“Well, it’d make better sense to just bring in your fiddle and make this old woman mighty happy with some music by the fire. And stay put for the night—safe and sound.”
Amelia laughed in agreement. “All right, I’ll stay, but only if you’ll let me help with supper. It’s only fair.”
“I’ll let ya help if you play music afterward. How’s that?”
Amelia couldn’t suppress her smile. For all the trouble she’d caused with her fiddling last visit, she hoped word wouldn’t get out that she was back serenading one of Hickory Hollow’s oldest church members.
Slipping on her jacket and scarf, she hurried out to the car for her violin, feeling incredibly warm inside.
“Such a heavy, wet snow,” Lillianne said as she looked at her husband, who’d scooted his rocking chair up close to the heater stove. Paul looked so gloomy today, and she had to make an effort to keep her own voice cheerful. She didn’t feel much like making small talk, but Paul seemed to want the company. Christmas had come and gone awful quick, or so it seemed, and now Michael’s room was emptied out except for the bed and the oak bureau. The image of him up there packing his clothes and personal possessions was still stamped on her heart, and it was all she could do just now to hold back her tears.
“What’s a-matter, Lily?” Paul looked up at her, frowning and pushing his fingers through his beard. “I know you’re a-frettin’. Can feel it over here.”
“Well now, I’m just missin’ our boy.”
Paul folded his arms. “I daresay he’s better off leaving now—rejecting the church vow—than promising to live Amish all the days of his life and turning his back on it years from now.”
Lillianne considered that quietly.
“Just look what happened to another draftsman from round here.”
“You’re thinkin’ of Daniel Fisher.” Lillianne put a bunch of potatoes in her apron and carried them over to the table to peel. She sat there working, waiting for her husband to respond, and when he didn’t she looked to see him fishing around for his blue kerchief. Oh, how her heart went out to the poor man!
Daniel’s under the Bann, along with his Katie, she thought sadly, shuddering to think how that might have been Michael. This way, as long as he had breath, they could hope and pray he’d come back and join church. Someday, O Lord.
“ ’Least we aren’t estranged from Michael,” Paul added.
“Maybe he has more to learn out in the world.”
“Could be . . . only the Good Lord knows all that,” said Paul thoughtfully. “Knows his heart, inside and out. And the day our son falls to his knees in contrition before the brethren will make all this waiting worthwhile.”
“We’ll just keep prayin’ to that end.”
Paul got up and went to the sink, where he splashed water on his face. Hiding his feelings . . .
Lillianne was glad to make her husband’s favorites for supper tonight—Basque potatoes, crunchy chicken, and pickled red beets. And she’d made a cherry pie with whipped cream for dessert, too. Such a fine supper would help boost their spirits some, given it was just the two of them at the table. She wouldn’t let herself think about Michael’s supper plans just now, no doubt eating over with their English relatives.
Lord bless them. . . .
Chapter 40
Amelia blinked into the glare of sun on the snowy landscape as she waited for Ella Mae to awaken from her nap. The violin case was open on the table, the temperature of the small house warming her fiddle. Amelia felt cozy and sheltered in the welcoming bungalow; she wished some of her musician friends could see her here. Wouldn’t they love to meet Ella Mae, too!
Such serenity . . . the snow falling against the backdrop of barn and silos. Amelia was very glad she’d decided to stay.
When she looked to her right, toward the farmhouse across the field, she was surprised to see the dark figure of a woman walking this way, all bundled up in a black woolen shawl over her long black dress, with a black scarf, mittens, and boots, and a black bonnet—in a candlesnuffer style—stark against the brilliance. The woman carried a large basket, head down as she leaned into the wind.
Going to the door, Amelia peered out, watching as the woman approached the porch. It was then she caught sight of Joanna’s face. “Hello . . . we meet again!” she said, opening the door, so happy to see her friend.
Joanna gave the sweetest smile. “Ach, I’ve missed ya!” Inside, she set down her basket of goodies, then reached to give Amelia a hug.
By then Ella Mae’s eyes were fluttering open. The tiny woman had undoubtedly been roused by the sudden commotion. The two young women chattered quietly in the kitchen while Joanna removed her wraps and boots. “I’m ever so glad you’re here,” Joanna told Amelia. “I kept wonderin’ if that was your car parked outside, but with all the snow it was hard to tell, really.”
Amelia explained that she was on her way home from Philadelphia, where she’d just auditioned, and she shared the exciting news about her new position there.
Joanna brightened even more, saying she hoped it meant they might see each other more frequently. “Is that a possibility?”
“I’ll certainly see to it!”
Ella Mae rose and, using her cane, hobbled over to investigate the basket of goodies from Joanna. She removed the cloth covering and beamed at the sight of the varieties of treats inside. “Well, now, ’tis a gut thing the two of you are here visiting, ain’t? We’ll have us a fine dessert, and there’s enough for breakfast tomorrow, too.” Then she asked Joanna if she’d like to stay for supper.
Much to Amelia’s delight, Joanna agreed. “I’ll have to let my parents know, so they won’t wonder.” Amelia offered to accompany her back home, and they donned their wraps—Amelia’s long red coat and Joanna’s black one. Then off they went, holding their scarves over their faces. Their eyes peeked out just enough to see where they were going.
Michael drove slowly on the snow-packed roads, glad for the opportunity for a full day of work on a new blueprint. Then, on the drive back to Hickory Hollow, he had stopped in at his mother’s elderly cousin’s.
Now, as he made his way down Hickory Lane, coming up on the Kurtz farm, he noticed Joanna and what looked like an English woman in a very red coat coming across the field, huddled against the cold. He saw a car parked in front of Ella Mae’s cottage, which was attached to her family’s main farmhouse. He slowed his vehicle and did a double take, wondering if it could be Amelia’s, though it was impossible to tell under the mounding snow. His heart leaped at the thought. Could it be?
Anxious as he was to know how she was doing, Michael willed himself to remain clearheaded. Her agent wouldn’t be at all happy to find out Michael had encountered Amelia here—if he was bold enough to do so.
Pulling onto the shoulder, Michael watched Joanna and the other woman hurry toward the Kurtz house. He sighed and leaned back in the driver’s seat.
He glanced in the rearview mirror, still unaccustomed to his modern haircut and clothes, having made the switch from Amish to English at the onset of New Year’s.
She probably wouldn’t even recognize me. . . .
In that moment, he knew it was best to stay out of Amelia’s way—not reopen the already closed door between them. After all, she hadn’t emailed him over Christmas, either. So his assumption that she was in total agreement with Stoney’s remarks must be correct. In light of this, Michael was almost embarrassed to think of his impulsive drive to Ohio. What if he had succeeded in seeing Amelia then?
He signaled back onto the road, even though there was no traffic in sight. Then, staring again at the white that was swiftly covering the strange car, he felt another wave of frustration.
Relax, Michael, it can’t be hers. . . .
Turning to focus on the road and the swirling snow, he drove to his new home at the Landis farmhouse on the very outskirts of Hickory Hollow.
When Amelia arrived inside the warm kitchen with Joanna, Rhoda Kurtz greeted her, her eyebro
ws rising. Nate Kurtz grunted briefly and nodded his head.
Joanna told her mother why she’d returned, and Rhoda suggested she pack an overnight bag with a change of clothes, in case the snow kept up and she decided to stay overnight at Ella Mae’s.
Amelia was secretly overjoyed at the prospect of more time with her friend. I never thought I’d see both the Wise Woman and Joanna today!
Upstairs, Joanna closed her bedroom door behind her and hurried to her hope chest to show Amelia a Christmas gift from her beau. It was a small chime clock that played music. “The pertiest clock I’ve ever seen.” Her face shone with not only joy but love. “Thank goodness it arrived when no one was home . . . ’cept me.”
“Why is that so important?” Amelia asked. “And why is it hidden away?”
Joanna bowed her head. “Ain’t the right time to tell, just yet.”
Tell what? Amelia had so many questions, but she knew Joanna was intensely private about her suitor. So instead she said, “Well, whenever that day comes, you’ll enjoy it very much.” She glanced at Joanna’s dresser, wondering if the vacant spot in the middle was the place she was saving for the exquisite gift.
Joanna quickly turned the subject to Amelia’s new position, saying timidly that Michael had shown her Amelia’s “nice web site” on his laptop not long ago.
Surprised, Amelia wondered exactly how long ago. But not wanting to come across as too curious, she didn’t inquire. Nor would she let herself be too pleased at this revelation, although the thought of Michael perusing her web site did make her smile.
No more was said about Michael the rest of the evening—not during the mealtime preparations back at Ella Mae’s, nor during the tasty supper of pork chops, rice, and a broccoli-cheese casserole. Afterward they enjoyed the cookies and sweet breads in Joanna’s basket. Then the three of them talked fondly between the pieces Amelia played on her violin—everything from classically arranged hymns to excerpts from the grand violin concertos of her recent tour.
It was only much later, when Amelia said good-night to Joanna in the guest room they were sharing, that the subject of Michael arose for a second time. “Not long after you were here last summer, Michael asked me for your address,” Joanna confided quietly in the stillness, in the bed across from Amelia.
“Yes, he told me . . . in his first letter.”
“So you’ve been writing to each other, then?” Joanna seemed very interested.
“Only as friends.” Amelia didn’t reveal that there had been a flood of emails between them, nor how very personal those exchanges had become . . . prior to the sudden and complete absence of all correspondence.
What could’ve happened? she asked herself yet again.
Joanna stirred in the darkness. “Do ya mind if I say my prayers aloud, in English?”
Amelia welcomed it, getting choked up when Joanna said Amelia’s name toward the end of the prayer. “And thank you, our Lord in heaven, for blessing my English friend with guidance and blessing that only come from your loving hand. Keep her ever safe in your loving care, and thank you for showing us the way to eternal life through your dear Son, our Lord Jesus Christ. Let us be found worthy to live in heaven with you some sweet day. Amen.”
Amelia felt so thoroughly included in the prayer, she almost believed she had prayed it, too, right along with Joanna. She felt enveloped with compassion, not only because of Joanna’s beautiful prayer, but because of the Lord’s presence in the quiet room.
Adding a silent P.S.—which included a blessing for Michael’s future here in Hickory Hollow—Amelia breathed a deep sigh. For Michael’s sake, she hoped he would be very happy.
Chapter 41
Through the bitter winter and into early spring, Amelia spent long hours in her studio, rehearsing for the recording with EMI Classics, scheduled for mid-May. Her father was much too weak to direct her preparations, but rather sat in his recliner listening when not fading in and out of sleep.
She purposely pleased him by practicing the Brahms when he was most alert, knowing his great passion for the composer. A large bronze bust of Johannes Brahms stood on a lovely marble stand not far from Dad’s chair, presiding over their hours together.
Letters from Joanna continued to arrive, and Amelia cheerfully wrote back to her friend when she could.
April and May brought warmer, if sometimes volatile, weather, and the threat of tornadoes. When the strongest rainstorms blew in, pounding the roof with their fury, Amelia fondly remembered being lost on Welsh Mountain, wishing she might someday find her way back to the log cabin to see it once more. Really, she hadn’t been lost that night at all. That extraordinary hiatus had opened her heart to the good people of Hickory Hollow. And most of all, to her heavenly Father.
EMI’s marketing company and Amelia’s own publicists blitzed the August launch of her new CD, which debuted high on the classical music charts. The deluge of resulting web traffic and email was heartening not only to Amelia but to Stoney, too.
Also in August began the rehearsals with the Philadelphia Orchestra, and Amelia quickly acclimated to her new role as she became better acquainted with the other musicians, young and old alike. Two attractive male string players her age even showed interest in the idea of forming a string quartet at a future date. As she connected with the other orchestra members, Amelia witnessed firsthand how well they meshed under the direction of the venerated maestro . . . the many blending beautifully into one greater whole.
As often as her schedule permitted, Amelia spent time in Columbus visiting her father, who suffered terribly on his worst days, weakened as he still was from the pneumonia his doctor had been unable to prevent. On his best days, he enjoyed listening to the great violin music he so cherished.
Amelia also went to nearby bookstores with her mother, who tried to practice some degree of patience while waiting for more word from her literary agent. Mom and her agent were quite persistent, however—many now-famous novelists had endured rejection prior to landing a publisher. And Mom was already busy writing another manuscript, once again honing the creative process. She was also occupied with Dad’s care, although a home nurse assisted by coming three times each week to track his blood pressure and medications.
During what remained of her free time, Amelia worked with gifted violin students at the prestigious Curtis Institute of Music in Philadelphia. On Saturdays, she offered Suzuki group lessons for impoverished children, supplying the quarter-sized violins free of charge. She taught them plenty of fiddle tunes along with their lessons, which the children loved. She attended several fiddle fests, too, taking great pleasure in the carefree, frolicking melodies. But no longer did she compete, rather focusing on preparing for her upcoming performance of the Fiddle Concerto with the orchestra. It crossed her mind that not many concertmasters could be called upon to play the unusual crossover classical-fiddling composition. In fact, she might be the only one.
In her evening hours, Amelia came to rely on the intimacy and comfort of daily prayer, the precious and life-changing act of opening one’s heart to God. And of trusting her life to His will. Ella Mae’s words—and gentle influence—proved lasting. So much so that Amelia found herself devouring books on Amish culture, especially The Amish Way, by author and Amish spokesman Donald Kraybill and his collaborators.
She also enjoyed Joanna’s letters, and while Amelia was curious about Michael Hostetler, she never once asked about him. And since Joanna didn’t mention him, either, Amelia did her best to put the handsome and very thoughtful man out of her mind. Short as their time together had been, perhaps it would simply have to be enough.
The first night of the early September Philadelphia Orchestra concert series was an evening of sizzling musical offerings. The grand hall was filled with enthusiastic concert attendees, many of whom had come specifically to see the new concertmaster. Backstage was abuzz with anticipation, too, and Amelia was delighted to greet Nicola Hannevold, who looked healthy and energetic. Many from the orchestra wer
e anxious to talk with Nicola, and Amelia obligingly slipped away from the crowd, her black tiered chiffon gown rustling around her ankles.
As she observed the well-deserved adulation for the guest soloist, Amelia found herself reevaluating what she had given up to fulfill her new role. I love what I’m doing, she thought. And satisfied with the new challenges I’ve set for myself.
And she was . . . at least professionally speaking.
True, her social life was rapidly improving, as well, although the most interesting young men were merely good friends, like caring brothers. But no one had emerged who fulfilled her must-have list. Amelia wanted it all—a lifelong love with a best friend husband, a kind and caring man who worshiped God and loved life and music . . . and who wanted lots of children. Lord willing, as Joanna likes to say.
Life was good, but the yearning to be a part of a family of her own continued to linger in Amelia’s heart.
———
Nicola Hannevold played the Mendelssohn violin concerto superbly, and with more gusto than Amelia expected. Had the astute maestro stirred up the fire? He was known to have a flair for challenging young soloists to supersede their own benchmarks. Amelia supported Nicola with her own playing, just a few feet from where the guest artist stood facing the vast audience.
The concert hall brought back memories of Amelia’s earliest years of performing, playing with all the joy in her soul. Tonight as she led the first violin section it was no different; she was enjoying herself immensely.
Later, during Nicola’s encore, Amelia’s mind raced back to her first-ever visit to the Oberlin Conservatory. So tiny and timid, she’d reached for her father’s strong hand as they walked the hallway to meet the remarkable Ms. Malloy—sixteen years ago this week. In her short life, Amelia had never experienced a more encouraging instructor than Dorothea. Silently, she dedicated tonight’s first orchestral concert to Ms. Malloy . . . and to Dad.
Fiddler, The Page 23