The Fiddler (36 page)

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 eyebrows 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.

T
hrough 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.