The Fiddler (4 page)

“There’s a mountain . . . here?” She could not believe how dense the woods had become, closing in on her and the thin ribbon of road. Was this a long-lost piece of Penn’s Woods?

Amelia groaned.
How did I get so lost?

Given the present deluge, Michael Hostetler was glad there was far less lightning than was typical for a summertime storm. He marveled at the drumming sounds overhead and might have suspected the cabin’s roof of being tin if he hadn’t known better.

Going to the table, he turned up the volume on his CD player, hoping to drown out the jackhammering rain. He sat at the table and booted up his laptop, anxious to put his father’s words behind him. Was that even possible? Daed’s expectations and directives were etched on Michael’s eyelids.
“That’s what fathers are meant for,”
his youngest uncle once told him, after overhearing a heated exchange between Michael and his father. That night Michael’s cheeks had burned with mortification . . . and guilt. Now, though, he refused to let any of this latest debate derail him from the task at hand.

He read the instructions for his business coursework, ready to move forward with a test in statistical analysis.

After a time his focus for his studies began to fade. Michael pictured his family sitting around the front room on comfortable chairs and the upholstered sofa Daed had purchased for Mamm a few years ago. Without a doubt, Daed was reading in German from the Luther Bible. Mamm sat to Daed’s right, her eyes fixed on the heavy
Biewel.
Sometimes his father read two full chapters, sometimes more,
“for good measure,”
as he liked to say, his eyes alight.

Michael’s married sisters, Sallie and Betsie, and their husbands might’ve stopped by, caught in the sheeting rain after coming for an impromptu visit, as they often did. In Michael’s imagination, his mother poured meadow tea for everyone, and dishes clattered as the family gathered in the dining area of the large kitchen for homemade ice cream. The babble of voices undoubtedly filled the air . . . and Sallie and Betsie prattled on like they hadn’t seen each other in weeks.
As always.

Shaking himself, Michael forced his attention back to the test, determined to finish tonight. How timely that his vacation from work had coincided with this most recent dustup with Daed.
Did I unconsciously set it up?

Meanwhile, rain poured relentlessly, and the hoot owl Michael knew resided in a lofty tree behind the cabin had no chance of being heard, there in the deep woods of lonely Welsh Mountain.

N
ever in her life had Amelia driven in such a tempest. Rain blew in horizontal sheets across the road, silver-white in the headlights, resembling a blizzard. She watched the road closely, well aware that the wind and rain might mesmerize her. She turned up her radio even louder and tried to keep her gaze riveted to the ground.

Driving past a mobile home park, she wondered how safe the residents were there. One of the fiddlers in the Connecticut contest last year had told Amelia she’d grown up in a trailer and never acclimated to the width of a typical hotel room.
“Everything seems too big,”
the girl had insisted. Amelia hoped the other contestant was safe and snug on a night like this.

But am I safe?

Farther up the road, a lone sign read
Jesus
in large black letters
.
It reminded her of the Sundays she had attended her maternal grandparents’ church in rural Ohio—and the weeks she’d spent riding their horses as a young girl. And of happily memorizing Bible verses at summer church camp.

Unfortunately, these days she more often heard the Lord’s name spoken with disdain than love or reverence, not that she was a prime example of spiritual devotion.
I need to pray more,
she thought, missing her grandmother’s own dedication. Her parents believed, as well, but her grandmother’s relationship with God had truly been something special.

Turning onto Gault Road, Amelia kept her eyes alert and slowed her speed to ten miles per hour, noticing on her GPS that the road would eventually lead her back to the main highway. There was no hope of turning around on this thread of a road, especially without a single streetlight . . . and the driving rain coming harder by the minute. She’d heard of monsoons associated with hurricanes, but there had been no weather alert on her phone’s weather app. Perhaps this was only a freak storm and would eventually blow itself out. Yet she knew a mere cloudburst would have ceased by now. And this wind was ferocious.

Large amounts of water had collected on the road, causing her to drive even more carefully. Now and then she tested her brakes, recalling her father’s instruction back when he’d first taken her out driving. In the chaos of the present moment, she realized he and Mom had taught her nearly everything she knew—about music
and
life. Her mother, who preferred to take a backseat when it came to the limelight, had always offered her own loving support, but Dad had been the more influential when it came to Amelia’s career.

Especially after he became ill.
Amelia had never forgotten the first time she’d observed his hand tremors, years ago. She brushed away the painful image, wishing something could be done to reverse the debilitating disease that had snatched away his radiant yet short-lived career. The image of her dad holding his violin under the crook of his chin, standing with perfect posture—the hair of the bow suspended over the bridge—was fixed in her brain.

Her mother had often stood in the doorway of the music studio, watching them with pride.
Yet music was mostly Dad’s and my thing,
thought Amelia, wishing to include Mom even more in her life. These days, her mother busied herself with writing a novel. And while Amelia had no idea what the book was about, she assumed it was a way for Mom to cope with Dad’s diagnosis.

Amelia drove through a heavily flooded area, and water sprayed forcefully under the car and out from the sides, catching her off guard. For a moment, the vehicle was hydroplaning.

As her wheels took hold of the pavement once again, Amelia experienced momentary relief—then she heard a whishing
pop
, and the car jerked hard to one side out on the remote Pennsylvania mountain. Just barely, she managed to creep forward and make a left-hand turn onto a dirt lane, thankfully getting the car off the main road.

A flat tire . . . tonight?

Moaning, she leaned her head on the steering wheel, heart pounding. She had an emergency spare tucked in the base of her trunk, but even if she could change the tire in this storm, she didn’t trust the small spare on the flooded roads. And the rain? By the sound of it, the violent weather was here for the night.

She sat there, surrounded by the darkly sinister woods and the rain. What would Dad say to do? “
Why not practice, Amelia?
” he might suggest if he were here.
Not one to squander a single moment,
she thought.

Despite her situation, she chuckled wryly at the thought of practicing in the middle of a downpour. She turned to look over her shoulder at her fiddle and overnight bag, the pitch-blackness closing in. There was no room to play her violin in the car!

The road behind her cut through the forest, and yet she had not seen a single house light. “Dear God,” she whispered. “I’m seriously lost. Please help me find my way back home.”

Amelia picked up her phone. No coverage.

What did I expect?

If she got out and tried to walk for help—but where?—she might be blown away . . . certainly soaked to the skin in a matter of seconds. But getting wet wasn’t her biggest concern. She was alone in the middle of nowhere and feeling increasingly more frantic.

The constant beat of rain on her car drowned out any hope of hearing the radio, so Amelia turned it off, not wanting to wear down the battery.

Still trembling, Amelia reached for the iPod in her purse, choosing a recording of her own performance of Prelude no. 5 by Rachmaninov.
Nice and slow
, she thought, hoping the lovely melody might soothe her . . . somehow.

Lillianne Hostetler glanced at the day clock hanging high over the sink in Ella Mae Zook’s cozy kitchen. “Ach,
yuscht
look at the time,” she said, sitting with her cup of peppermint tea at the small table. “I best be goin’.”

Ella Mae waved her hand, blue eyes shining. “Stay as long as ya like, Lily. Goodness knows, you need a breather ev’ry now and then.”

White-haired Ella Mae wasn’t known as Hickory Hollow’s Wise Woman for nothing. Lillianne tugged on her apron, looking down at her still half-full teacup. “How do ya get your tea to taste so
gut
?”

“It’s all in the steeping. Three minutes and no longer . . . and raw honey from over yonder.” Ella Mae motioned toward the bishop’s farm.

“I’ll remember that.”

Ella Mae reached across the table and placed her gnarled hand on Lillianne’s wrist. “Remember something else, too, won’t ya, dear?”

Lillianne half expected this. She knew her neighbor and good friend well enough to realize the Wise Woman couldn’t just let her get up and leave without one final bit of insight.

“Your son ain’t punishing you and Paul by up and leavin’.”

Lillianne nodded her head. She knew. Oh, she knew.

“And something else.” Ella Mae’s eyes were moist in the corners. “Your boy loves ya, he does.”

“Well, he took his clothes along . . . and plenty of food, too. So how’s that figure?”

Ella Mae smiled, showing her dimples. “But you offered the food, didn’t ya?”

She had indeed. “
Jah
.” Lillianne’s lip quivered. “Honestly, I couldn’t have Michael goin’ hungry, could I? What sort of mother—”

“You’re a
wunnerbaar-gut Mamma
, and don’t ya forget.”

Lillianne swallowed, refusing to cry. “Do you think he’ll ever come back home? Oh, Ella Mae . . . will he?”

“The Lord knows all ’bout that.” Ella Mae’s little head bobbed up and down. “And I daresay Michael will know soon enough, too.”

“I just pray his heart’s not too awful pained. His father can be harsh at times—still blames him for Elizabeth’s leavin’, ya know.”

“Well, prayin’s the best thing for any problem, even for your granddaughter. Mighty powerful, ’tis.”

Lillianne agreed. “Guess I just needed to ramble some, is all.” She rose to stand near the doorway, watching the wind rustle the tops of the trees. “Sure looks like rain’s comin’.”

“Smells like it, too.” Ella Mae got up and shuffled over and stood there by her for a moment. “The Lord sees into your boy’s
gut
heart, Lily. You can trust that.”

Nodding, Lillianne looked fondly at the elderly woman who’d seen her and many of the People through plenty of struggles.
Like Katie Lapp’s shunning.
Lillianne shivered at the memory of it.

“
Denki
ever so much,” Lillianne said.

“My door’s always open.” Ella Mae patted her arm. “Don’t forget.”