Fiddler, The

by Beverly Lewis

  Inching out of her chair, Ella Mae reached for her cane propped on the white porch banister. “S’pose ya haven’t had time to hear ’bout my peppermint tea just yet.” She moseyed past Amelia, glancing down at her. “Drop by and have some over yonder at my little house ’fore ya up and leave the Hollow, won’t ya?”

  “Thanks, I’d like that.”

  They exchanged smiles, and although Ella Mae was moving toward the door, Amelia actually yearned for her to stay and chat longer.

  “Well, I best be lookin’ in on Joanna’s grandmother, lest I talk your ear off.”

  “I enjoyed visiting with you,” Amelia said. More than you know. She rose quickly and stood near the little woman, concerned she was too frail to move about, even gingerly.

  “Remember, now: Play your fiddle for the Good Lord above.” Ella Mae raised her pointer finger skyward. “He’s the master musician . . . and the closest, dearest friend you’ll ever know—closer than even a brother, the Good Book says.” With that, Ella Mae Zook stepped inside, closing the screen door.

  Amelia promised herself she would not leave for home until she played one of her best fiddle tunes for the dear Wise Woman. I have to see her again!

  Chapter 19

  As Amelia walked back to Joanna’s parents’ house, she continued to be surprised at herself for having shared so deeply with Ella Mae Zook. It was all so surreal, similar to last night at the cabin with Michael. And to think he had not only enjoyed her fiddling there but also seemed transfixed by the classical music she’d played in the meadow, too. For a country boy raised in such a cloistered setting, Michael certainly seemed to appreciate the classics!

  Back inside the house, Amelia saw a short note on the kitchen table, near a large platter of sliced sweet bread covered with clear wrap. Dear Amelia, please help yourself. There’s ice-cold homemade meadow tea in the fridge, if you like. We’ll return soon—Joanna.

  Amelia took the note and her fiddle case with her and hurried to her haven of a guest room, closing the door. She sat on the bed, contemplating the encounter with the Wise Woman and the effect the sweet little woman had had on her. She thought then of her mother, recalling again the early days of her father’s diagnosis. Almost immediately Mom had begun to throw herself into her writing—making a snug but lovely studio in the basement. There, she’d typed out her heartache, or so Amelia presumed.

  Did her father know what had caused her mother to start writing? Surely it had been his tenuous future—his inability to maintain his shining and lucrative career—that had sent Mom into an emotional tailspin. She needed an escape, of sorts.

  Amelia shook off the thoughts and reminded herself of this tranquil location. There was abundant sunshine here in Hickory Hollow—inside and outside. Was it the Amish way, or the beautiful things Ella Mae had said about the heavenly Father that showered light and truth into Amelia’s heart?

  She decided to finish working on several more passages from the Tchaikovsky concerto, since the house was empty and would likely be until milking time rolled around. In her tenderhearted state, Amelia knew she could pour the angst of her life into the music . . . just as her father had taught her to do.

  Michael’s mother lifted one eyebrow as she took stock of Daed’s injury. “He’ll shuffle round like that till his foot heals eventually,” Mamm told Michael. “No doctor’s going to touch that ankle of his. Ain’t so, Paul?”

  Not wanting to side with either parent, Michael rose from his spot at the table and followed his father, who was limping—and wincing, surely!—back to the barn. “Daed!” he called after him, knowing there was not much that could slow down such an adamant, mulish man.

  “I’ll be fine—allrecht, ya hear?” Daed stated a bit too loudly, not even turning his head. “Work’s a-waitin’!”

  Four more farmers had come to assist after hearing the tolling bell. Michael, too, was able and ready to work, wanting to be a support to his father, as well as his mother. But not even Mamm could keep Daed off his feet for long. No, Daed had insisted she wrap his foot and ankle up real tight in an Ace bandage, then push the foot into his old bedroom slipper, of all things. That done, he asked for his walking stick to help him shamble out to the porch for a time. And there he’d sat for the last hour, shooing everyone away who had anything to suggest—because they cared, thought Michael. But his father mistook it for folk telling him what to do. And he’d have none of that!

  Concerned, Michael trailed after him to the harness shop in the barn, aware of his father’s grunts of pain, cringing every time Daed placed his wounded foot in front of the other.

  While Michael hauled harness parts to the counter to be repaired or oiled, he thought of Amelia and her violin playing in Nate’s pasture. Goodness, but her music had seeped clear down into his soul. Sitting out there on the soft, grassy ground and watching her, her music—and her remarkable beauty—had touched him. And for just a moment, he wished Amelia might stay around in Hickory Hollow for longer than a weekend.

  A brown barn swallow swooped down and startled him, almost knocking his straw hat off his head. “Jah, that woke me up—all for the better,” he whispered, not sure what on earth had gotten into him. “Lecherich—ridiculous!”

  “You talkin’ to yourself again, son?”

  “Guess I was, jah.” Michael picked up yet another harness, giving the strap a harder tug than was necessary.

  If Daed only knew!

  Amelia concentrated on the most demanding section of the concerto as she walked back and forth in the upstairs hallway. She lost herself in the music, still playing as she headed down the steps. Outdoors, she walked toward the quaint potting shed, enjoying the arrangement of color in Rhoda Kurtz’s flower beds even as she continued to play. An interesting rock garden filled nicely with sedum and thyme and the vibrant purple blooms of asters caught her attention near the narrow cobblestone walkway leading around the side of the house to the front lawn. The picturesque path led to an old wooden bench, where clay pots of varying sizes displayed velvety green mosses—one looked exactly like a large pincushion. She stopped playing, taking in the beauty.

  Quite unexpectedly, Amelia heard voices on the opposite side of the house. Joanna and her parents . . . home so soon?

  She held her breath as the voices, especially Rhoda’s, grew louder. Then, if she wasn’t mistaken, Joanna was talking now, more calmly.

  “It won’t matter none, honest it won’t,” Joanna was insisting.

  “You didn’t think ’bout what could happen, now, did ya?” Rhoda said, her voice fading as she headed inside the house.

  What won’t matter? Amelia crept farther down the cobblestone walkway, her violin tucked under her arm. She stared at the weather-worn bench, once again admiring the artful collection of pots set there.

  Suddenly, from overhead, Joanna called to her. “Psst. Amelia!” It was a whisper at first, then slightly louder. “Amelia . . . up here!”

  She raised her head and saw Joanna standing at the window, her white head covering shaped like a heart. “Hullo,” Joanna said softly. “Can you come upstairs for a bit?”

  “What’s going on?”

  Joanna leaned closer to the screen. “Mamma’s a little upset.” She turned her head briefly before glancing back. “She heard you playin’.”

  “I guess I lost track of time.” Amelia explained that she had been watching for them to return and was sorry. “It’s my fault for causing this trouble.”

  I’ve already blown it, she thought. Should I just pack up and leave?

  “Mamma will be all right if she doesn’t hear any more playin’,” Joanna tried to reassure her.

  “Well, I really do have to practice,” Amelia replied.

  Joanna nodded. “Just not so near the house, jah?”

  Amelia felt bad for her friend, who was stuck in the middle. “Maybe I’ll go into town for a while and check my email—get in touch with a few people,” she told her. “Or will my driving create more problems?”

&n
bsp; “No. That’s all right. I’ll see you later, when you return.”

  Joanna hadn’t invited her to stay for supper.

  “I’m really very sorry. I thought—”

  “No need to fret,” Joanna said quickly, but Amelia wasn’t so sure she meant it.

  She really did need to get online—simply renting time on a computer in town was easy enough. But as Amelia drove leisurely up Hickory Lane, she considered asking Michael to borrow his laptop instead.

  When Amelia pulled off the road at the entrance to the Hostetlers’ farm, there were a number of gray carriages parked in the side yard, lined up in straight rows. Did all of these people show up to help?

  The community response impressed her. She switched off the ignition and made her way up the driveway in search of Michael, not wanting to call attention to herself. But how could she not, dressed as she was?

  Near an old well pump, she noticed a man who looked several years older than Michael. She quickly explained that she was a friend of Michael’s and wondered where she might find him.

  The man introduced himself as Michael’s oldest brother, Roy. “I s’pect he’s in the barn somewheres,” he said with a motion of his head in that direction.

  For a split second, Amelia almost said Denki. The impulse made her smile, then cringe. Was she so enamored with the Plain life that she actually wanted to fit in here?

  Do I crave a place to belong?

  ———

  Lillianne saw Amelia standing out in the lane, looking quite befuddled . . . even lost. Not giving it a second thought, she picked up her long skirt and hurried outdoors. “Did ya hear the bell earlier?” she asked.

  “I did,” Amelia replied, looking worried. “Is there anything I can do . . . this late?”

  “Ach no. The crisis is past, so not to worry, jah?” Lillianne smiled down into her pretty face. “And if it’s Michael you’re after, he’s workin’ in the harness shop with his father.” She mentioned how busy Paul was with orders this week, a pained expression on her face. “And then of all things, if this accident didn’t happen.”

  “How bad is it?”

  “Oh, you know, plenty-a folk have fallen through a hay hole. A dangerous thing, to be sure. We can be thankful his injury wasn’t worse. Paul must’ve had something on his mind and just wasn’t lookin’.” Lillianne could see that Amelia was sincere in wanting to help—and in her kindly inquiry, too. She wasn’t just making small talk, like some fancy folk who stopped to purchase her homemade root beer or strawberry jam, hoping to snoop. “Paul’s had mishaps out in the field and whatnot more times than I can count. Some say he’s accident-prone.”

  “Well, I don’t want to bother Michael if he’s busy.”

  “I’m sure he can step away for a minute,” Lillianne said. “He’s s’posed to be on vacation. But maybe you know that already, ain’t?”

  Amelia gave her a cordial smile. Apparently she did know.

  Oh, for the life of her, Lillianne would like to know how her son had gotten acquainted with this worldly Englischer—all that eye makeup and the artificial blush on her cheeks. At the same time, there was something ever so sweet about her, though. Put a cape dress and apron on her, and how would that be?

  Shaking away such folly, Lillianne offered Amelia something cold to drink.

  “You know what—I’ll take a rain check. I need to run an errand in town,” Amelia declined politely.

  Lillianne hardly knew how to act around her. “I’ll tell Michael you stopped by,” she said right quick.

  “Thanks very much.”

  She glanced at Amelia’s car parked near the mailbox. “Do ya know how to get where you’re goin’?”

  “I think so” was the reply.

  “All right, then. Be careful out on the highway, jah?”

  Amelia’s face lit up. Perhaps she appreciated that Lillianne was trying to meet her halfway. Yet whatever Michael’s fancy friend was thinking, she waved gracefully before heading up Hickory Lane.

  Chapter 20

  Amelia went around the car to get in, still having mixed emotions about Rhoda’s negative response to overhearing her practice. Nevertheless, Amelia knew she only had herself to blame. After all, Joanna had made it clear where she could and could not play. Regardless, Amelia felt perplexed at being locked in by an antiquated set of rules. Rules that squelch creativity and individuality. “Unbelievable,” she muttered. “What would I do without music of all kinds?”

  She turned the key in the ignition and checked her blind spot. Then, slowly, she moved onto Hickory Lane.

  “Schtoppe—halt!” Michael leaped out in front of the car, his arms held high, his hat in his hand.

  She slammed on the brakes, a rush of blood pounding in her head.

  Michael grinned and hurried around the car to her. “Hope I didn’t frighten you.”

  “You appeared out of nowhere!”

  His eyes softened. “Sorry, I hoped you weren’t leavin’ without saying good-bye.” He leaned his tan arms on her open window, still holding his hat. “You aren’t, are ya?”

  “I just stopped by to see if I could borrow your laptop, but your mother said you were busy. I didn’t want to bother you.”

  “No bother at all,” he said, smiling into her eyes. “Wait right here.” With that, he ran back up the lane to the house.

  She really hadn’t wanted to put him out. Sitting there waiting, she contemplated Michael’s sticky situation. With his father’s injury, he was needed more than ever, wasn’t he? Wouldn’t Michael say so—and wouldn’t his father, too? It seemed that one thing kept leading to the next for Michael, propelling him deeper into the very life he had been trying to leave behind. She shivered at the thought—and yet what did her own future look like?

  At least he tried to leave. . . .

  Up ahead, Amelia watched an Amish farmer hauling hay down the middle of the road, his wide wagon weaving and creaking as it came this way. She was glad she’d pulled so far off the road.

  Then she saw the youthful farmer nod his head at her, his straw hat firmly planted on his head. Like Michael and many Amish here, he was quite blond and blue-eyed. No mistaking his Swiss heritage.

  Surveying the copious cornfields around her, Amelia realized that this time yesterday, she had been tuning her fiddle backstage at the Mann Center for the Performing Arts . . . waiting for her gig to start. And with the same instrument Joanna’s mother had reviled a short while ago.

  How could a fiddle be so wonderfully appealing to English audiences and yet completely objectionable to the people of Hickory Hollow? Except for Michael and the Wise Woman, she thought. She recalled the day her father had offered her the beloved instrument. The atypical gesture and his rather protective comments were nearly like a christening over the transfer. She’d known at the time that it wasn’t his best violin, but it had been his favorite—the violin he had played in college and during his first professional performances. Reverentially, she had taken it up in her hands, propped it beneath her chin, and in honor of her father’s beautiful gift, played her arpeggios and scales up and down the taut strings, faster that day and with more clarity than any day before.

  Her father’s deep-set eyes had shone with joy. And the two of them stood smiling at each other, alone there in the music studio. “There are no shortcuts to any place worth going,” he’d emphasized, quoting one of his favorite Beverly Sills lines.

  Only eleven at the time, Amelia had fought back tears. She’d loved that glimpse into his more sentimental side.

  How I wish he’d open up again, just like that, she thought wistfully.

  Amelia took her time driving through the Village of Intercourse, past the quaint strip of historic buildings on the south side of the street, and the massive, modern Kitchen Kettle Village on the north.

  She quickly headed west toward Bird-in-Hand and located a coffee shop. There, she ordered an iced white chocolate mocha while she waited for the computer to boot up.

  Funny,
she thought, I’ve scarcely missed my cell phone.

  She waited a few minutes before taking the first sip. So much was hanging in the balance back home that she hated even to think of checking her email or other online accounts. Before she did, though, she perused the reviews for Tim McGraw’s concert, curious to see if either she or the Bittersweet Band had been given a mention in the Philadelphia Inquirer. Sure enough: Move over, national fiddle champion . . . Amy Lee hits the Philly stage!

  Amelia winced at the disparaging line—she was not in favor of putting down someone else, no matter the context. She closed the site and went to check her email, then blinked, shocked, when she saw her packed inbox. There were multiple emails from her agent, as well as from Byron.

  She opened the first one from Stoney, which proved to be an attachment showing a fabulous mock-up for a promotional poster for her European tour. Just seeing it, even without a comment from her shrewd agent, put more pressure on her. Marketing bucks were already being thrown at something she hadn’t formally agreed to as of yet. Everyone was operating on the premise that things were on the same track as last year and the year before that. Amelia had not taken her musical passion to Europe, however, and Stoney and her father believed it was long overdue.

  There were other emails from Stoney, as well, but she couldn’t bring herself to open them. I need your signature, Amelia! read one subject line.

  The old tension returned, more fiercely than before. She was actually grinding her teeth as she scrolled up to click instead on Byron’s first email, sent earlier this morning, before they’d talked. I hoped you would give me a call once you were home, Amelia. I’m still trying to understand everything you told me yesterday—it’s going to take a while. Wish we could have been together on our anniversary. With love, Byron.

  “Love?” she whispered.