he pointed to the copy he’d made of the botanical print. “I identified it. The Perle von Weissenstein. Earliest known