Fiddler, The

by Beverly Lewis

  “I’d mind very much, young man.” The gruff man suddenly introduced himself as Amelia’s agent, Stoney Warren, then stepped outside, closing the door behind him. “I won’t have anything—or anyone—jeopardizing my client’s musical career.”

  The effortless sound of Amelia’s violin continued in the background. Michael couldn’t stand the feeling of being so close to her, yet being denied even a few minutes to speak with her. “I assure ya, I’m not here to make trouble.” He paused. “I’m certain she’d want to know I’m here.”

  Even to his own ears, the words sounded presumptuous. And Stoney ignored his response.

  “A talent like Amelia’s is rare and should not be cast aside for frivolous things.” His expression was stern. “It’s my job to help her stay on task.” Stoney’s forehead knitted into a deep frown. “I simply refuse anyone to see her who might contribute to her reluctance to concertize. She hasn’t been the same since her time in Amish country. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?” He gave Michael a keen look.

  “I don’t intend to interfere,” Michael replied.

  “Of course not,” Stoney shot back. “And if you’re the good friend you seem to indicate, you’ll understand her need to avoid all distractions. . . .”

  “Jah,” Michael said, momentarily forgetting he was on English turf. He felt very conflicted. As much as he wanted to see Amelia again, to talk with her and reconnect in person, Michael took Stoney’s words to heart and realized the older man was probably right. What did I hope to accomplish here, anyway? he thought. Someone like Amelia wouldn’t be content with a mere draftsman or a farmhand, would she? To keep pursuing her, even by email, might well be interfering with God’s calling for Amelia. No, Michael wouldn’t think of getting in the way of a “divine appointment,” as Ella Mae sometimes referred to God’s will for a person!

  “I apologize for bothering you . . . and Amelia.” He turned to leave, torn between what his heart wanted and what he believed was best for his friend.

  “I appreciate your understanding,” Stoney said to him. But embedded in Stoney’s tone was the unspoken warning: And stay away!

  ———

  Amelia paused in her practice, tired of the intense scale work and eager to dive into the actual music. She carefully placed her violin and bow on a nearby chair and headed for the small refrigerator in the studio bar across the room. Perusing the options of soda, juices, and bottled water, she chose a can of pure apple juice. Not ready to encounter Stoney again this afternoon, she ambled to the window and peered out. A car that looked very much like Michael’s was just pulling away from the curb. She leaned closer, second-guessing herself.

  Why would an Amish guy come unannounced all the way from Pennsylvania just to see her? She shrugged off the ridiculous notion and stepped away from the window. Was it wishful thinking, perhaps?

  But . . . what if it was Michael?

  Maybe Amelia had been practicing too long . . . she was tired and jet-lagged. Why else would she have such a farfetched notion? Or was it because she secretly longed to see Michael again?

  Chapter 36

  The next evening, when Amelia arrived at her parents’, Mom greeted her warmly, dressed to the nines and wearing her signature pearls. “It’s so good to see you, honey.” Mom smelled of lavender as she reached for Amelia’s hand, and they walked together into the dining room, decorated with garland and tiny white lights placed high across the cornice of the hutch. The very best white table linens and delicate china had been laid, and there were lighted candles on either side of an elegant poinsettia centerpiece. “I decided to have one of your favorite entrées for dinner,” Mom said, smiling.

  “Let me guess.” Amelia felt like she was coming home in more ways than one. “Mustard-marinated Alaskan salmon?” Her mouth watered at the thought.

  “How does that sound, dear?”

  “Really wonderful.” The entrée was one Mom had made often during the years.

  “How’s Dad feeling today?” asked Amelia, glancing about in search of him.

  “He’s well enough to brush on the marinade.” Mom winked at her. “You know your father—he’s a fighter, that man.”

  Amelia went with her mother to the kitchen and saw Dad sitting at the center island, wearing his red woolen sweater, very deliberately moving the brush over each fillet, his mouth open slightly. “Hi, Dad.” She leaned down and gently embraced him. “I missed you.”

  Despite Amelia’s encouraging him to stay put, he insisted on standing to greet her. In the midst of the embrace, she motioned for her mother to join them. “Group hug,” she said, relishing the special moment. This time together was like an early Christmas gift, and she recognized this was not the night to share her hopes and wishes for her career . . . not the way she felt so completely encircled by her parents’ love. She would not for the world alter the course of what promised to be a most delightful evening.

  Michael was immediately aware of the smell of oil mixed with leather when he opened the door to his father’s harness shop a few days after his Columbus trip. He welcomed the familiar whiff, then within minutes, quickly forgot just how strong the odor really was.

  Today, he helped haul the leather to the long measuring table, where he smoothed it out. Lately Michael had been juggling three jobs—the work assisting his father at a busy time of year, a few predawn hours at Nate Kurtz’s dairy farm, as well as his own drafting projects in town.

  Presently, he and his father laid out the pattern to mark the leather. They would cut it and, eventually, sew up the harnesses. Bishop John had requested a matched set for his two driving horses, and Daed had taken extra time—far longer than necessary, according to Michael’s thinking—to make sure the craftsmanship was exceptional. “John Beiler being our man of God, and all,” Daed had said.

  Along about midmorning, around the time Daed liked to have Michael run in and get a thermos of freshly brewed hot coffee, Ephraim Yoder, owner of the old General Store, came in the door with a rush order to have one of his older harnesses inspected and restitched. “Just ain’t safe to use anymore,” Ephraim said, his face smudged with dirt.

  “We’ll have a look-see.” Daed went to his worn wooden desk in the corner to check his calendar. He straightened and pulled on his beard. “You might have to wait a couple of days—can ya manage till then? Michael and I are backed up some.”

  “Well, I’ll do what I can to get by, jah,” Ephraim said. “I see your ankle’s healed,” he added.

  “Ach, ’twas nothin’.” Daed shrugged.

  “Ain’t what I heard.” Ephraim glanced at Michael. “I daresay you oughta think about markin’ those hay holes, Paul.”

  Michael caught himself nodding in agreement but wouldn’t say how severe the pain had been for his father for weeks on end following the accident. Mamm had even wondered, for a time, if Daed might have broken more than his ankle. “Could be a hairline fracture somewhere,” she’d kept saying. But Daed would not hear of having X rays or seeking any professional medical input whatsoever, which didn’t surprise anyone.

  “So you’re as gut as new, then?” Ephraim smiled shrewdly.

  “I’m up and walkin’ round, and that’s what matters,” Daed replied, shooing him along. “Check back in a couple of days, won’t ya?”

  “Denki.” With that, Ephraim headed for the door, nodding his head at Michael.

  Michael followed him out the door to get the hot coffee from the house, hurrying across the backyard, his breath visible in the brisk air. It wouldn’t be long before the first snow of the season, and he could hardly wait to get their old sleigh out and running again. Christmas Day was so close now, and he realized he hadn’t sent Amelia a card.

  Will she wonder why I disappeared from her life? he thought as he made his way into Mamm’s warm kitchen.

  After several hours of vigorous practice that evening, Amelia curled up on her sofa with her laptop. Eagerly, she checked her email and saw that her webma
ster had forwarded quite a few from her web site. And there were a handful from out-of-state relatives, as well. But she scanned the list again and saw nothing at all from Michael.

  Nothing in three days . . .

  Sighing, she stared out the window and watched the clouds drift slowly across the azure sky as daylight faded. Was it her imagination, or had Michael been pulling away from her in their last email exchange? She pondered it further and knew it was true, feeling saddened. But she had to respect his decision—he must have chosen to salvage his life as an Amishman after all. I have no claim on him, Amelia thought, even though the realization hurt.

  She recalled Michael’s thoughtful post on her fan page during her tour and tried to picture him enjoying a Christmas dinner seated around Lillianne’s table with his extended family. It wouldn’t be long until Joanna’s large family would be doing the same, down Hickory Lane. Ella Mae Zook would most definitely be included with her daughter Mattie and her husband and children and grandchildren. No widow would be left alone on such a day. The family embraces each person, married or not, young or old, thought Amelia. A place of belonging . . .

  “Will I ever hear from Michael again?” she whispered. She picked up her violin and bow. Slowly, Amelia began to play an impromptu medley, a variation on “O Come, All Ye Faithful”. . . turning once again to music to ward off her melancholy.

  Chapter 37

  The day before Christmas Eve, Amelia received an email from Stoney saying that Nicola Hannevold was to be featured on the January cover of The Strad. Instead of taking the time to text back, Amelia called him. “Thanks for letting me know, Stoney. I’m happy for Nicola.” She smiled into the phone. “She must be recuperating quickly.”

  “Actually, I have a motive for mentioning this,” he said.

  “Why am I not surprised?”

  “You know me too well, my dear.” He paused. “I’d still like South America to be your next big stop on the map, Amelia. I can get you booked pronto.”

  “I thought we had an understanding.”

  “Right. You want to do some community work, spend time going around to public schools . . . take a history class. Sure, I remember.” He paused. “Eight months or so will give you plenty of time for that, as well as keep up your repertoire.”

  “And I’m recording one more CD, too,” she said. “Don’t forget.”

  “Only one? Uh, your entire life lies ahead of you, kiddo. You’re still very young.”

  “Well, time is a precious commodity . . . one just never knows.” She was thinking of her father’s precarious health.

  “You’re not sick, are you?”

  “I’m fine, Stoney. I’m merely talking about doing other things with my music.”

  He breathed audibly. “I don’t like the sound of this.”

  She deliberated. Should she tell him about her upcoming audition—the trip to Philadelphia? After all, he hadn’t exactly reacted well to the news that she’d sent in her résumé.

  “Don’t go silent, Amelia . . . makes me nervous.”

  “I’m thinking,” she said.

  He laughed. “That’s my job.”

  “Seriously, I’ve decided to take a fork in the road.”

  Now he was silent.

  She began to tell him about the Wise Woman, how she’d urged Amelia to pray about her music and about her future.

  “Pray all you want—terrific. But how does that figure into your detour?” He sounded tense, and she half expected him to scoff. “Think about it, Amelia. Be logical. Does God care about what musical choices you make?”

  She didn’t want to get into a theological debate. “I believe He does, yes.”

  “Have you been hanging around that country band again?”

  “Not yet, but I hope to . . . and very soon.”

  “Oh, so that’s the fork?”

  “Actually, it’s something else. And I’ll let you know when or if it happens.”

  He sighed again. “You’re going to get the best of me yet.”

  “Listen,” she said. “I don’t believe we’re chosen to simply receive gifts, whether musical talent or something else. The most profound ones come our way so we can extend grace and compassion to others. God’s gifts are multiplied when we use them to bless others.”

  “You didn’t get religion in Amish country, did you?”

  “Well, it’s been coming on gradually, starting way back when I was a little girl, out milking cows with my papa and grammy—learning how to talk to God.” She paused a moment. “It has nothing at all to do with religion, Stoney. And everything to do with faith.”

  Her agent said nothing.

  “Maybe you don’t understand where I’m going with this.”

  “That is correct.”

  She told him straight out that she was ready to start giving away her gift—by encouraging other young violinists, for one thing. “I want to set up music programs in impoverished neighborhoods.”

  “And where’s the money in that?”

  She laughed. “My father taught me to be frugal, so I’m fine. I have money to invest in my pet projects. And what I need for myself, I’ll earn from my new job . . . if I get it.”

  Stoney groaned. “You’ve gone way out on a limb.”

  “Not as far as you might think. I’m auditioning with the Philadelphia Orchestra right after New Year’s.”

  He groaned loudly. “I hope you’re kidding.”

  “I really want this, Stoney.”

  “But you’re a star—a solo violinist . . . a musician’s musician. And you have many years of touring ahead.”

  “No, Stoney. I’m tired of always traveling. I want to belong somewhere . . . I need this position for many reasons.” Amelia tried to explain the feeling of community she was looking for, something she had so delightfully observed in Hickory Hollow. “I had no idea what I’ve been missing . . . and for my whole life.”

  “Oh, Amelia, think about what you’re throwing away. None of this makes good career sense.”

  “You’re right, it doesn’t.”

  “Well, your father will—”

  “You can’t keep threatening me that way in an effort to keep me boxed in.” She inhaled slowly. “Look, I’m not trying to be difficult. I’m no longer a child prodigy. . . . I’m all grown up, and I want to contribute to a group—by playing full-time with an orchestra. One of the best in the world, in fact. I’ll still do solo work, maybe play in a chamber music setting—you know, start up a new string quartet. Who knows? The sky’s the limit.”

  He was quiet for a moment. “Are you thinking of settling down and getting married, Amelia? Is that what this is all about?” Now his tone was more thoughtful.

  “No,” she sighed. “I’m not even dating anyone. But marriage to the right guy would be nice someday. Actually, rather wonderful.”

  “And you want a houseful of kids, too, right?”

  “Absolutely.”

  He stopped grilling her, his voice softer now. “Sounds like you’ve been thinking about this a lot, kiddo.”

  “I certainly have.”

  “Well, I’d rather not be present when you inform your father of your drastic change of plans.”

  “That’s fine,” she said respectfully, recalling her mother’s promise to pave the way. “I’ll manage it myself.”

  “All right, then. If you think this is the right path.”

  “I know it is.” Amelia wished him a merry Christmas and a happy New Year.

  He snuffed a bit. “Same to you, Amelia.”

  She said good-bye and hung up, hoping her news hadn’t been too shocking. It was, after all, the end of an era.

  Going to the window, she looked out at the glimmering half-moon as it appeared over the neighbors’ rooftops, its light turning the snowy ground silver. Helen Keller had once written that when one door to happiness closes, another opens. But we so often fix our eyes on the closed door that we miss seeing the one opening wide right before us.

  Standing t
here, a strange little seed of a thought popped into her head. And the more Amelia considered it, the more she had a yearning to see the cozy log cabin on Welsh Mountain in this wintry setting. Why not? I’ll just drive by on the way back from my audition in Philly.

  Chapter 38

  Amelia was delighted to spend a relaxed Christmas Day with her parents. Surrounded by the glistening appeal of seasonal décor, they opened beautifully wrapped presents and, later, enjoyed a four-course brunch. Amelia’s father was nicely dressed in his crisp white dress shirt, red tie, and navy blue slacks, but a ragged cough held on, and he looked alarmingly pale and much too thin. His outlook was jovial, nevertheless, and Amelia thought it especially dear when she caught him looking tenderly at her mother during the lovely meal.

  After the final course, Amelia offered to play excerpts from the Brahms concerto, her father’s favorite. Later, she also played a few Christmas carols, tempted to break into a fiddling style, though she did not. There would be plenty of time to explore more fiddling in the coming year.

  Then, when it looked like her father was ready to sit in his chair and snooze awhile, Amelia kissed him on the cheek and went to help carry her mother’s finest china and silverware into the kitchen. “You outdid yourself, Mom,” she said, lauding her mother’s delicious brunch.

  Mom smiled as she began to load the dishwasher. “I wanted to make this day extra special for you . . . and . . .” She paused and bit her lip. “For your father, as well.”

  “I’m so grateful, Mom, and I’m sure Dad is, too.”

  Her mother nodded thoughtfully, a pensive look on her pretty face.

  They continued working together to wash and then dry the china, both aware of their unspoken worry.

  Later, while scrubbing a pan, Amelia ventured in a completely different direction. “I’ve been wondering . . . how’s your manuscript coming?”

  Mom’s eyes sparkled at the question. “Nice of you to ask,” she said. “I have to admit, though—writing is an ongoing challenge.”