Fiddler, The

by Beverly Lewis

  “There’s a mountain . . . here?” She could not believe how dense the woods had become, closing in on her and the thin ribbon of road. Was this a long-lost piece of Penn’s Woods?

  Amelia groaned. How did I get so lost?

  Given the present deluge, Michael Hostetler was glad there was far less lightning than was typical for a summertime storm. He marveled at the drumming sounds overhead and might have suspected the cabin’s roof of being tin if he hadn’t known better.

  Going to the table, he turned up the volume on his CD player, hoping to drown out the jackhammering rain. He sat at the table and booted up his laptop, anxious to put his father’s words behind him. Was that even possible? Daed’s expectations and directives were etched on Michael’s eyelids. “That’s what fathers are meant for,” his youngest uncle once told him, after overhearing a heated exchange between Michael and his father. That night Michael’s cheeks had burned with mortification . . . and guilt. Now, though, he refused to let any of this latest debate derail him from the task at hand.

  He read the instructions for his business coursework, ready to move forward with a test in statistical analysis.

  After a time his focus for his studies began to fade. Michael pictured his family sitting around the front room on comfortable chairs and the upholstered sofa Daed had purchased for Mamm a few years ago. Without a doubt, Daed was reading in German from the Luther Bible. Mamm sat to Daed’s right, her eyes fixed on the heavy Biewel. Sometimes his father read two full chapters, sometimes more, “for good measure,” as he liked to say, his eyes alight.

  Michael’s married sisters, Sallie and Betsie, and their husbands might’ve stopped by, caught in the sheeting rain after coming for an impromptu visit, as they often did. In Michael’s imagination, his mother poured meadow tea for everyone, and dishes clattered as the family gathered in the dining area of the large kitchen for homemade ice cream. The babble of voices undoubtedly filled the air . . . and Sallie and Betsie prattled on like they hadn’t seen each other in weeks. As always.

  Shaking himself, Michael forced his attention back to the test, determined to finish tonight. How timely that his vacation from work had coincided with this most recent dustup with Daed. Did I unconsciously set it up?

  Meanwhile, rain poured relentlessly, and the hoot owl Michael knew resided in a lofty tree behind the cabin had no chance of being heard, there in the deep woods of lonely Welsh Mountain.

  Chapter 4

  Never in her life had Amelia driven in such a tempest. Rain blew in horizontal sheets across the road, silver-white in the headlights, resembling a blizzard. She watched the road closely, well aware that the wind and rain might mesmerize her. She turned up her radio even louder and tried to keep her gaze riveted to the ground.

  Driving past a mobile home park, she wondered how safe the residents were there. One of the fiddlers in the Connecticut contest last year had told Amelia she’d grown up in a trailer and never acclimated to the width of a typical hotel room. “Everything seems too big,” the girl had insisted. Amelia hoped the other contestant was safe and snug on a night like this.

  But am I safe?

  Farther up the road, a lone sign read Jesus in large black letters. It reminded her of the Sundays she had attended her maternal grandparents’ church in rural Ohio—and the weeks she’d spent riding their horses as a young girl. And of happily memorizing Bible verses at summer church camp.

  Unfortunately, these days she more often heard the Lord’s name spoken with disdain than love or reverence, not that she was a prime example of spiritual devotion. I need to pray more, she thought, missing her grandmother’s own dedication. Her parents believed, as well, but her grandmother’s relationship with God had truly been something special.

  Turning onto Gault Road, Amelia kept her eyes alert and slowed her speed to ten miles per hour, noticing on her GPS that the road would eventually lead her back to the main highway. There was no hope of turning around on this thread of a road, especially without a single streetlight . . . and the driving rain coming harder by the minute. She’d heard of monsoons associated with hurricanes, but there had been no weather alert on her phone’s weather app. Perhaps this was only a freak storm and would eventually blow itself out. Yet she knew a mere cloudburst would have ceased by now. And this wind was ferocious.

  Large amounts of water had collected on the road, causing her to drive even more carefully. Now and then she tested her brakes, recalling her father’s instruction back when he’d first taken her out driving. In the chaos of the present moment, she realized he and Mom had taught her nearly everything she knew—about music and life. Her mother, who preferred to take a backseat when it came to the limelight, had always offered her own loving support, but Dad had been the more influential when it came to Amelia’s career.

  Especially after he became ill. Amelia had never forgotten the first time she’d observed his hand tremors, years ago. She brushed away the painful image, wishing something could be done to reverse the debilitating disease that had snatched away his radiant yet short-lived career. The image of her dad holding his violin under the crook of his chin, standing with perfect posture—the hair of the bow suspended over the bridge—was fixed in her brain.

  Her mother had often stood in the doorway of the music studio, watching them with pride. Yet music was mostly Dad’s and my thing, thought Amelia, wishing to include Mom even more in her life. These days, her mother busied herself with writing a novel. And while Amelia had no idea what the book was about, she assumed it was a way for Mom to cope with Dad’s diagnosis.

  Amelia drove through a heavily flooded area, and water sprayed forcefully under the car and out from the sides, catching her off guard. For a moment, the vehicle was hydroplaning.

  As her wheels took hold of the pavement once again, Amelia experienced momentary relief—then she heard a whishing pop, and the car jerked hard to one side out on the remote Pennsylvania mountain. Just barely, she managed to creep forward and make a left-hand turn onto a dirt lane, thankfully getting the car off the main road.

  A flat tire . . . tonight?

  Moaning, she leaned her head on the steering wheel, heart pounding. She had an emergency spare tucked in the base of her trunk, but even if she could change the tire in this storm, she didn’t trust the small spare on the flooded roads. And the rain? By the sound of it, the violent weather was here for the night.

  She sat there, surrounded by the darkly sinister woods and the rain. What would Dad say to do? “Why not practice, Amelia?” he might suggest if he were here. Not one to squander a single moment, she thought.

  Despite her situation, she chuckled wryly at the thought of practicing in the middle of a downpour. She turned to look over her shoulder at her fiddle and overnight bag, the pitch-blackness closing in. There was no room to play her violin in the car!

  The road behind her cut through the forest, and yet she had not seen a single house light. “Dear God,” she whispered. “I’m seriously lost. Please help me find my way back home.”

  Amelia picked up her phone. No coverage.

  What did I expect?

  If she got out and tried to walk for help—but where?—she might be blown away . . . certainly soaked to the skin in a matter of seconds. But getting wet wasn’t her biggest concern. She was alone in the middle of nowhere and feeling increasingly more frantic.

  The constant beat of rain on her car drowned out any hope of hearing the radio, so Amelia turned it off, not wanting to wear down the battery.

  Still trembling, Amelia reached for the iPod in her purse, choosing a recording of her own performance of Prelude no. 5 by Rachmaninov. Nice and slow, she thought, hoping the lovely melody might soothe her . . . somehow.

  Lillianne Hostetler glanced at the day clock hanging high over the sink in Ella Mae Zook’s cozy kitchen. “Ach, yuscht look at the time,” she said, sitting with her cup of peppermint tea at the small table. “I best be goin’.”

  Ella Mae waved her hand, blue
eyes shining. “Stay as long as ya like, Lily. Goodness knows, you need a breather ev’ry now and then.”

  White-haired Ella Mae wasn’t known as Hickory Hollow’s Wise Woman for nothing. Lillianne tugged on her apron, looking down at her still half-full teacup. “How do ya get your tea to taste so gut?”

  “It’s all in the steeping. Three minutes and no longer . . . and raw honey from over yonder.” Ella Mae motioned toward the bishop’s farm.

  “I’ll remember that.”

  Ella Mae reached across the table and placed her gnarled hand on Lillianne’s wrist. “Remember something else, too, won’t ya, dear?”

  Lillianne half expected this. She knew her neighbor and good friend well enough to realize the Wise Woman couldn’t just let her get up and leave without one final bit of insight.

  “Your son ain’t punishing you and Paul by up and leavin’.”

  Lillianne nodded her head. She knew. Oh, she knew.

  “And something else.” Ella Mae’s eyes were moist in the corners. “Your boy loves ya, he does.”

  “Well, he took his clothes along . . . and plenty of food, too. So how’s that figure?”

  Ella Mae smiled, showing her dimples. “But you offered the food, didn’t ya?”

  She had indeed. “Jah.” Lillianne’s lip quivered. “Honestly, I couldn’t have Michael goin’ hungry, could I? What sort of mother—”

  “You’re a wunnerbaar-gut Mamma, and don’t ya forget.”

  Lillianne swallowed, refusing to cry. “Do you think he’ll ever come back home? Oh, Ella Mae . . . will he?”

  “The Lord knows all ’bout that.” Ella Mae’s little head bobbed up and down. “And I daresay Michael will know soon enough, too.”

  “I just pray his heart’s not too awful pained. His father can be harsh at times—still blames him for Elizabeth’s leavin’, ya know.”

  “Well, prayin’s the best thing for any problem, even for your granddaughter. Mighty powerful, ’tis.”

  Lillianne agreed. “Guess I just needed to ramble some, is all.” She rose to stand near the doorway, watching the wind rustle the tops of the trees. “Sure looks like rain’s comin’.”

  “Smells like it, too.” Ella Mae got up and shuffled over and stood there by her for a moment. “The Lord sees into your boy’s gut heart, Lily. You can trust that.”

  Nodding, Lillianne looked fondly at the elderly woman who’d seen her and many of the People through plenty of struggles. Like Katie Lapp’s shunning. Lillianne shivered at the memory of it.

  “Denki ever so much,” Lillianne said.

  “My door’s always open.” Ella Mae patted her arm. “Don’t forget.”

  Lillianne smiled and stepped onto the small white porch. A clap of thunder echoed from the north, loud enough to startle the sleeping German shepherd lying on the back stoop.

  Michael, my son . . . are you safe tonight?

  Chapter 5

  Amelia watched the rapid raindrops dance on the windshield as time dragged on. She chose the first Paganini caprice next on her iPod, listening closely to Sarah Chang’s fabulous rendition, taken anew by the unexpected phrasing and expressions as she sat, a captive audience.

  It was one thing to be thought of as a “wunderkind” when she was little, Amelia thought, and quite another to compete with other adult violinists your own age. Continually Amelia endeavored to put her own special stamp on the tried-and-true concert pieces, just as the top performers did.

  She thought of the recent New York Times review: Devries’ performance was a perfect blend of poetry and fury.

  All for you, Dad, she thought, leaning back in the driver’s seat to stretch her neck, enjoying the piece.

  After a few minutes, she looked in the glove box for her small flashlight, thinking it wise to keep it handy. In case of what? But she knew there was a real possibility she might be stuck there all night.

  The wind and rain swirled, a mocking reflection of the storm in her soul—Stoney’s finding her out—still maddening! And Byron’s shock at hearing she loved country music—even performed it—hurt even now.

  The worst is still to come. Amelia cringed at her father’s inevitable disappointment. All of it plagued her. There was no keeping such a secret forever. And once he did know, Dad would plead with her to stop. Once again, she would end up feeling as though she had no say at all.

  Despite everything, Amelia refused to disappoint him. Not the way he suffered . . . and not considering he’d put all of his hopes and dreams into her talents. She was his trophy and had been given every opportunity to develop and excel.

  How can I think of not doing the European tour?

  More minutes piled up, and just when Amelia was sure she’d end up sleeping in her car all night, the rain slowly began to let up. Even the wind was noticeably retreating.

  She stared off to the left, through the trees, and saw what looked to be a glimmer of light.

  She leaned forward and squinted to see more clearly. There, a few hundred feet away, she thought she saw a cabin tucked back in a clearing.

  Waiting and fingering the flashlight, she saw that while the rain was still steady, it was no longer lashing as before. “Now or never.” She opened the door and got out, still holding her flashlight.

  Her cell phone landed in the massive puddle near the car, completely submerged in the murky water. Irritated, she pointed the flashlight down and fished around to retrieve it.

  I’m toast!

  Putting her soggy phone inside the car, she hoped it might dry out. Amelia shook her head, perturbed at not having paid more attention.

  What else can go wrong?

  “I need to slow down,” she muttered, closing the door and locking it out of sheer habit. Then she zeroed in on the faint light in the near distance and sloshed through the water and the mud, glad she’d worn boots.

  As she drew closer, she heard loud music and perked up her ears. Was it coming from the cabin? Approaching the small residence, she recognized it to be country music.

  She quickened her pace—weren’t country music lovers typically kindhearted? She smiled at her oversimplification yet certainly hoped so in this case. Amelia really had no idea who could be living up here in the boonies.

  The light from the cabin’s interior shone out as a welcome as she strode toward the pebbled walkway. A baritone voice inside belted out the melody as unreservedly as someone singing in the shower.

  Amelia walked to the entrance, but despite her flashlight, didn’t notice so much as a doorbell. She knocked on the door and the music coming from inside stopped abruptly. Suddenly, she was thrust into a brassy spray of light. And, blinking her eyes in the stark brilliance, she saw a good-looking young man standing at the door. His blond hair had been oddly cut, almost as if someone had plopped a bowl on his head and chopped around the edges. Bangs fell across his forehead. If Amelia hadn’t known better, she would’ve guessed from the clothes he was wearing that he might be Amish.

  Is he alone? Can I trust him?

  “Hullo?” he said, a frown on his suntanned face.

  She realized she must look like a nearly drowned rat. “I got a flat tire in the storm. My car’s parked at the end of your driveway.” She turned and pointed toward the end of the dirt lane. “Sorry to bother you.”

  “Ach, miss . . . let’s get you out of the rain,” he said, his blue eyes showing concern. “You’re soaking wet.”

  “Thanks. I really hate to intrude.”

  “No, no . . . that’s all right.” He sounded convincing enough, and his face seemed kind, even innocent. He beckoned her inside, then left her standing just inside the doorway, mud caked on her best cowgirl boots as he disappeared into a tiny bathroom, calling over his shoulder about getting her a dry towel.

  When he returned, he handed it to her with a shy yet concerned expression. “Pardon my bad manners.” He offered to shake her hand. “My name is Michael Hostetler. Some of my English friends call me Mike.” His smile was warm and unassuming.
“What’s yours?”

  “Amy Lee,” she said, giving her fiddler name without a second thought. “Thanks so much for the towel . . . and the shelter.” She patted her thick hair and then wrapped the towel around her like a shawl, letting it absorb some of the dampness from her clothes. “Do you happen to have a phone handy?” she asked, glancing about the cozy cabin, not moving her feet an inch.

  “Just my cell phone, but coverage up here is spotty at best.”

  She considered this and wondered how to reach her family and Byron. She knew all too well her boyfriend would worry even more if she said she was marooned in the Pennsylvania mountains. “My own phone’s out of commission,” she explained to Michael.

  “Oh?” He stood there awkwardly, as if not sure how to make her comfortable. She was fairly drenched.

  “Silly me, I dropped it when I got out of the car—into a puddle, no less.” She’d heard that putting a waterlogged phone in a bowl of uncooked rice overnight could draw out the moisture, but she wasn’t going to ask Michael Hostetler for additional favors.

  “Maybe it will dry out, jah?” His face reddened at his Dutch and he apologized quickly. “Sometimes the Amish in me just shows up.”

  So he was Amish. She wondered why he’d want to hide it, if that’s what he meant. Shrugging, Amelia thought her lack of a phone might not be a terrible thing, at least for a little while. A respite from the bombardment of texts and calls from the disgruntled men in her life. Looking at it that way, she welcomed the break.

  “Would ya want to come in . . . and sit awhile?”

  Pointing to her boots, she grimaced. “Not sure I dare.”

  “No problem. I can help you with that.” Michael hurried to get a wad of paper towels and laid them out on the floor, where she removed her boots and set them on the towels. “The mud will harden,” he said.