The Fiddler (18 page)

She held her breath as the voices, especially Rhoda’s, grew louder. Then, if she wasn’t mistaken, Joanna was talking now, more calmly.

“It won’t matter none, honest it won’t,” Joanna was insisting.

“You didn’t think ’bout what could happen, now, did ya?” Rhoda said, her voice fading as she headed inside the house.

What won’t matter?
Amelia crept farther down the cobblestone walkway, her violin tucked under her arm. She stared at the weather-worn bench, once again admiring the artful collection of pots set there.

Suddenly, from overhead, Joanna called to her. “Psst. Amelia!” It was a whisper at first, then slightly louder. “Amelia . . . up here!”

She raised her head and saw Joanna standing at the window, her white head covering shaped like a heart. “Hullo,” Joanna said softly. “Can you come upstairs for a bit?”

“What’s going on?”

Joanna leaned closer to the screen. “Mamma’s a little upset.” She turned her head briefly before glancing back. “She heard you playin’.”

“I guess I lost track of time.” Amelia explained that she had been watching for them to return and was sorry. “It’s my fault for causing this trouble.”

I’ve already blown it,
she thought.
Should I just pack up and leave?

“Mamma will be all right if she doesn’t hear any more playin’,” Joanna tried to reassure her.

“Well, I really do have to practice,” Amelia replied.

Joanna nodded. “Just not so near the house, jah?”

Amelia felt bad for her friend, who was stuck in the middle. “Maybe I’ll go into town for a while and check my email—get in touch with a few people,” she told her. “Or will my driving create more problems?”

“No. That’s all right. I’ll see you later, when you return.”

Joanna hadn’t invited her to stay for supper.

“I’m really very sorry. I thought—”

“No need to fret,” Joanna said quickly, but Amelia wasn’t so sure she meant it.

She really did need to get online—simply renting time on a computer in town was easy enough. But as Amelia drove leisurely up Hickory Lane, she considered asking Michael to borrow his laptop instead.

When Amelia pulled off the road at the entrance to the Hostetlers’ farm, there were a number of gray carriages parked in the side yard, lined up in straight rows.
Did all of these people show up to help?

The community response impressed her. She switched off the ignition and made her way up the driveway in search of Michael, not wanting to call attention to herself. But how could she not, dressed as she was?

Near an old well pump, she noticed a man who looked several years older than Michael. She quickly explained that she was a friend of Michael’s and wondered where she might find him.

The man introduced himself as Michael’s oldest brother, Roy. “I s’pect he’s in the barn somewheres,” he said with a motion of his head in that direction.

For a split second, Amelia almost said
Denki
. The impulse made her smile, then cringe. Was she so enamored with the Plain life that she actually wanted to fit in here?

Do I crave a place to belong?

———

Lillianne saw Amelia standing out in the lane, looking quite befuddled . . . even lost. Not giving it a second thought, she picked up her long skirt and hurried outdoors. “Did ya hear the bell earlier?” she asked.

“I did,” Amelia replied, looking worried. “Is there anything I can do . . . this late?”

“Ach no. The crisis is past, so not to worry, jah?” Lillianne smiled down into her pretty face. “And if it’s Michael you’re after, he’s workin’ in the harness shop with his father.” She mentioned how busy Paul was with orders this week, a pained expression on her face. “And then of all things, if this accident didn’t happen.”

“How bad is it?”

“Oh, you know, plenty-a folk have fallen through a hay hole. A dangerous thing, to be sure. We can be thankful his injury wasn’t worse. Paul must’ve had something on his mind and just wasn’t lookin’.” Lillianne could see that Amelia was sincere in wanting to help—and in her kindly inquiry, too. She wasn’t just making small talk, like some fancy folk who stopped to purchase her homemade root beer or strawberry jam, hoping to snoop. “Paul’s had mishaps out in the field and whatnot more times than I can count. Some say he’s accident-prone.”

“Well, I don’t want to bother Michael if he’s busy.”

“I’m sure he can step away for a minute,” Lillianne said. “He’s s’posed to be on vacation. But maybe you know that already, ain’t?”

Amelia gave her a cordial smile. Apparently she
did
know.

Oh, for the life of her, Lillianne would like to know how her son had gotten acquainted with this worldly Englischer—all that eye makeup and the artificial blush on her cheeks. At the same time, there was something ever so sweet about her, though.
Put a cape dress and apron on her, and how would that be?

Shaking away such folly, Lillianne offered Amelia something cold to drink.

“You know what—I’ll take a rain check. I need to run an errand in town,” Amelia declined politely.

Lillianne hardly knew how to act around her. “I’ll tell Michael you stopped by,” she said right quick.

“Thanks very much.”

She glanced at Amelia’s car parked near the mailbox. “Do ya know how to get where you’re goin’?”

“I think so” was the reply.

“All right, then. Be careful out on the highway, jah?”

Amelia’s face lit up. Perhaps she appreciated that Lillianne was trying to meet her halfway. Yet whatever Michael’s fancy friend was thinking, she waved gracefully before heading up Hickory Lane.

A
melia went around the car to get in, still having mixed emotions about Rhoda’s negative response to overhearing her practice. Nevertheless, Amelia knew she only had herself to blame. After all, Joanna had made it clear where she could and could not play. Regardless, Amelia felt perplexed at being locked in by an antiquated set of rules.
Rules that squelch creativity and individuality.
“Unbelievable,” she muttered. “What would I do without music of all kinds?”

She turned the key in the ignition and checked her blind spot. Then, slowly, she moved onto Hickory Lane.

“
Schtoppe
—halt!” Michael leaped out in front of the car, his arms held high, his hat in his hand.

She slammed on the brakes, a rush of blood pounding in her head.

Michael grinned and hurried around the car to her. “Hope I didn’t frighten you.”

“You appeared out of nowhere!”

His eyes softened. “Sorry, I hoped you weren’t leavin’ without saying good-bye.” He leaned his tan arms on her open window, still holding his hat. “You aren’t, are ya?”

“I just stopped by to see if I could borrow your laptop, but your mother said you were busy. I didn’t want to bother you.”

“No bother at all,” he said, smiling into her eyes. “Wait right here.” With that, he ran back up the lane to the house.

She really hadn’t wanted to put him out. Sitting there waiting, she contemplated Michael’s sticky situation. With his father’s injury, he was needed more than ever, wasn’t he? Wouldn’t Michael say so—and wouldn’t his father, too? It seemed that one thing kept leading to the next for Michael, propelling him deeper into the very life he had been trying to leave behind. She shivered at the thought—and yet what did her own future look like?

At least he tried to leave. . . .

Up ahead, Amelia watched an Amish farmer hauling hay down the middle of the road, his wide wagon weaving and creaking as it came this way. She was glad she’d pulled so far off the road.

Then she saw the youthful farmer nod his head at her, his straw hat firmly planted on his head. Like Michael and many Amish here, he was quite blond and blue-eyed.
No mistaking his Swiss heritage.

Surveying the copious cornfields around her, Amelia realized that this time yesterday, she had been tuning her fiddle backstage at the Mann Center for the Performing Arts . . . waiting for her gig to start. And with the same instrument Joanna’s mother had reviled a short while ago.

How could a fiddle be so wonderfully appealing to English audiences and yet completely objectionable to the people of Hickory Hollow?
Except for Michael and the Wise Woman
, she thought. She recalled the day her father had offered her the beloved instrument. The atypical gesture and his rather protective comments were nearly like a christening over the transfer. She’d known at the time that it wasn’t his best violin, but it had been his favorite—the violin he had played in college and during his first professional performances. Reverentially, she had taken it up in her hands, propped it beneath her chin, and in honor of her father’s beautiful gift, played her arpeggios and scales up and down the taut strings, faster that day and with more clarity than any day before.

Her father’s deep-set eyes had shone with joy. And the two of them stood smiling at each other, alone there in the music studio.
“There are no shortcuts to any place worth going,”
he’d emphasized, quoting one of his favorite Beverly Sills lines.

Only eleven at the time, Amelia had fought back tears. She’d loved that glimpse into his more sentimental side.

How I wish he’d open up again, just like that,
she thought wistfully.

Amelia took her time driving through the Village of Intercourse, past the quaint strip of historic buildings on the south side of the street, and the massive, modern Kitchen Kettle Village on the north.

She quickly headed west toward Bird-in-Hand and located a coffee shop. There, she ordered an iced white chocolate mocha while she waited for the computer to boot up.

Funny,
she thought,
I’ve scarcely missed my cell phone.

She waited a few minutes before taking the first sip. So much was hanging in the balance back home that she hated even to think of checking her email or other online accounts. Before she did, though, she perused the reviews for Tim McGraw’s concert, curious to see if either she or the Bittersweet Band had been given a mention in the
Philadelphia Inquirer
. Sure enough:
Move over, national fiddle champion . . . Amy Lee hits the Philly stage!

Amelia winced at the disparaging line—she was not in favor of putting down someone else, no matter the context. She closed the site and went to check her email, then blinked, shocked, when she saw her packed inbox. There were multiple emails from her agent, as well as from Byron.

She opened the first one from Stoney, which proved to be an attachment showing a fabulous mock-up for a promotional poster for her European tour. Just seeing it, even without a comment from her shrewd agent, put more pressure on her. Marketing bucks were already being thrown at something she hadn’t formally agreed to as of yet. Everyone was operating on the premise that things were on the same track as last year and the year before that. Amelia had not taken her musical passion to Europe, however, and Stoney and her father believed it was long overdue.