The Fiddler (17 page)

“Go on,” Mrs. Zook prompted her. “
Sei so gut!
—Please!”

Amelia couldn’t help but be taken by her enthusiasm. “My father doesn’t know anything about my country fiddling and would be very displeased if he did.”

An endearing smile appeared. “Is the fiddlin’ you mention different from what I just heard ya playin’ in the meadow?”

“Very different in some ways and quite similar in others, depending on the piece.”

“I see.” Mrs. Zook paused and glanced at her curiously. “I’m thinkin’ I’d like to hear a fiddle tune, yuscht to hear the contrast, ya know.”

“Sure, I’ll play for you sometime before I leave. I would be happy to.”

They talked easily, like old friends.
Three Amish friends in less than twenty-four hours,
thought Amelia, more delighted than ever that she’d opted to stay awhile.

Mrs. Zook was particularly interested in Amelia’s upbringing as a “wee fiddler.”

“My father was my first encourager. He believed that a child’s playing is filled with honesty—unlike adult performers, whose feelings can be curbed, even suppressed, over time.”

“Who better to understand than a parent? The People know that, for sure and for certain, as we pass down the simple gifts to the next generation.”

The simple gifts . . .

“Michael mentioned that to me, too.”

Silently, the woman nodded.

Uneasy because of her own sudden mention of Michael, Amelia changed the subject. “How long do you expect Joanna and her parents to be gone?”

“Oh, they’ll be back for afternoon milkin’ at four-thirty. The cows can’t wait.”

They sat a bit longer, enjoying the sun and the birds and rocking away their cares in the hickory rockers, the two chairs swaying in the same rhythm.

“You sure do give yourself up to your music, Miss Amelia.”

“It’s been nearly my whole life . . . our house was constantly filled with music. It was my dad’s great love.”

“Well, and you must enjoy it, too.”

Amelia pondered that. She
did
love music, but she wanted to avoid talking about her life, the fame and stardom eagerly sought by the top musicians.
Not with this humble woman
. “Yes, I’m passionate about what I do.” She paused for a moment, feeling strangely compelled to tell what had been buried in her soul for too long. “It’s just that . . .”

The dear woman’s eyes held Amelia’s own, as if looking deep into her open heart. And in that awkward moment, Amelia realized Mrs. Zook must be the Wise Woman that Michael had talked so glowingly about.

“Are you . . . Ella Mae?” she asked.

“Why, they call me all sorts of things, but jah, Ella Mae’s what my Mamma called me first.”

Michael was right. She has a way about her. . . .

“You all right, child?”

If only Ella Mae hadn’t asked! The woman was much too sweet and sympathizing. Amelia pulled herself together. “When I play for crowds of people on the concert stage . . . as I tour all over the country,” she blurted out, “I sometimes wonder if I perform in hopes of somehow finding my way . . . my purpose.”

“Oh, now, honey-girl.”

Amelia looked away. “It must sound strange to you.”

“Not a’tall.”

“But even if I wanted to stop my touring now and pursue marriage and a family, my father would never hear of it,” she added, giving in to tears. “I feel stuck.”

Ella Mae’s eyes probed again. “Well, then, can ya remember what I’m ’bout to say, Miss Amelia?”

She listened, her heart swelling with tenderness again.

“There’s only one person ya need to think about ever pleasin’,” Ella Mae said quietly. “Only one.”

Amelia recalled the many nights she and Grammy had talked about such things while they sat outdoors eating strawberry ice cream and watching fireflies flicker in the pastureland.

Ella Mae stopped rocking and turned in her chair slightly, and a thoughtful expression played across her crinkly face. “You’re a mighty talented young woman—perty, too. If ya ask me, your maiden days are numbered.”

Amelia felt her cheeks blush.

Ella Mae smiled. “You have tender emotions; I heard it in your playin’ . . . mighty deep ones, I s’pect. But there’s no sense playin’ music unless you’re called to it, jah?”

Amelia listened.

“Do ya ever think that you play to please the Lord God above?”

It had been a long time since Amelia had considered pleasing the Almighty within the equation of her career.

Ella Mae continued. “I believe you want to make a difference in this ol’ world, ain’t so?”

She reached for Ella Mae’s thin, freckled hand. “Your fame certainly precedes you,” Amelia said, smiling through her tears.

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!

A
s 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?