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

greenhouse.”
    â€œAnd you just noticed it?”
    â€œI 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.
    â€œWhat do you think?” Jonah asked.
    â€œI’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.”
    â€œDoes it look familiar to you?” Jonah said.
    â€œMost 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.”
    â€œAh.” 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.”
    â€œWhy not?”
    â€œIf 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.”
    â€œBut 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.”
    â€œThose were roses that were known. Nothing unusual. Nothing like this.”
    â€œMy mother’s old-fashioneds are unusual,” Jonah said.
    â€œTrue, 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?”
    â€œIf the bloom were open, I could tell more about it. But there are some distinctions about it that are rather unusual.” Billypeered 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.
    â€œIt’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