Fiddler, The

by Beverly Lewis

  Mom continued. “We have a doctor’s appointment tomorrow, and we’ll see what the doctor thinks—we can’t risk his getting pneumonia.”

  Her father had suffered that several times since the Parkinson’s diagnosis years ago. “He does look a bit pale.”

  Mom agreed, frowning. “He’s tired a lot lately, so anything you can do to help alleviate stress would be welcome.”

  She sensed Mom’s protective attitude toward Dad, but the implication was also there for Amelia to be more sensitive, which struck her hard. No matter how she’d felt about the tour, or her musical future—her life—while in the tranquil bubble of the Amish community, all of that had just flown out the window. This was reality, and her father’s fragile state required that she continue on with the plan, if for no other reason than to honor him.

  “Between you and me, Mom, I’d really hoped to have a say in this tour. That’s all.”

  “Well, of course you will.”

  “No . . . I mean about going at all.”

  Mom looked puzzled. “Well, honey, why wouldn’t you want to?”

  Amelia looked away, tears threatening to spill over. Unable to speak, she felt all too aware of her parents’ expectations, the walls closing in . . . again.

  Her mother inched forward, then stopped. “You’ll be well looked after, Amelia. All of your needs taken care of . . . you know that.”

  She sniffed softly. “I’m thinking of getting off the fast track. I have other goals, too.” Amelia shook her head. “No one seems to care what I want.”

  “But performing is your thing. It’s what you do so well.”

  “Right, but I want some balance in my life. I’m interested in community, in being a part of something. I’d also like to help raise awareness for the arts—for instance, maybe speak at libraries and public schools . . . share my love of music in general.”

  “Those things are wonderful,” her mother said, offering a smile. “Is that everything you long for?”

  “I want it all, of course—a good husband, my own family.” Amelia hugged herself. “Star status is meaningless without a real life.” I’m losing it, she thought as the tears rolled down her cheeks.

  “Amelia, honey, are you okay?”

  She looked at her mother’s sweet face and swallowed hard. “I’m sorry, Mom. It’s just that—” Her voice broke, and she left the thought unfinished.

  “I didn’t know you felt this way, Amelia. It’s quite a surprise.”

  “Well, it hardly matters now. The bookings for Europe are practically set in stone.”

  Mom nodded. “Your father’s counting on you to pull off this tour—brilliantly, as always.”

  “Most definitely.”

  “But if you still feel this way after you’re home—”

  “Well, I have for a few years.”

  Mom’s expression was more serious now. “Then I’ll do what I can to lay the groundwork with your father. When you return, we’ll sit down and discuss it as a family.”

  “I’d love that, but what will Dad say?”

  “Amelia, he’s convinced you’re excited about touring. So if you haven’t told him otherwise, how would he even know?”

  Amelia was heartened but wouldn’t hold her breath. “I really don’t want to hurt or disappoint him.”

  “I’ll figure out something. In the meantime, you enjoy this opportunity in Europe—play from your very heart. Fulfill everything you’ve worked for, and when you come back, we’ll talk.”

  An enormous burden began to lift. Amelia wiped her eyes again, wishing for a box of tissues.

  “Mom?”

  “Yes, honey.”

  “Thanks.”

  Her mother reached to embrace her. “No worries?”

  Amelia shook her head and excused herself, walking back to say good-bye to her father. “I’m sorry about walking away from you earlier, Dad,” she said, reaching for his hand. He gave it a gentle squeeze, and she continued. “This is going to be the best tour ever. I’m totally focused on the two concertos I’m planning . . . and there’ll be no more fiddling stints in my near future. Okay?”

  He suddenly looked frail, his head trembling as he slowly nodded. “Thanks, Amelia.”

  “We’ll talk soon, okay? Take care of yourself.” She meant every word.

  Amelia returned to the family room, where her mother stood waiting, dark eyes glistening. “Call me if you need anything, Mom,” she said.

  “We’re glad you’re home. Come over for dinner sometime, all right?” Mom smiled.

  Reaching for the door, Amelia let herself out and strode down the stone walkway to her car, then glanced back to see her mother standing at the living room window. Please work your magic with Dad! she thought and waved.

  Chapter 32

  Instead of going straight home, Amelia headed to the wireless store and purchased a new cell phone. By the time she’d set it up, she was starving. She texted Byron to ask if she could meet him somewhere for a bite to eat. Within seconds, he texted back—he was away at a concert.

  When can we talk? she asked.

  He waited momentarily, then replied: I’ll give you a call on the drive to the hotel, OK?

  Amelia stopped to pick up a few groceries and headed home to make a quick supper for herself. Tired and very hungry, she was anxious to relax over a nice hot meal . . . and then put in some practice time. After a day of sitting behind the wheel—and the difficult discussion with her parents—the thought of playing her warm-ups and the Tchaikovsky concerto made her feel revitalized.

  “Wonderful-gut,” she said, trying on the words. But they fell flat as Amelia considered her father’s delicate health. Even a cold could pose problems for him. She steamed a medley of vegetables and tossed a fresh salad while waiting for salmon to grill out on the deck. Maybe she should have taken the groceries over to her parents’ to cook for all of them instead.

  But music was her comfort, and she needed to be alone with it tonight. The Wise Woman had counseled her to make music as if it were a divine calling, Amelia remembered suddenly. “Play your fiddle for the Good Lord above.” And so she did just that.

  That night, Byron phoned Amelia as promised. Despite the awkwardness between them last Thursday, their conversation was initially pleasant, filled with casual niceties. But when Amelia suggested their lives were no longer moving in the same direction, he fell silent.

  “There’s no sense pretending any longer that our ‘plan’ is even workable,” she ventured.

  “What’s different, Amelia? I haven’t changed.”

  “No, you haven’t,” she admitted. “It’s simply not something I want anymore, Byron.”

  “Does this have anything to do with your fiddling performance last week?” he asked.

  She thought for a moment. “I don’t honestly think so. I probably would have reached this point even without the fiddling gigs. I’m just not sure I’m wired for the whole concert diva experience. A quieter, more settled life really appeals to me.”

  He sighed. “Why haven’t you ever told me this? All the times we’ve talked—you never hinted you weren’t happy.”

  Amelia felt her throat tighten—she was sorry to have misled him in this way, but in truth, she’d been misleading herself, as well. Too fearful to say what was on my heart . . . “I’m sorry, Byron,” she whispered. “But we haven’t connected for a very long time,” she added gently. “You know it, and I do, too.”

  In the end, she was greatly relieved he didn’t press for a drawn-out discussion, making things more difficult. Although this surely had been a shock, Byron seemed to accept what she had to say, then politely wished her well. “You’re a very talented violinist, Amelia. Don’t ever forget that.”

  “Thanks, Byron . . . you don’t have to say—”

  “I truly hope we’ll remain at least friendly,” he said quickly.

  She agreed. “I wish you well, too.”

  The following evening, Amelia met with Stoney to sign the European
tour contract over a delicious dinner. Later, when she returned home, she checked her online fan page, scanning through the countless comments since her publicist had last posted. There were numerous questions about her recordings with EMI Classics: Was she going to feature either the Brahms or the Mendelssohn next? Wasn’t it time for another U.S. tour? Where was she appearing next?

  So many postings, so little time. Amelia clicked off and went to her writing desk, one she rarely used. Who wrote anything longhand anymore? Well, Joanna Kurtz did . . . and if it worked for her Amish friend, then so be it.

  Sitting down, Amelia found some stationery in the narrow drawer and began to write a letter.

  Dear Joanna,

  I’ve been reminiscing about my visit to beautiful Hickory Hollow. I’m surprised by how much I already miss it!

  I am so thankful for the opportunity I had to get to know you, and for your kind hospitality. Please greet your parents for me, and thank them, as well. It was a true joy to share a small part of your life, if only briefly.

  Your English friend,

  Amelia Devries

  P.S. In October, I will begin touring Europe for a little over two months, playing in many different cities. I thought it might be fun if I sent you postcards from my travels. What do you think?

  I’ll look forward to hearing from you!

  Tired and ready to soak, Amelia ran the water for a bubble bath in her jetted tub. The pain in her shoulders and neck was unrelenting tonight, partly from yesterday’s long drive, and partly because she had a tendency to internalize stress. Acquiescing to her father’s wishes had taken its toll on her. Yet she was also thankful there was an unexpected thread of hope that she might not find herself in this predicament again—not if her mother was able to mentally prepare the way with her dad. Won’t that be a feat!

  While relaxing in the bubble-filled tub, votive candles lit, Amelia let her mind wander, welcoming the quaint image of the lantern in Joanna’s hand, just Sunday night. The short interval spent in Hickory Hollow already seemed nearly a world away now that Amelia was home. She didn’t want to forget any part of it—Michael in particular. His laughing blue eyes and handsome smile filled her memory. But it wasn’t meant to be—just as he’d described his relationship with his former fiancée. Yet Amelia couldn’t help feeling sad as she recognized that, wonderful as he was, Michael Hostetler would never be more than a casual friend.

  Michael had seen Mamm wrapping up some clothes for mailing earlier this week. She’d acted downright sheepish about it . . . and later, when she headed off to mail it, she looked about her almost furtively, as if she was up to some mischief. For that reason, Michael guessed the package contained the fancy skirt and blouse Amelia had loaned to Elizabeth.

  Now Thursday night was closing in around them, and all the while Elizabeth sat outside in her English boyfriend’s car. The very man who’d frightened them in Harrisburg was parked right outside in Daed’s lane!

  Michael was miserably certain Lizzie was not going to stay put in Hickory Hollow. She had not given God anything more than bits and pieces of her life, not her whole self as was required to please Him. Apart from a true miracle, they would lose his dear niece.

  Marching to the window, Michael peered out, wishing there were something more he could do. He despised this feeling of helplessness when he wanted to storm out there and demand that Lizzie’s boyfriend be gone! But Lizzie must make her own decisions.

  He wondered what Amelia would do about Lizzie if she were standing here beside him. Would she be able to make his niece see reason? Michael felt sure she’d have a better chance than he would. He realized anew that he should have made an effort to do something Monday morning. Not just let Amelia leave!

  Joanna had let it slip that she was planning to write to Amelia. He’d asked her for Amelia’s address, making her promise not to say a word. Oh, the look Joanna had given him!

  Michael chuckled at the remembrance. If he could do it over, he would have simply exchanged email addresses prior to Amelia’s leaving. How much easier—and more private—that would have been!

  After evening Bible reading and prayers with the family, he slipped off to his room to write the first letter he’d written in a good while. Amelia wouldn’t think anything of it, of course, once she realized he was writing to update her on what was happening with Elizabeth. The perfect approach to get his foot back in the door.

  The days since Amelia’s return home had been filled with hours of rehearsing and updates from Stoney and the tour manager. There were meetings with her wardrobe assistant, Dee Walker, too, as they discussed which of her many gowns to take along, as well as shoes and numerous accessories. Amelia’s image must be as polished and perfect as her playing.

  Apart from the arrival of a package containing the outfit Amelia had loaned to Elizabeth, her visit to Amish country began to seem nearly unbelievable. It was as if Michael and Joanna and the Wise Woman—the whole delightful community of Plain People—were merely a figment of an overactive imagination.

  The kind of people who might only exist in Joanna’s stories, thought Amelia.

  And while real life encompassed her every attention, the tendrils reaching back to Lancaster County tugged on her less with each passing day. Until one afternoon, when an unexpected letter arrived in Amelia’s mailbox . . . from Michael.

  Chapter 33

  Amelia was pleased to receive Michael’s letter and found a cozy spot on her favorite chair in the music studio to read it.

  Dear Amelia,

  You must be surprised to hear from me! Joanna shared your address with me and promised to keep my request quiet. It would surely cause a stir in the community if word got out I was writing “the fancy fiddler.”

  I really didn’t want to share sad news, but Elizabeth has returned to Harrisburg with her friends there, although she says she wants to keep in touch with her family. Between you and me, she surely seems lost in many ways. I can understand the temptations of the world, but I don’t know why she’s chosen to walk away from God, too. She’s giving even her “wayward” uncle cause for concern. Will you keep her in your prayers?

  “Definitely,” Amelia whispered, responding aloud to Michael’s plea.

  She read further and realized much of the letter was regarding his niece’s decision to leave the People. Amelia wondered how Michael’s family must be coping . . . and Michael, too. He feels so responsible.

  Despite all of that, she was delighted he had taken time to update her and to make this surprising attempt to continue their friendship.

  Amelia’s tour launched in early October with a spectacular first night at Carnegie Hall in New York City, followed by an overnight flight to London. She slept soundly, having given every ounce of her energy to the Tchaikovsky masterpiece. Stoney deemed the performance “a sparkling rendition—nothing less than genius.”

  She awoke over England to bright sunlight, feeling surprisingly well rested and energized about the tour. She relived last night’s thrilling concert—the world of the stage, playing her very best for an admiring audience. She’d taken repeated bows before the tuxedoed music director gracefully kissed her hand. Truly, it was nothing like the quiet life she’d known in Hickory Hollow.

  Amelia was thankful to both Joanna and Michael for staying in touch with her. Michael’s recent promise to fill her in on Elizabeth had meant frequent emails as his niece came and went, apparently still undecided about her future, as was Michael—or so it seemed. He no longer mentioned his hope of going English, and Amelia wondered if Elizabeth’s sporadic behavior had made him rethink his own issues.

  After landing at London’s Heathrow Airport, Amelia phoned her father. This being the first time he hadn’t felt well enough to accompany her, she missed him. Then she and her traveling companions checked into the Milestone Hotel Kensington, a five-star boutique hotel overlooking Kensington Palace and Gardens. Though accustomed to doing for herself, Amelia didn’t mind the prospect of pampering by the twent
y-four-hour butler service. The dreamy sophistication of her well-appointed suite was wonderful, as well.

  But her favorite activity of that first day in London was the late-morning tour of Buckingham Palace, where she was honored with a brief private audience with Queen Elizabeth.

  Later, the conductor of the London Symphony Orchestra met Amelia and Stoney for an exquisite lunch in an intimate conservatory filled with magnificent foliage and fragrant exotic flowers of every hue.

  That evening Amelia performed the Brahms concerto in the Royal Albert Hall to a capacity crowd. And later that week, the Tchaikovsky concerto at the Barbican Centre, the largest performing arts center in all of Europe.

  There were also matinee recitals and several evening concerts with the Philharmonia Orchestra at the Royal Festival Hall, located on London’s South Bank, where art galleries, upscale restaurants and shops, and even a poetry library caught Amelia’s attention during her free daytime hours. She purchased a book of classic poems by Elizabeth Barrett Browning and stocked up on postcards of Buckingham Palace and Tower Bridge to send to Joanna.

  Yet delightful as her time in Europe was proving to be, each night when she returned to her quiet suite, Amelia removed the hairpins from her French twist and played country fiddle tunes to relax, holding on to the memory of one incredible evening in a Welsh Mountain cabin, so far away.

  Michael worked in the field with his brothers from dawn till the noon meal, digging up the rest of the potatoes for market. He was itching to send another email to Amelia, telling her of Elizabeth’s recent decision to return to Hickory Hollow—this time for good. She’d even told him privately that she hoped to join church next year, once she’d taken the required baptismal classes. He, however, had not bowed his knee in baptism this September . . . but he was mighty sure Amelia wouldn’t inquire about that.