3

From 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.

“Billy Lapp.”

He swallowed. “Hello, Jonah.”

“How 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?”

“I’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.”

“Then,” 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 small rise 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 years ago, we winterized it,” Jonah explained, striding toward the center of the greenhouse.

“You winterized it?” Billy parroted. When he had worked at Rose Hill Farm, the greenhouse was cold during the winter. He was able to overwinter perennials when winter hit, avoiding frost damage, by moving everything into the center of the greenhouse, but there was no heat or lights to extend the growing season. “How are you heating it? Not through kerosene, I hope. Plants are sensitive to the gas it gives off.”

Bess pointed to a row of large black horse water tubs, each covered tightly with a metal garbage can lid, also black, tucked against the south wall. “We painted them black. The black of the tub attracts the sun’s heat and the water holds it, giving off heat during the night.”

Billy was impressed. He felt a smile stretch his cheeks and had to work the corners of his mouth back to a line. “It really keeps the entire greenhouse warm?”

She nodded. “But we found that two tubs worked better than one. The greenhouse stays fairly warm throughout the night.”

“If the temperature drops below zero for a long stretch,” Jonah added, “I’ll put bales of hay around the exterior. And we’ll bring our most fragile plants into the barn.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “Last winter, we had seven days below zero, so we added plastic jugs filled with water—painted black like those horse water tubs—let them soak up the sun during the day and set them throughout the greenhouse to balance the temperature.”

“And it kept the greenhouse heated?”

“Well, not toasty, but not freezing. Water’s the best for passive solar.”

Billy gestured with a wing-like motion. “What about lighting?”

“That’s been a little trickier,” Jonah said. “Like you said, we didn’t want kerosene or propane in here. A fellow in Lancaster just started a solar company and asked if he could use our greenhouse as a test site.” He walked to the far end of the greenhouse, where the workbench was nestled in against the wall, and pointed to a row of solar panels on the far end of the rise, facing south. “I could never have afforded those panels had this fellow not volunteered them; they’re pretty costly. They have a few glitches. Not a perfect system, but they seem to work more often than not.”

Billy peered out the back end of the greenhouse to see the solar panels. Four of them stood side by side, above snow level, and at an angle to shed snow and rain. Amazing. Just amazing.

Two years ago, he had proposed a recommendation to the Extension office to consider solar panels for the greenhouses. America’s developing space program had catapulted the science behind solar photovoltaic cells into viable use for homes and businesses, and he’d figured out that the panels could pay for themselves within a few years. His proposal was shot down, but that was when energy prices had dropped again and it was assumed they’d stay low. A few weeks ago, Jill told him the proposal might get a second look and could he please hurry and update it? He did, knowing it was a desperate reaction by the Extension office to combat high energy bills and the continually rising cost of gas triggered from the nation’s oil embargo in 1973.

Billy was astounded by the progressive thinking on this simple Amish rose farm. He swiveled on his heel to face Jonah. “Caleb Zook had no objection with you working with a non-Amish?”

“No,” Jonah said, a look on his face as if such a thought had never occurred to him. “It solved a problem of lighting, helped us extend our growing season, and didn’t cost a thing. And we’re not really working with this English businessman. He comes out and fixes broken pieces, makes adjustments, asks me questions. To his way of thinking, we’re doing him a favor. The commercial nurseries are too large for his type of panels—he’s trying to build up the home business. Or small farms, like ours.” He ran a hand down the arch of his aching back, wincing slightly. “If the costs ever come down, I suspect more and more of our people will be using solar energy.”

“Jonah, I’m very impressed.”

Jonah’s cheeks, above his beard, stained pink with embarrassment. “Sun, water, they’re God’s gifts. He’s provided the means for man to live a sustainable life.”

“You harnessed their power.”

“It’s worked well this fall because we’ve had a dry spell, nice and clear. But I didn’t expect it to last.” Hands on his hips, Jonah glanced around with a worried look. “Sunday’s snowfall was practicing for winter’s arrival.”

Billy walked up and down the aisle in awe, studying varieties he hadn’t seen in years. He knew them all: The shell pink Ma Perkins, named for a popular radio soap opera in 1952. Behind it was a fragrant deep pink hybrid perpetual named Helen Keller. The story behind this rose floated into his mind: The rose had been introduced in 1895 on Helen Keller’s fifteenth birthday. She couldn’t see a flower or hear its name, but she could smell, and she always held roses dear to her heart. Next to the Helen Keller, Billy spotted a trio of roses and glanced at Jonah. “The Peace roses?” Pax Amanda, Pax Apollo, and Pax Iola.

Billy had always appreciated the story behind those roses. A South Dakota breeder had hybridized the trio of roses in 1938, in between the two world wars, with an absence of prickles on the plants’ stems. The breeder wanted everyone to know that thorns were no more necessary on roses than war was among humans.

Jonah smiled, watching him. “Probably our bestselling roses, at least in Stoney Ridge.”

The beauty of these roses, the care Jonah and Bess took with them, felt like balm to Billy’s soul. It was more nourishing than food for his sense of well-being and happiness, both of which had left him years ago. He felt the tension drain from him, though he held his shoulders stiff. He realized that Jonah was studying him, waiting for something from him. “Did you force blooms to sell plants through the winter?”

“It was Bess’s idea to keep up income during the winter months.” Jonah glanced fondly at his daughter. “She’s been expanding the rose business beyond my mother’s jam and soaps. To remedies.” Jonah offered up a shy smile. “She’s got my mother’s touch.”

Jonah’s love for his family was evident. Billy swallowed back a deep envy that rose from his center. Why was everyone else able to find love and happiness, but not him? He tried to tamp down that ugly feeling of self-pity and looked around for the reason he was at Rose Hill Farm: the mystery rose.

Jonah saw Billy’s eyes sweep the greenhouse. “Down there, in the corner. We didn’t even want to move it.”

There, tucked into the far left corner of the greenhouse, was a rosebush in a large clay pot. It was fully leafed out with one tight capsule of a flower bud. He walked up to it and crouched down to inspect it, noting the characteristics of the plant, trying to recognize if it was an obvious species or class. He examined the branching pattern, the veining and number of leaves, and their unique edging. He looked closely at the lone flower bud, enclosed by sepals—a cluster of leaflike structures. That one small bud wouldn’t open for another week or two, longer if the weather stayed cold. “Mind if I lift it up on the workbench?”

“It’s up to you,” Jonah said. “We felt concerned about causing it any stress. I think it’s gotten just the right amount of sunlight and moisture in that corner after we winterized the greenhouse.”

“And you just noticed it?”

“I came across it over a week ago,” Bess said. “My cat pulled my coat to the ground, and when I bent down to get it, I noticed the rose, tucked way under the workbench.”

Billy lifted it carefully to the workbench. It was surprisingly heavy, which made him think the root ball was impacted and should be transplanted. He smelled the leaves, trying to place its scent among breeds.

“What do you think?” Jonah asked.

“I’m not sure. You have no memory of it at all? It doesn’t look familiar to either of you?”

Jonah shook his head. “Bess might know a little more. She remembers my mother calling it a very precious rose.”

Billy’s eyes sought Bess’s, but she avoided his questioning glance. She lifted a shoulder in a half shrug. “But Mammi thought all her roses were precious.”

“Does it look familiar to you?” Jonah said.

“Most of the characteristics of a rose are manifest in the flower,” Billy said. “Once that bud opens, it’ll be easier to recognize.” He glanced at Jonah, then back at the rose. “I should take the rose back with me to the university to examine it there and compare findings in the database.”

“Ah.” Jonah digested that for a moment before adding, “If that’s what you need to do.”

Inner conflict started to churn inside of Billy. This rose didn’t fall under any obvious class that he could recognize. He wanted to get it to the greenhouses in College Station. He wanted to cut slips and propagate it. He wanted to dissect the one flower bud and examine it. He wondered if this might be an extinct rose—something every rosarian would give his right eye to find. An extinct “found” could be likened to a discovered comet; overnight, Billy would become a renowned, respected rosarian. His heart started to pound. He was nearly in a state of disbelief at his good fortune.

But none of that was in Jonah’s best interests. Billy swallowed. These people—they used to be his people—they were trusting, naive. He could easily take advantage of Jonah; it would be so easy. But he just couldn’t. Finally, “I can’t. It wouldn’t be right.”

“Why not?”

“If anyone sees this rose before it’s identified, before a genealogy is mapped out, before its parentage is traced, he could take a slip to reproduce it, propagate it on the sly, and sell it for mass production at a nursery. You’d be cheated out of a fortune.”

“But you could do the same thing,” Bess said. “I’ve seen you take slips and propagate cuttings. I’ve seen you graft dozens of roses.”

“Those were roses that were known. Nothing unusual. Nothing like this.”

“My mother’s old-fashioneds are unusual,” Jonah said.

“True, but there’s still a difference. Heirloom roses or heritage roses are varieties that have been in existence for at least half a century.”

Jonah reached a hand out to gently touch a leaf. “So you think this rose could be older than that?”

“If the bloom were open, I could tell more about it. But there are some distinctions about it that are rather unusual.” Billy peered at the veining on a leaf. “Are either of you familiar with the term ‘a found rose’?”

Jonah and Bess exchanged a look, then shook their heads.

“It’s a rose with an unknown identity. It’s thought to be extinct, but then one or another will turn up in an old cemetery. Or someone’s backyard. They’re usually sturdy roses on old rootstock, brought over by European immigrants, who shared clips with their descendants. They’re not hybrids—modern roses didn’t start until the nineteenth century.”

Bess listened carefully. “I read about such a rose on Alcatraz Island.”

Billy tilted his head at her, not hiding his surprise. “Yes. Yes, that’s exactly right. The Bardou Job. A Welsh rose.” His eyes met hers and he nearly became lost in her blue, blue eyes.

Jonah seemed surprised. “Where is it? Where’s this Alcatraz?”

Billy forced himself to look away from those searching eyes of Bess. “It used to be a federal prison in San Francisco Bay. On an island.”

Amused, Jonah said, “What do you suppose a rose was doing at a federal prison?”

“Actually, there was more than one rose at Alcatraz. The head warden was a rosarian. After the prison was closed down, the Heritage Rose Group was inventorying the roses and discovered an heirloom Welsh rose. The Bardou Job. It had been thought to be extinct.”

“And you think this rose could be a ‘found’?” Bess said, taking a step closer to the rose.

She was standing so close that he caught a whiff of the rose soap she used. Even now, years later, he associated that faint scent with Bess. He backed away so there was more space between them. No whiffs of rose soap. He needed every inch of distance. “Possibly. And if so, a found rose can be extremely valuable. Both to the scientific community and also on the commercial market. You should keep this quiet until the rose can be identified.”

“If it’s about money . . .”

“It’s not just the money, Jonah. You know how crazy people can be about roses. They’re like bird-watchers on the hunt for a rare bird. Even on Alcatraz Island, the Rose Society brings out tours each year when the Bardou Job is in bloom. You’ll have people climbing onto your property in the middle of the night with a pair of clippers in one hand and a plastic sandwich bag in the other to hold the slips. You’ll wake up one morning and find this plant sheared down to a stump. That’s if it doesn’t get stolen first. Most rose rustlers are polite, but some aren’t. You should lock up the greenhouse when you’re not in it.”

“Does a ‘found’ get discovered very often?” Jonah said.

Billy gave up a half laugh. “No. I’m still waiting for my first found.”

Bess glanced up and smiled. “I thought the job of a rose rustler was to find extinct roses.”

He made himself look away from her intoxicating smile, lifting his eyes to notice the ventilating windows of the greenhouse. “Rose rustlers go after old roses—thought to be extinct commercially, but they’re rarely truly extinct. I’ve never come across one that can’t be identified.”

Bess still kept one hand lovingly on the pot. “And you really think this rose is a found?”

“I don’t know. Probably not. But . . . I’d like to check it out.” And as Billy voiced that thought aloud, his heart fell. This morning wasn’t turning out at all like he had planned. He had known it would be difficult to be in Stoney Ridge, to see Jonah again, but he was sure Jonah wouldn’t put any pressure on him to stay, or worse, to see his father. He had assumed he’d come out to Rose Hill Farm this morning, identify the rose, and get back to College Station. In, out, job done. That’s the way it usually worked.

But it was Bess at the bus stop, not Jonah. And then there was this rose. This mysterious, unidentifiable rose.

Knowing Bertha Riehl as he did, this rose would have an interesting history. It might be a found, or it might be a variant of a known species. But if there was a chance that this rose was extinct, a true found, it would require repeated trips back and forth from College Station to Stoney Ridge to confirm it. Meticulous by nature, Billy would spend more time at Rose Hill Farm than he expected—or wanted to. “I’ll need to photograph it, draw some pictures, check the database back at the university, and compare it to other known varieties. Talk to the heads of a few Rose Societies. They’re a wealth of information. If it’s a found, Rose Hill Farm will be in a sweet spot. It will be a highly desirable rose.”

Jonah lifted his dark eyebrows, crossed his arms over his chest. “I only wanted to identify the rose so we could propagate it and add it to our inventory. That’s all.”

When Billy saw the hesitation on Jonah’s face, he added, “A rose like this should be shared. You just need to do it the right way. Keep it quiet until I can identify it.”

Jonah glanced at Bess. “Maybe I should run this by the bishop.”

“Who’s the bishop now?”

“Same one,” Bess said quietly. “Caleb Zook.”

Billy winced. Same one as when he left, she meant. His last conversation with the bishop had been a painful one. He cast a glance at Bess. “How’s Maggie?”

“She’s fine. Hasn’t changed a bit.”

Jonah added, “I’m sure she’d like to see you.”

Billy stiffened up. “I’ve got to get back to work.” He pulled his camera out of his backpack. He ripped open the foil wrapper of a new roll of film and inserted it into the camera, then rolled the film into place. He shot pictures from every angle, used up the entire roll of thirty-six pictures, took out another new roll, and took thirty-six more. As he photographed the rose, Jonah and Bess moved away to let him work uninterrupted. He set down the camera and picked up his sketch pad to scribble down some characteristics he’d noted, to study it further back at College Station. By this time Jonah had quietly excused himself and left the greenhouse. Bess remained, and he wished she would leave him alone.

He wished everyone would just leave him alone.

Bess studied Billy awhile as he stood in front of the rose. Clenched jaw, arms crossed over his chest, staring at the rose as if it were about to sprout wings and fly away. She wondered how many miles he’d drifted over the last few years, how many roses he’d rustled during his exile, how long it would take him to lose that distance he maintained so carefully. Once or twice, she saw a crack in it, but then he would roll up like a possum.

She tried to think of something to say to Billy, but couldn’t. Being so close to him was making it hard to speak. She watched him photograph the rose, captivated by the sight he made as he leaned to the task. How wide his shoulders, how spare his movements, how capable his muscles. She watched him walk around the workbench to peer at the rose from different angles, noticing for the first time in her life how much narrower a man’s hips were than a woman’s, how powerful a man’s hands could be, how beguiling. Her eyes were drawn to those hands, wider than she remembered, and certainly far stronger.

He put down his camera and took a sketch pad out of his backpack, paused to study the rose, then began to sketch it. As he concentrated, she was able to get a leisurely gander at his face. It was long and lean, like the rest of him. His mouth was straight and firm, unsmiling. With his chin tilted, his jaw had the crisp angle of a boomerang. His lips were slightly parted as he squinted skyward, his eyelashes seemed long as the corn stubble, sooty, throwing spiky shadows across his cheek.

She used to love the crinkles at the sides of his eyes, as if he couldn’t help but smile, even if it were just in his eyes. So far, he kept his hat brim pulled low as if to protect any secret she might read in his eyes. He was working hard to keep expression out of those eyes. Same with his voice; it was respectful to her father and Lainey, but flat. And with her, slightly irritated.

Bess realized she’d been holding her breath as he made his way around the rose, photographing it at different angles, and so she exhaled, clasping her hands together. “A customer asked me a question awhile ago and I wasn’t sure I gave her the correct answer.” Her voice shook, then steadied. “She wanted to know if a China rose was an heirloom or a modern rose.”

He didn’t say anything, and Bess wondered if he’d heard. She sidled a little closer to him. “I told her that modern roses came from China roses,” she said, raising her voice. “I think that was the right answer.”

Billy froze. He tilted his head at her like a barn owl, then shook it as if he were very sorry for her, and she had to bite her lip to keep from grinning. How many times had he given her that same look when she was just learning about roses? More times than she could count.

“China roses were the first significant hybrids,” he proceeded to inform her in his best lecturing tone. “Europeans crossbred their roses with China roses and were able to get repeat bloomers. Before that, roses bloomed only once a year. But repeat blooming wasn’t the only reason they were hybridized. The Europeans hadn’t seen the bright crimson color before. In nature, true red is a rare color to find in flowering plants, even among roses.”

Lecture over, he turned his attention back to his work and she searched her mind for something else. Anything to keep him talking.

“So the Chinese loved roses before the Europeans did?”

“Before?” He hesitated. “Not sure about that. The world’s oldest roses go back thousands and thousands of years. And loved is the wrong word. The Romans used the petals as confetti. The Chinese used the roses for cures and remedies. Rosehips are a source of Vitamin C.”

Bess didn’t mind hearing him tell her facts she already knew—she was that eager to hear his voice.

“The Chinese fed their children rosehip tea long before anyone else did. But they didn’t have the same admiration for rose flowers as the Europeans did. European royalty used roses as legal tender.”

She nearly sighed in admiration. She wondered how a man could know so much.

Then, suddenly, as if Billy realized he was slipping back into an old, comfortable role with Bess, a coldness came over him. “Look, I’m not here to give you a lesson in basic rose tending,” he said brusquely. “Unless you know something about this rose, I need to concentrate.”

Bess blinked and took a step back as if she’d been slapped. Her cheeks burned and she tried to will them to cool. She busied herself with deadheading some of the flowering roses. Billy had certainly changed in more ways than the obvious physical ones. He had hardened into manhood. Yet he was stunted somehow, Bess thought. Like a crop that had suffered an unexpected frost.

She watched his head, hat firmly in place, bent over the potted rose and its deep green leaves, its one lone rosebud. Unless you know something about this rose, he’d said . . . and she was suddenly transported to another time.

———

Mid-November 1969, a crisp autumn afternoon. Billy was peering at a leafless rosebush sitting on newspaper on the kitchen table at Rose Hill Farm. “What’s so special about this rose?”

Mammi clapped her big hands together. “Now, there’s a question that’s finally got some sense to it.” She pointed to a large book of botanical prints, resting wide open at the end of the table. “I want you to figure it out.”

Billy examined the picture, then studied the rose. “How do I do that when it has no leaves and no blooms? Not to mention that I know this much—” he pinched his thumb and index finger together—“about roses.”

“Study its traits.”

“It’s got big thorns,” Bess said, trying to be helpful.

Billy gave her a look of sheer disgust. “Roses produce prickles, not thorns.”

“Same thing,” Bess said. Billy looked serious as a sermon.

Billy set his lips and shook his head slightly as if she were speaking gibberish. “Not hardly.”

Mammi’s attention was on the rosebush. “Better not be a hybrid. Dadgum hybrids have no fragrance at all. They’ve ruined them.”

“Then why do they make them?” Bess asked in her bravest voice. They didn’t hear her, so she asked again. “Why do they make hybrids?”

Billy kept his eyes on the book. “Because they’re disease resistant and more cold hardy.”

“Bah!” Mammi said. “The old-fashioneds are the strong ones. They’ve endured.”

“Hybrids have a broader range of color and form,” Billy said, turning pages in the book.

“Pish.” Mammi dismissed that with a wave of her hand. She didn’t think much of how hybrids had tinkered with Mother Nature.

Billy let out a breath and looked at Mammi. He still had barely noticed Bess existed. “Where’d you find that pathetic excuse for a rose?”

Mammi suddenly grabbed a broom and busied herself. “Here or there,” she said, looking aside. She always looked aside when she wasn’t telling the exact truth.

“Bertha . . . did you hear me?”

“Roses belong to everybody,” Mammi said. Again she looked aside. Bess knew enough to keep her mouth closed tight.

“You could call Penn State and see what they have to say about it.”

“And let them chop it apart and bisect it?”

“Dissect it,” Billy corrected.

“Never!” Mammi didn’t trust the government, and that included universities.

“They’ll make sure it stays safe.”

Mammi sat back in her chair and patted the topknot tucked under her prayer cap in a satisfied way. “It’ll be safer with me. I’ll make sure it has southern explosion.”

“Exposure,” Billy corrected. “What are you going to do with it?”

“Grow it.”

Billy snorted. “First you gotta bring it back from the brink. That thing is about dead.”

Mammi wasn’t paying him any mind. Maggie Zook had gone unnoticed in the kitchen until she started poking at the pathetic-looking rose. “Don’t touch it, Maggie Zook, or I’ll have your father get after you.”

Billy rolled his eyes. “As if Caleb Zook would ever scold Maggie. He’s way too soft on her.”

Maggie slipped across the room to whisper to Bess. “He’s only saying that because his own father is a bear. Wallops him for the slightest thing.”

Shocked, Bess shuddered. Her own father had never even raised his voice to her, not once.

“Billy’s brothers are just like his father—big unfeeling louts—and I’m related to them so I can say so. But Billy, he’s more like his mom. That’s why your grandmother took Billy under her wing.” Maggie patted Bess on the arm. “Your grandmother—she’s one of a kind. My dad says she likes people to think she’s a grizzly bear, but she’s a teddy bear at heart.”

Bess glanced over at Billy and Mammi, heads bent together, one brown, one salt-and-pepper, poring over the book of botanical rose prints.

———

With a bang, Billy closed up his books and turned to Bess, vaulting her back to the present. Should she tell him what she knew about this rose? But what did she know? Not much. She couldn’t even remember what Mammi called it, or if it had a name at all; her grandmother had so many special roses. She felt the gossamer-thin memory shimmer and glint in the back of her mind, just out of reach. Something vague about a Most Special Rose. But it was there, waiting for her to bring it sharply into focus. She tried to reset her face. Tell him. Don’t tell him.

“I’m ready to go. If you’re too busy to drop me at the bus stop, I can walk. It’s not far.”

“You’re not staying for supper?” The chickens had gone to roost, and the chill of afternoon had begun settling in. Stay, Billy Lapp. Please stay.

“No,” he said firmly, bending over to stuff his camera into his backpack. “Dark sets in earlier these days. I want to get back.”

“I’ll let Dad and Lainey know that you’re leaving.” Tell him? Don’t tell him. Tell him?

“No need. You can tell them goodbye for me after you get back from dropping me off.” His face set stubbornly as he rose, tugged his hat brim down low, and lunged down the brick path of the greenhouse, pride stiffening his posture and adding force to his shoulders.

Definitely do not tell him. Bess closed her eyes, then opened them, as if to rewind the events of the day. But of course that was impossible. Time moved in only one direction.

The buggy ride to the bus stop was a repeat of the morning’s trip. He had told her quite a bit. And he had told her nothing.