Two more measures and the lead was all hers again—and the fastest, showiest part of the piece. She’d come to know it like her own breath, and she moved back into the spotlight, standing now only a few feet from the edge of the stage. Her heart was on her sleeve as she took the piece to its rousing finale—bringing down the house.
Amelia gratefully acknowledged the responsive audience, all caught up in the excitement of her performance. Then, after curtsying again, she hurried confidently offstage, where she waited in the wings, still taking in the thunderous applause.
After an appropriate length of time, she gave her first curtain call amidst shouts of “A-my Lee . . . A-my Lee!”
Again and again she curtsied for the wired-up crowd. Their reaction was phenomenal—surely word would travel about her appearance tonight.
A prick of concern touched Amelia. How long before I’m found out?
Chapter 2
Four more messages had arrived since Amelia stepped onstage tonight. Even when he’s texting, Byron sounds like an English professor, Amelia thought while standing backstage after her best fiddling performance to date. She was weary of the quotations Byron kept sending. Give all to love; Obey thy heart. . . . Penned by Emerson.
And then another: We are most alive when we’re in love—John Updike.
“Hmm . . . no kidding,” she muttered.
Nevertheless, she owed Byron some explanation for her silence. After all, they were practically engaged, and she had essentially stood him up.
Of course, she didn’t dare reveal where she’d gone; instead she left a casual text: Needed some time off. Quickly, she tacked on an apology and pressed the button to darken the screen.
“Aren’t you staying for the rest of the concert?” asked Jayson, one of the stagehands.
“Not this time.”
“Really? I wouldn’t miss it for anything.”
She laughed at his joke—he had to stay, he was being paid to.
“I’d better get going. It’s a seven-hour drive back to Columbus,” Amelia told him. But the truth was, she wanted space after having given it her all. The nerves came prior to the concert, then the sweet spot—the performance itself—followed by the need to recuperate from the spotlight.
Turning, she literally ran into Rickie Gene. “Oh, sorry . . . didn’t see you there.”
“Trying to walk and text at the same time?” he teased. But his smile faded quickly. “Uh, someone’s at the back entrance, demanding to see you.”
Demanding?
Rickie handed her a business card. “Know this guy?”
She cringed as she immediately recognized the card. “Sure I know him. It’s my agent, Stoney Warren.” She sighed, touching Rickie’s arm. “Thanks for the tip.”
“Do you wanna slip out another way?” he asked.
She considered it briefly. “I think I’d better face the music . . . literally.”
Nearly twelve years ago her father had handpicked Stoney Warren. In a matter of months, Stoney was grafted into the family tree, a top-drawer agent who oversaw her career like a caring uncle. Between Stoney and her father, Amelia had been escorted to every classical musical event since.
She shifted the case where she kept her fiddle and bow, nothing like the fancy case she used for her expensive and much better violin back home. Walking over to Stoney, she forced a smile, despite the wince in her stomach. “Imagine meeting you here.”
He eyed her boots and vintage dress. “Amelia, honey . . . what’s with your—”
“You don’t like my Alison Krauss look?”
“Your hair—it’s down.”
Her mother, who wore pearls with almost everything, preferred Amelia to wear her long hair up whenever she performed. “More professional,” she said.
Stoney’s eyes were earnest. “What are you doing here?” The lines around his mouth were more pronounced than she remembered and his brown hair windblown. She guessed he’d driven quite a distance to find her. But the question remained: How did he know where to find her?
“I’m taking a little time off.” She pushed her hair away from her face. “I just warmed up for Tim McGraw. Pretty impressive, eh?” She scrutinized Stoney’s body language. His shoulders were stiff . . . he was definitely not impressed. And not in the least amused.
He shook his head. “What do you suggest I tell your dad?”
She shuddered. “Don’t tell him anything.” Amelia stared at the ground. “He wouldn’t understand.”
“Neither do I.”
“Let it be our little secret.” She pled with her eyes.
“You’re impossible, you know that?” Stoney offered her the crook of his arm. “Have you forgotten what the Chicago Tribune published two weeks ago? ‘Amelia Devries plays with disarming buoyancy and an angelic sensitivity. Her rendition of the Brahms violin concerto exudes romantic passion.’ End quote.”
She drew a long breath. “Fiddling’s just a hobby, okay?” She looked away, willing herself not to tear up. “It’s relaxing.”
Lightning zigzagged across the sky as they walked toward her car. “Well, don’t fiddle in public. You have a class-act reputation, remember?” Stoney shook his head. “Do you really think Itzhak Perlman made a name for himself playing in fiddling contests?”
She shook her head slowly. “No.”
“You have to mimic the greats to become like them, Amelia.”
“I only fiddle in my spare time.”
“Amelia, there’s no such time for musicians like you. You’re a star in the heavens. Why throw away everything you’ve worked for?”
“Is that what you think I’m doing?”
He pushed his hands into his pockets, silent for a moment. Then he searched her face. “How long have you been known as Amy Lee?”
She opted not to answer that question and paused, weighing her next words carefully. “If you want the truth, some days I can hardly wait to return to country music and these really wonderful people.”
“And what does Byron think about all this? Or doesn’t he know, either?”
She shook her head. Her boyfriend would share her agent’s shock.
But Byron wasn’t here. Maybe there was still something to salvage, if only Stoney agreed to keep this secret.
When they reached her car, Amelia opened the back door and placed her fiddle inside, next to her overnight bag. “How’d you find me here?” She closed the car door and leaned against it.
“That’s beside the point,” he said. “We have bigger things to talk about.”
“What do you mean?”
“My dear, you have an important decision to make.” Stoney began to present what he called an amazing opportunity. “Nicola Hannevold—only a few years older than you and touring with the top orchestras in the world—anyway, she’s taken ill. She’s undergoing surgery and must cancel her seventy-day European tour.”
Amelia had been preparing for a big tour, as well, but it was more than a year out and not finalized as of yet.
Stoney’s eyes pierced hers. “This is a gold mine, Amelia. A real boon. But you have to sign on the dotted line by the end of next week or we lose it.”
She groaned. “Stoney . . .”
“I need at least a verbal commitment from you. Right now.”
“How can I possibly be ready in time?”
“You’re ready now,” he assured her.
She looked away, struggling.
“Another violinist will happily preempt you, I might add. She’ll step into this readymade tour in a heartbeat.”
“Well, if someone else wants it so badly—”
“That’s entirely out of the question!” Stoney shot back. “Have you forgotten your picture on the cover of the Strad? I mean, really, Amelia . . . you’re the next big thing.”
“Stoney . . . I—”
“This is a windfall, Amelia. And I won’t let you trample it under those ridiculous boots.” He grimaced as the next act’s lilting music drifted through the evening ai
r. “If you were thinking clearly, you’d weigh the consequences of your actions and see my logic.”
“I understand.” He treats me like a child!
But Stoney was still making his case. “This can put you over the top—take you to the next level and beyond. But you can’t afford any distractions, Amelia. You have to grab this now.”
Was this truly about her, or was he really saying that he couldn’t afford for her to snooze this opportunity? The financial reward had to be an enormous draw for him.
“Amelia, I need your answer.”
She swallowed. “Does Dad know about the tour possibility?”
“Yes, and he assumes you’ll do it. He expects you to.”
“Well, I need time to think.”
“Think?” Stoney looked away, shaking his head. “What’s to think about?”
“It’s just so . . . sudden.”
“Listen, if you let this go, your father will be crushed. Especially if he were to find out you’re playing fiddling gigs in your so-called free time, kiddo.”
“Why does Dad have to know?” She did not want to displease her poor father, afflicted as he was.
“This tour is a gift dropped in your lap. It’s everything your father’s dreamed of for you. You, Amelia . . . the singular shining light in his life.”
She nodded and suddenly felt drained. “Well, nothing has changed. Everything is going to be fine.”
Like always . . .
He folded his arms over his slender frame, quickly regaining his composure. “Good. You had me worried.”
“I wouldn’t disappoint you . . . or Dad.” She gritted her teeth.
Or Byron.
Stoney smiled, removed his wallet, and took out a twenty. “Get yourself a nice venti cappuccino for the drive,” he said.
She accepted the money, even though she had plenty of her own.
“And think hard about your future . . . Amy Lee.” He shook his head. “Pretty cheesy, hon. Don’t tell me you prefer it over Amelia.”
“Of course not.”
Stoney squeezed her shoulder. “And maybe there’s no need to trouble your father over any of this after all.”
“Thanks,” she whispered.
“Why don’t you get a hotel room somewhere and get some rest, instead of driving home tonight? Playing fiddle in a twangy band isn’t exactly relaxing.”
She nodded.
“Keep your phone charged up, in case I need to get ahold of you. And answer my texts, okay?”
Amelia forced a smile, but it felt weak and dishonest.
“We’ll talk more when you get home.” Stoney waved nonchalantly. “Tomorrow is soon enough.” He glanced over his shoulder just once as he walked to his silver coupe.
Amelia started her car and backed out, aware of Rickie Gene near the building’s exit, standing and watching her. She opened her window and pulled forward, stopping the car to talk to him.
“You okay?” he asked.
“You know how it is . . . agents.”
He grinned. “It was great having you here, Miss Amy. See ya next time!”
“Thanks.” She waved. With that, she headed out of the parking lot toward I-76, resisting the urge to cry.
Chapter 3
Less than ten minutes into the trip, Amelia’s ringtone signaled another text. She assumed it was from Byron and decided she would reply later, when she stopped for gas.
Glancing in the rearview mirror, she was suddenly struck with the significance of today’s date: July seventeenth. “Oh great,” she groaned aloud. “How could I forget?”
No wonder Byron had been so insistent about reaching her tonight! She glanced at her phone lying on the console. Having dated him exclusively for three years, she should have remembered the anniversary of their first date. He’ll be seriously disappointed. They had planned to meet in Columbus for dinner at the Worthington Inn—classy, romantic, and very intimate.
A few minutes passed, and now her phone was ringing. Who but Byron actually uses his cell to call? She much preferred texting and email to talking by phone.
Amelia clenched the steering wheel, knowing she had to come clean with him now that her agent knew her secret, yet dreading Byron’s potential response.
Her phone rang again, the first ten notes of Purcell’s “Trumpet Tune.”
Definitely Byron.
Slowly she breathed and reached for the phone. “Hey,” she answered. “Happy anniversary.”
“Where are you, Amelia?”
“Driving.”
“Well, I happen to be sitting at a candlelit table for two. . . .”
“Oh, Byron, I’m so sorry.”
“You . . . forgot?”
“I’ll make it up to you somehow.”
He was silent for a few seconds, and when he spoke his words were strained. “Is it too late to drop by later?”
“I’m really pretty tired.” She didn’t say she was still in the vicinity of Philadelphia, many hours away from her townhouse in the northern outskirts of Columbus.
“Pretty is right,” he said, flirting. “I’m missing you right now.” Byron had a way of sweet-talking her back to reality after her furtive trips to fiddle fests or stints with the Bittersweet Band. Hearing his mellow voice almost made her want to apologize. Almost.
Amelia had to change the subject or come out with the truth. “I feel just terrible,” she said. Then something about the balmy twilight encouraged her to reveal all. Didn’t he deserve as much?
“I’m driving west through Pennsylvania,” she ventured.
“Good night, what are you doing there?”
“Don’t laugh.” She sighed. “You will . . . I know you will.”
“Are you all right? You sound, well, rather strange.”
She breathed in some courage. “I had the opportunity to play in a warm-up band for Tim McGraw tonight. So I ran with it.”
Byron laughed, harder than necessary. “Seriously, what were you doing, Amelia?”
“I am serious. I played at the Mann tonight—it was wonderful.”
He was stunned—she knew it by his prolonged silence. When he found his voice, his words were soft. “You opened for . . . whom did you say?”
“The amazing Tim McGraw.”
“Amelia, I don’t understand. Why would you do something like that?”
“For fun,” she said, wondering if he could relate to the idea of doing anything for fun. Byron was one of the hardest-working musicians Amelia knew—a first-chair trumpeter. They’d met four years ago, when she played as a guest soloist with the Cleveland Orchestra, and months later he’d started pursuing her, at first mostly from afar. In time they had hatched a plan for their future—well, he had. The plan involved spending days and weeks apart as they reached their goals, yet staying connected as best they could. At some point in time, when it worked into their professional schedules, they would marry, but having a family was out of the question until they were much older—if at all.
“I didn’t even know you liked country music,” he admitted.
“Yes . . . I actually do.”
He didn’t skip a beat. “Aren’t you preparing for South America—next year’s grand tour?”
“I am.”
“But how is that possible?” He sounded confused. “This is such a . . . a . . . departure from your goal.”
He’d meant to say our goal; she was almost sure of it.
“Am I the only one in the dark about this?” Byron asked. “Surely your parents don’t know.”
She made herself answer. “No.”
“Oh, Amelia . . . Does your agent know?”
She inhaled slowly. “Everything’s cool, Byron. You don’t need to worry.” She paused, waiting for him to jump in and fill the silence. Surprisingly, he did not. “I just needed . . . a little distraction.”
“All right,” he replied, sounding reassured. “No more fiddling around with your future, okay?”
Amelia sighed. Byron, although immensely
talented, had pulled himself up through the ranks of musicians by sheer determination and sacrifice. She had always admired him for his grit. He once told her that if she worked as hard as he did, she could be the greatest female violinist of her day. But instead of feeling elation, she’d cried herself to sleep. What if I don’t want to be the best?
“Remember, we have a plan.”
“Yes, of course, and I’m trying to follow it.” Immediately Amelia realized she’d said the wrong thing.
“Trying? Listen, I want what’s best for you, and for us,” he said. “Do you doubt that?” She could hear the hurt in his voice.
The all-too-familiar lump filled her throat. Not from sadness but exasperation.
He breathed into the phone. “Look, we’re both tired.”
“And you’re understandably upset that I skipped out on our anniversary dinner.”
“Well, it’s hard to imagine you’d forget.”
“I know . . . and I’m so sorry.” She sighed. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”
“I’ll look forward to that.” His tone was softer now, but she still detected a note of tension. With a brief good-bye, Byron hung up.
He’s right; I have no choice, Amelia thought as both Byron’s and Stoney’s words pounded in her head—and worries of her dad getting wind of this. I have to go ahead with the European tour.
———
At the Morgantown turnoff, Amelia stopped for gas at the Turkey Hill Mini Mart on Main Street. When she finished pumping in the self-serve lane, the wind suddenly became gusty, followed by heavy rain. In a few seconds, visibility became nearly nonexistent, and Amelia was completely disoriented as she turned left out of the gas station and headed toward Twin County Road.
Later, when she realized what she had done, she tried to retrace her path at the interchange but couldn’t in the torrential rain. One small blessing, though—she’d changed out her old windshield wipers just yesterday and had a full tank of gas for the drive. If only she could circle around and find her way back to I-76 again. But she simply could not see well enough to navigate it.
She squinted and leaned forward, gripping the steering wheel and whispering a prayer. But she had no idea where she was until a glimpse of a road sign gave her a clue: Welsh Mountain Preserve Ahead.
Fiddler, The Page 2