Chapter 9
Amelia awakened with a start Friday morning. Stretching, she managed to get her bearings. Ah yes. She remembered the storm last night and the unfinished chess game. . . .
She strained to hear any activity in the small cabin, but all was silent. Out the window, the sky was clearing in the east, although still mostly overcast. Nearby, birds were chirping happily. “I crave sunshine,” she whispered, getting out of bed. She’d had it with the gloom and the rain. It added fuel to her dismal mood—and her sheer frustration at feeling so helpless. But then, Amelia was often a little out of sorts upon waking, or so her father had pointed out to her back when she was juggling violin practice with her private school or traveling tutor. Very little time for anything but music, she recalled now, having felt somewhat isolated at the time. Her best friends were her parents and her instructor . . . and a handful of school chums. Beyond that, there was really no one she’d confided in. Not even Byron Salter knew her heart.
Pondering all of that, she made her way to the small bathroom to wash up and dress for the day. Though bleary-eyed, she couldn’t miss seeing the speckle of whiskers in the sink. She wondered why Michael would bother to shave. Why . . . up here in the boonies?
Glad for some fresh clothes from her bag, she dressed quickly and then ventured over to the screen door. She spotted Michael at the end of the dirt lane, crouched beside her jacked-up vehicle. So that’s where he went.
What if there’s something wrong with the spare? she thought suddenly, holding her breath. Would that be so bad?
Chiding herself, she shook off the ridiculous thoughts.
As she turned away from the door, she had an impulsive idea. What better way to show her gratitude than to cook a nice hot breakfast? Years ago, her dark-haired mother had taught her to break an egg without getting shells into the yolk. In her recollection, she still heard the sound of her father practicing his violin in the background as Mom mixed onion and a little milk into the eggs. Everywhere, classical music was woven into the embroidery of her childhood. Every scene, every home activity . . . it was always, always there.
Presently, while Amelia looked for the eggs, bacon, and bread for toast in the tiny kitchen, she was once again aware of a deep sense of frustration born of the very real prospect of a European tour in her immediate future. And certainly by now she must have numerous voicemail and text messages from Stoney on the subject, and from Byron, as well. It wasn’t right to keep Byron—or her parents—in the dark about her location. She needed to contact them as soon as possible.
If only pay phones weren’t nearly extinct. Everyone owned a cell phone now—even Michael, she recalled, seeing him coming this way, through the trees, his face beaming.
Quickly, she opened the cupboard, where she discovered cereal and oatmeal and looked for a box of uncooked rice, thinking of her possibly defunct cell phone. More than likely, it was irreparable by now. My own carelessness. But just as she wasn’t in a hurry to leave the serene setting, Amelia also did not bemoan the loss of her phone.
When Michael reached the cabin, he looked surprised. “I’m making breakfast,” she announced, beginning to fry the eggs and bacon.
He, in turn, declared that her tire was changed and ready to go. “There’s a place in Morgantown where ya can stop and get a full-size tire, but the car’s purring like a contented barn cat.”
After dishing up the eggs and carrying them to the table, she took her seat across from him. Michael asked to give a silent blessing, and she bowed her head quickly. At his amen, he reached for the salt and pepper and began to talk again of Hickory Hollow. Each time he spoke of the place, his blue eyes twinkled.
“You must really love it there,” she remarked.
“No matter what, it’s always been home.”
They ate without speaking for a time, and she was aware of an unexpected undertow of tension between them. Amelia sensed he was mulling something as he worked his jaw. He kept looking over at her.
“Listen, I’ve been thinking.” He leaned forward, his eyes fixed on her. “This might sound peculiar, but I came to this cabin to pray for guidance and . . .” He stopped for a moment and smiled quickly. “You know, Amy, I’m beginning to wonder if God sent you to get me thinking outside the box.”
I’ve never been anyone’s answer to prayer before, she thought, glad she hadn’t said that aloud. “I’ve always heard that there can be a real mystery in the way God orchestrates things.”
“Right, and time and again the Bible shows that.” He rose to get a jar of peanut butter from the cupboard and spread it thickly on his toast. “I’ve been torturing my parents needlessly.”
“Have you decided what you’re going to do?”
He stared at his plate, knife in his hand. “I know you’re right—what you said last night. I would never want to hurt my folks, ’specially my mother. She has such a tender heart . . . she alone has helped keep me in the fold, all this time.”
“But is Amish life really what you want?”
Even now, Michael’s concern clouded the cabin, just as the rain had the skies last night. He did not respond.
She drew a breath, reluctant to hit the road for home, though she must. “You’ve been most kind, Michael, giving me a place to stay.” She paused, already missing the quaintness of the cabin. “And thanks for changing my tire. I really appreciate it.”
“Not a problem.”
For the first time in her life, she groped for the right words. “Well, thanks again.” Then she backpedaled, offering to clean up the mess she’d made cooking breakfast. But he wouldn’t hear of it. She even went over to the small area near the bunk where she’d slept and looked about for . . . what? She’d brought very little—an overnight bag, purse, and her fiddle case. Nothing more.
“You haven’t played for me yet.” From where he sat at the table, Michael looked at the still-open fiddle case.
He’s stalling, too. . . .
“It’d be a shame if I didn’t get to hear you in person, Amy Lee.”
The recognition in his eyes told it all. He must be aware of her country music stints. But how?
“Okay, I’ll come clean. I should’ve said something before.” He looked too serious. “I saw a program in your car with your name on it.”
To her surprise, she felt herself blushing.
“So, would ya mind doin’ the honors before you go?”
She nodded. Just great, he thinks I’m a celebrity.
She placed the fiddle case on her bunk and opened it. She tightened her bow, placed the instrument under her chin, and quickly tuned the strings. Why should she care what an Amish guy thought of her?
Michael leaned back, seeming to listen intently as she began to play the first few measures of “The Mason’s Apron.” Halfway through, Michael began bobbing his head in time to the music. His gusto—and fabulous smile—encouraged her, and she flipped it into high gear, pushing the tempo. That got his feet going as he sat there, nearly dancing in his seat.
Maybe I was wrong, she thought, thoroughly enjoying his response. He genuinely seems to love fiddle music.
She played one last song, not a fiddle tune, but one she’d always loved: “Somewhere Over the Rainbow.” A song of hope and promise, the perfect encore to end their serendipitous meeting here.
When she finished, he clapped so long she felt embarrassed. “Thank you,” she said, putting the fiddle and bow away again.
“You have a gift, Amy Lee. Really, you do.”
She smiled and acknowledged his appreciation. “Thanks, you’re very kind.”
“No, I’m honest.” His eyes searched hers. “You know, I was thinkin’ while you played: Why don’t you come with me to Hickory Hollow?” Michael paused for a second. “You could meet some of the people I’ve been talking ’bout.”
It was then she saw something other than admiration in his eyes. Maybe he just needs a friend . . . or moral support.
“What do ya say, Amy?”
&nbs
p; She considered the idea. But no, what was she thinking? “It’s very nice of you to invite me . . . but I really have to get going.” She considered her dad again, and how he must feel if Stoney had spilled the beans.
“Listen, if it would help, you could drive down the road a ways and use my cell phone,” he offered, looking crestfallen. “Two miles south of here, I usually get reception.”
“That close?”
He nodded.
“Well, it’s not like I need to call home and get permission,” she said, laughing softly but liking the idea of checking in with her father.
Michael had already turned to get his cell phone from the little bureau in the sleeping area between the two bunks. The space where she’d slept so peacefully last night. First time in months. She accepted his phone and assured him she would return with it immediately.
“Take your time . . . really.”
“Thanks,” she said as she headed for the screen door. Amelia looked back only to see that a smile had returned to his handsome face.
Chapter 10
Her parents’ phone rang repeatedly until Mom picked up, right before the voicemail would have kicked on. “Devries residence,” her mother answered.
“Hi, Mom—just want you and Dad to know I’m safe and sound.” Amelia paused, not sure what else to add, not wanting to say where she was in case Stoney had kept his word and hadn’t blown her secret.
“So good to hear from you, Amelia. Stoney relayed to us you would be in town sometime today, dear. We’d love it if you could stop by on your way home.”
Amelia held her breath, wondering exactly what Stoney had told them. But when her mother changed the subject and commented on how very warm and rainy it had been yesterday, Amelia breathed a sigh of relief. “Sure. We’ll talk real soon, all right?”
“Thanks for calling, honey.” She visualized her tall, slender mother holding the phone in her left hand, her dark chin-length hair thick and shiny.
“I love you both.”
“We love you, too, dear. I’ll let your father know you called.”
“Thanks, Mom. Good-bye.” She pressed the button to end the call.
A flicker of a sweet memory crossed her mind—she was only seven and had been sick with the flu and a high fever. Concerned, her mother sat up all night with Amelia, putting cool cloths on her forehead and holding her hand. It was the year before she’d auditioned at the Oberlin Conservatory. She marveled at the sacrifices her parents had made during those earliest years of her musical study . . . one of the reasons she didn’t want to disappoint them. She again thought of the overseas tour, resisting the urge to get emotionally bogged down.
Amelia dialed Byron’s number next, hoping to catch him at home. No doubt he would be waiting for her call.
He answered on the second ring. “Byron Salter speaking.”
“Hey again,” she said.
“Amelia?”
“Yes . . . has my voice changed overnight?”
“Well, I saw the name Michael Hostetler on the caller ID and assumed it was a wrong number.”
She gulped—she’d forgotten she was using a different phone. “I had to borrow one,” she explained, trying to sound composed. “I had a little accident, and my own phone landed in water.” She didn’t say where or why, hoping he might think it was the bathtub at a hotel.
“I take it you’re not home as of yet.”
“No, still in Pennsylvania.” It’s a long and very strange story, she thought. But she said instead, “I got caught in a bad storm.” She hoped he wouldn’t ask where she’d spent the night.
“Are you on your way home?”
Quite unexpectedly, the image of Michael running through the dense woods to her car, getting drenched just so he could hear her play her fiddle, came to her. It shook her up enough to disorient her for a moment.
“Amelia? Are you there?”
It crossed her mind to just start talking again and then simply hang up on herself. Let Byron assume she’d lost service—a polite sort of way to terminate a difficult conversation. But she wasn’t a quitter; she would tough it out . . . and choose to be honest. “I’m taking a little detour today,” she told him.
“I’m sorry; I thought you said you were making a detour.”
“I did.”
“But—”
“I’ll be home eventually, Byron.” She didn’t wait for him to say more. “I really don’t know exactly when I’ll be back.”
“What’s going on?” He was silent for a second. Then, “I don’t understand.”
“I just need some time, Byron—that’s all. Good-bye for now.” And she hung up.
———
When Amelia arrived back at the cabin, she thanked Michael for loaning his phone.
“Anytime, Amy . . . really,” he said, and she wondered if all young Amishmen were so accommodating.
“And if your invitation still stands—” she stopped, wondering how what she was about to say would go over—“I think I would actually like to visit Hickory Hollow with you.”
He looked momentarily stunned. “You want to?”
“From everything you’ve told me, I feel like I already know some of your neighbors there,” she added.
“Wonderful, then. Why don’t you follow me there in your car? We can stop quick in Morgantown on the way to get a new tire.”
She wasn’t having second thoughts, but she wondered aloud, “I should ask you—will the People be okay with this? I mean, are they typically all right with visits from outsiders?”
“Ach, most will welcome you.” He nodded, grinning now. “We are plenty interested in Englischers, and don’t let anyone tell ya different.”
We? He still thinks of himself as one of them. . . .
Michael seemed exceptionally cheerful as he busied himself packing the food he’d brought, as well as his clothing—far more than she’d realized. Obviously he’d planned to stay here longer than for a single night.
Later, when Michael was ready to go—before she got into her car—Amelia turned and looked back at the rustic little cabin. Feeling strangely nostalgic, she memorized the sight of it, tucked away from the narrow road, in the heart of Welsh Mountain.
———
Amelia had done plenty of driving recently, but not without her GPS. Having tested her phone earlier that morning, she had decided it was not going to revive itself. No sense hoping it would dry out now. In some ways, this turn of events felt astonishingly good. It was a change from feeling absolutely tethered to the Big Three: Dad, Stoney, and Byron.
No longer, she thought, knowing she would have some explaining to do once she returned home. But Amelia was determined to enjoy her day in Amish country.
Letting go of her stress, she followed Michael to Morgantown to purchase a permanent tire and change out the spare. That done, they headed to Highway 10, down past the rural towns of Honey Brook and White Horse. She drove west on Route 340, toward Intercourse Village, just skirting the rural edge of town before turning south on Cattail Road, taking the back road leading to the most peaceful blink-and-you’ll-miss-it town she’d ever encountered.
Amelia enjoyed seeing the hitching posts and white silos, and the horse and buggies, too. “So this is Hickory Hollow,” she said and parked her car behind Michael’s in the paved driveway that led to a beautiful old farmhouse. Mr. and Mrs. Jerry Landis, the mailbox read.
She remembered what Michael had told her about this special parking arrangement with his Mennonite relatives. Where he hides his car.
Turning off the ignition, she spotted a stout woman with cherry-red cheeks—certainly Michael’s aunt—waving from the front porch, her hair in a severe bun as she called a warm greeting.
Amelia waved back and when Michael came over to her car, she asked, “Is this your private parking spot?”
“I guess you could say that. I’ve been using it for years now, since near the start of my Rumschpringe.” He gave her a quick glance. “You know about Rumsch
pringe, right? It’s the stage of Amish life when young people sixteen and up are permitted to ‘run around.’ Some of us try on the world for size.”
“So, do your parents even know you own a car?”
“Oh, they know.” He nodded as they began to walk toward the road. “Not that they’re any too pleased about it.”
“Well then, why do you hide it?” she asked, matching his stride.
“Most young men who have cars keep them away from their parents’ property out of respect.” Michael removed his straw hat and held it in one hand. “Of course, most youth never stray as far as that.”
“Like you have?”
“Well, owning a car is a big deal, and I don’t much care to flaunt it. I don’t want to trample on the Old Ways. I’m not doing this out of rebellion, though it might look like that to the People.”
She grasped some of what he said, but the idea of allowing young people to experiment with the outside world after being sheltered so long seemed risky.
“Let’s head to Nate Kurtz’s dairy farm,” he said, changing the subject.
“How far away?”
“Less than a mile.” His voice suddenly sounded thinner. “Oh, and while we drove here, I was thinkin’ it might be best if you don’t go with me when I talk to my Daed.”
“I didn’t expect to,” she said, looking ahead, enjoying the landscape. “Do whatever works for you.”
“Denki—thanks.” Michael glanced at her a second time, then looked away.
“What about your Wise Woman . . . any chance I might have time to meet her?”
“I’ll see to it.” He gave a nervous chortle. “I might actually need to talk to her myself.”
Amelia wondered if he might need the comfort that only the Wise Woman could offer. Someone who is Amish.
“Should we make an appointment with her?”
He smiled, yet she’d been serious. “No need for that, really,” he said.
“Okay.” Amelia swung her arms and took a deep breath—the air was fresher here, she realized. And it felt good to let her hair blow free, away from her face. The farmland was a lovely departure from big-city living.
Fiddler, The Page 6