The Fiddler (32 page)

Might this be a divine nudge in a new direction?
Amelia wondered, waiting for Stoney’s arrival. It was time to discuss business. He had been quite resistant about her ideas during the last days of the tour. She could only imagine how he’d respond to her hope of a career change!

On sheer impulse, Michael had hopped in the car and headed for Columbus, Ohio, early that morning. He had been considering surprising Amelia around Christmas, knowing he would be busy with his own family closer to the actual day. Besides, based on her recent emails, he knew Amelia had returned, and he wanted to see if the strong connection they’d experienced last summer, as well as through their months of correspondence, was still evident in person.

It was close to two o’clock when he pulled up to her curb. He studied the address on the townhouse to match it with the address he’d jotted down. Getting out of the car and walking up the driveway, he realized he was not in the least bit tired from the seven-hour drive. In fact, he felt invigorated at the prospect of seeing his friend again. But now that he reflected on it, he wished he’d taken the time and the courtesy to let Amelia know he was coming. Was it a good idea to just show up like this?

Making his way up the sidewalk, Michael took in the neighborhood—the townhomes looked similar in design, but the exteriors featured differing earth tones. He made note of the rather formal colonial accents to windows and the overall architecture, filing it away in his mind for future reference.

As he reached to ring the doorbell, he heard Amelia’s violin music coming from somewhere deep in the house. He assumed she was practicing for yet another concert. Or maybe her upcoming recording.

He waited, wishing he might have had the opportunity to hear her in one of the great European concert halls. But that was impossible for an Amishman, especially one helping his father with the harvest. And even if Michael had decided to defy Bishop John and take money out of his savings account to make an airplane trip—absolutely forbidden—he would have had very little time to spend with Amelia, what with her hectic schedule.

No, coming here today was a far better idea. He had so much to tell her . . . face-to-face.

The music continued, and when the door did open, a middle-aged man with light brown hair greeted him with a curious frown. “Hullo,” Michael said quickly. “I’m Amelia’s friend . . . from Lancaster County.”

The man bobbed his head abruptly—he appeared to be studying Michael’s attire. “Amish country?”

Smiling yet feeling sheepish, Michael removed his black felt hat. “That’s right.” He waited for the man to introduce himself, but when none came, he forged ahead. “I’m Michael Hostetler.”

“I see. But Miss Amelia’s unable to take visitors” came the cold reply. “Was she expecting you?”

Michael hesitated. “No, not exactly . . .”

The man shook his head. “Well, then, I’m very sorry.”

Although startled by this turn of events, Michael wasn’t ready to simply walk away. “Would you mind tellin’ her Michael is here . . . and drove all this way to see her?”

“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?

T
he 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.