Free Christmas at Rose Hill Farm by Suzanne Woods Fisher Page A

rose of German stock.”
    She looked carefully at the print, then at the rose. “Nope. That’s not it. Close, but not quite.”
    â€œWhat? Where’s the variation?”
    Bess pointed to the information below the print. “It says the Perle von Weissenstein has a deep purple color. It might be too soon to tell, but I think the mystery rose bud will be a lighter color. And it said the Perle von Weissenstein has a moderate to strong scent.” She leaned close to the bud to inhale. “But this one’s scent would be classified as bold.”
    Billy sniffed the bud. He looked at her suspiciously. “How do you know so much about the Perle von Weissenstein?” He’d never heard of it until last night. “I still think it’s it.”
    â€œI know for sure it isn’t.”
    â€œHow would you know that?”
    â€œI know because we have a Perle von Weissenstein in the greenhouse and that’s not it.”
    â€œ What? No way. I would have known if Rose Hill Farm sold such a rare rose. Your grandmother would have made sure of that.”
    Bess walked to the middle of the greenhouse and pointed to a large rosebush, against the back of the shelf. “See for yourself.”
    Billy strode a few steps to see where she was pointing. And there it was—the Perle von Weissenstein. He shook his head. “So why didn’t you say something?”
    â€œAbout what?”
    â€œAbout the Perle von Weissenstein? If you knew that rose wasn’t it?”
    â€œYou never mentioned it to me. If you had, I would have told you it was right here, under your very nose. I’m not a mind reader.”
    Billy fleered at Bess. “That sounds like something your grandmother would say.”
    Suddenly Billy realized his arm was pressed close and warm against Bess’s. She must have felt it too but stayed where she was.
    â€œSo the Perle was the rose your grandmother wanted me to identify that time? The nearly dead one?”
    Bess pivoted on her heels and reached for a straw broom that was leaning against a post. She started to sweep the brick walk that lined the center of the greenhouse.
    â€œBess?” He saw her hesitation, saw her nervous movements as she swept. “Was that the Perle? I need to know.”
    â€œNo.” She swept away, back and forth, left to right, eyes remaining downcast nearly all the time. Each time they flicked up they seemed drawn to something behind him. “The Perle was brought to Rose Hill Farm a year ago.”
    He took a few strides toward her. “How did your father locate a Perle von Weissenstein?” Incredible. He knew, better than anybody, how hard it was to find old roses.
    Bess stopped sweeping and leaned the broom back against the post. “He didn’t. I did.”
    â€œYou?” Surprise flattened his face, though he recovered when he caught the exasperation that flickered through her eyes.
    â€œYes.” She gave him a stern look and he backed off, worried she might start whacking the wrong end of the broom at him if he accidentally insulted her one more time. He’d seen Bertha Riehl threaten people with a broomstick for far less. It struck him for the second time that Bess was getting more and more like her grandmother. “Yes, me,” she repeated, softer this time,snapping Billy back from the past to the present. “I tracked down a source from a tip someone gave me from the Lancaster Rose Society.”
    Billy tried not to show the shock on his face. He wondered what to make of this new Bess. The one he remembered had studiously avoided difficult things, like math, at all costs. “So why didn’t you go to the Rose Society to identify the mystery rose?”
    â€œWe tried. But the man at the Rose Society slipped on ice over Thanksgiving and broke his tailbone. He wasn’t able to come to the farm, so he suggested calling Penn State. He said they had a champion rose