The Fiddler (15 page)

Soon, Joanna came to rescue her, talking in Deitsch and motioning toward Amelia and the staircase, perhaps explaining that Amelia was going to go upstairs and unpack. Turning to Amelia, she said, “Cora Jane’s room is all ready for ya. Or if you’d like mine, we can switch.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t do that.” Amelia was taken aback by Joanna’s generosity.
So very thoughtful!
“But thanks so much.”

After she found her bedroom, just across the hall from Joanna’s, Amelia went straight to the window and looked out.
Ah, perfect!
The view overlooked a meadow where the grass was lush and green. She couldn’t imagine a more inviting place to practice her music.

More than anything, she wished for a pair of shorts, but she was actually glad she had packed the feminine clothing she typically relied on for fiddling shows. That way she wasn’t tempted to wear something Joanna—or her mother—might think immodest. Shorts would certainly be that.

She gave her clothes a slight shake, then hung them on hangers on the wooden pegs. The humidity would take care of any wrinkles.

Walking to the oak dresser, Amelia admired the handmade doilies, the pretty hand mirror, and a dainty white china pin holder with a tiny top. There was also a small candleholder with a votive inside, and a German prayer book. Like Joanna’s room, the wide plank floor was adorned with a single oval hand-braided rug. The walls were an interesting shade of gray-blue that worked nicely with the blues and greens in the bed quilt.

“Simple things are best,”
Grammy had told her years before. In that moment, Amelia believed she was right—she didn’t want to contemplate the European tour any longer. In fact, she wished time might stand still.

Amelia hummed the beginning strains of Mendelssohn’s “Sweet Remembrance” while strolling through Joanna’s backyard and toward the row of poplars along the west side of the house. Young Stephen and one of his younger sisters had come out to the screened-in porch and babbled at her. She turned and smiled and waved at them, hoping they might still be visiting when she returned.

Stepping past the poplar windbreak, Amelia rambled through the open field profuse with black-eyed Susans and other summertime wildflowers, making her way with her violin to a mighty oak, where she claimed her spot.

Amelia left the case open under the leafy tree and took up her fiddle. She tightened the A string to its correct tone—though she had never bragged about having perfect pitch, the sound resided in her head. Just as quickly, she tuned the remaining strings to the A string.

Then Amelia leaned into her fiddle, transforming the instrument to her present needs as, slowly, she walked back and forth. She played through the Galamian acceleration scales using the metronome in her head, striving for perfect intonation, orderly shifting, and complete bow control.

After an hour of warm-ups—her daily regimen of etudes, scales, arpeggios, and octaves—she began to play the first of her encore pieces, one she particularly loved because of the pathos in the first section before the more buoyant—even optimistic—second section.

The blue of the sky increased in intensity, and the brilliance of the sun became even more pronounced as she fell into the music. She could hear the delicate piano accompaniment in her mind as she played the exquisite solo part.

Her mind wandered as it often did while practicing—her fingers knew where to press the strings.
“Muscle memory,”
her father described it. And while Amelia missed her more expensive violin, her father’s fiddle would do her well for as long as she was here.

Next she played “Vocalise” by Rachmaninov, a piece she’d played as a child. The haunting melody poured over her, and tears dimmed her eyes as she thought of Byron. True, their commitment had never been formalized, but there were so many expectations. She was unable to see herself undoing the past in order to create a new and different outcome. Surely she’d cared for Byron at some point, but . . . The thought hit her with a jolt: How long ago had their relationship fizzled?

Amelia forced her mind back to her music and continued to work through her entire selection of concert pieces, imagining thousands of smiling faces in the U.K., Netherlands, and Germany, and the eventual applause that would follow. For this moment, though, she felt peaceful, there beneath the shadow of the sheltering tree. How she’d needed this reprieve from the weight she had carried for so long within her heart.

N
ever before had Michael heard such lofty-sounding music. The piece was nothing like the country fiddling he sometimes enjoyed listening to.

He followed the haunting melody down Hickory Lane, certain that what he was hearing must be Amelia. Except that this music was completely unlike the fiddle tunes she’d played at the cabin.

Looking in the direction of the music, he saw not a soul in the wide field where Nate Kurtz turned out his colts in springtime. In fact, not a single grazing animal could he see. Maybe, because of the heat, they’d wandered back to the stable for water and feed
.

He bent low to slip under the fence, pulled toward the splendid sounds coming from the far end of the meadow. The sun beat down on him, and Michael was glad for his straw hat, pushing it back on his head to shield his vulnerable neck. The skin there burnt crisp red every summer, then peeled even after he put the cool sap-gel from an aloe vera plant on it.

Eventually, he found Amelia beneath an enormous oak tree, her rich brown hair moving in the breeze as she swayed. He decided to remain out of sight, merely an observer soaking up the beauty—of the music and the musician. She wasn’t just talented; she was brilliant, playing without a speck of music to look at. For the next half hour or more, he sat listening several trees away.

Then Amelia paused in her playing and sat down in the grass, her violin tucked under her arm. As in the cabin, he felt incredibly drawn to her. The depth of emotion in her performance, even while practicing alone here, signaled some sort of inner conflict. But what? Did it have to do with her father? He longed to know.

After a time, she surprised him and raised the instrument and began again, now sitting against the tree trunk. This tune was slower and richer, two strings played simultaneously—the way she’d played her fiddle tunes.

Interested to know the name of the sorrow-filled piece, he rose and walked toward her, circling out a bit so as not to startle her. But her eyes were closed as she drew her bow across the strings, and if he wasn’t mistaken, her cheeks glistened with tears.

What’s wrong?

Michael was startled. Certainly, he should not interrupt her reverie. And just as he was about to turn back out of respect for her solitude, Amelia opened her eyes. She continued her song, her face breaking into a slow smile. She was smiling at him!

He nodded and removed his hat, although it seemed a foolish thing to do under the excruciating sun. Quickly, he put it on again, now grinning at her.

He pointed to the ground, silently asking permission to invade her space. She nodded, all the while still playing the pretty tune. Although he liked it, the music baffled him.

When the final note came, she sustained it for the longest time, so long in fact he wondered if she might run out of bow. Then, raising the bow ever so gracefully, Amelia lifted her eyes to him again. “You found me,” she said softly with that amazing smile.

“Hope ya don’t mind.”

She shook her head. “It is a little lonely out here.”

“That was mighty perty—your playin’,” Michael said, not daring to say anything else. She just looked so angelic sitting there, the sun-dappled light falling around her.

“ ‘Humoresque’ by Alexander de Taeye. Ever hear it?”

“Not till now.”

“By an obscure composer from Brussels, Belgium.” She placed her fiddle in the case, as well as the bow. “I happen to think it’s one of the most incredible violin pieces ever written.”

“I can see why.”

She smiled as she closed the case and snapped the lid. “I love it.” She pushed her glossy waves of hair back over her shoulder. “There’s something serene about that melody.”

“Please . . . don’t stop on account of me.”

She leaned back on her arms, her feet pointing toward him. “I’m surprised you enjoy this type of music . . . since you also liked my fiddling.”

“Well, it sounded like something straight from heaven.”

“I think so, too.” Amelia sighed and wiped her face—her tears had dried. “I thought you might actually prefer the fiddling.”

“I wouldn’t want to choose,” he said honestly. Then he asked, “You always play without music?”

“I read the notes until I memorize the melody lines and chords. My father—and my formal instructor—taught me never to rely on repetitious practice for my classical performances . . . but to analyze the musical form, too.” Her eyes clouded; she must’ve realized then she’d said something she hadn’t planned to tell. Revealed something she preferred he not know?

“Performances?” he asked. “You mean . . .”

She bowed her head. “I should think before I speak.”

He waited, aware of her inner struggle. What was she hiding?

A long, awkward moment passed when the only sounds were the buzzing of insects in the grazing grass, and the occasional bleating of a far-off goat.

“I have two names, Michael, for a reason.” She raised her head to look at him. “Because I have two lives of sorts.”

“I don’t understand.” He removed his straw hat and scratched his head. Women were truly a riddle.

“You know me as Amy Lee, a fiddler. But I’m also Amelia Devries, a concert violinist.”

He studied her. “And is Amelia your
real
name?”

Nodding, she offered a fragile smile. “It’s the name my parents gave me at birth.”

“But why does this make you so sad?”

“It’s a very long story. One no one really knows . . .”

He glanced back at the barn in the distance. “Well, as you can see, it’s just me, myself, and I out here.” He shifted his legs, resting his chin on his knees, mighty curious. Yet he wasn’t certain she was going to open up. Despite her apparent candidness toward him last night, she seemed resistant to letting him in on her secret.

“My parents don’t know I’m a country fiddler, Michael. And they’ve never heard my country stage name, Amy Lee.”

“Listen, Amelia . . . or whoever you’d like to be,” he said. “You can trust me.”

Her eyes searched his face.

“I’m sayin’ you can count on me . . . all right?”

Tears filled her eyes, and she looked away. Then, after gathering herself, she slowly began to tell him about her other life. “The fiddling came out of necessity,” she said, grimacing. “I had to do something to make it all more bearable.”

He listened intently to her unusual story—the gift that had appeared at such an early age, and the years of touring the country as a child prodigy. And the enormous expectation that she continue to perform and travel. Sprinkled in were occasional comments about her boyfriend—a trumpeter named Byron. And the more she revealed about her life, the more Michael sensed her frustration and disillusionment. Michael found it peculiar that she seemed to talk about this Byron as if she felt she ought to . . . not out of a sense of love, but out of obligation.

Up till now, Michael had seen Amelia as a very confident young woman, musically and otherwise. So what was keeping her in the apparently less than satisfying relationship?

Just then, he heard the distinct sound of a dinner bell clanging in the distance. In Hickory Hollow such signals were used at mealtime and for emergencies. Michael strained his ears, trying to decipher if this was his own father’s dinner bell.
Clang, clang . . .
pause. Then came the repeat—the agreed-upon pattern.

“Something’s happened,” he said to Amelia, leaping to his feet. “I must get right home.”

“What is it?” She rose quickly, as well, and brushed the grass off her long skirt.

“The bell serves as a warning when it’s rung that way. My father needs my help.” Michael felt terrible running off and leaving her, but something was definitely wrong.
I have no choice.
He took off toward home, not looking back to see if Amelia was still standing there looking bewildered and concerned.