Fiddler, The Page 10

  “Food’s on the table, son,” her husband called over his shoulder. “Come on in and have dinner with us.”

  “Puh!” Lillianne said, scurrying to the back porch and opening the door. “You never have to knock, Michael . . . you know that.” She got a closer look at the pretty dark-haired girl with him, which shook her up but good. Well, if she doesn’t look nearly like our Elizabeth!

  “Mamm, this is Amelia Devries,” Michael introduced her. “She’s visiting the area . . . stayin’ over at Kurtzes’ place.”

  “Well, bless your heart,” Lillianne said, gathering her wits. Rhoda hadn’t mentioned anything like this!

  “We didn’t mean to barge in. Just wanted you to know Amelia’s goin’ to be around for a few days.” Michael seemed to go out of his way to explain.

  “Won’t ya come in and eat with us—both of yous?” She held out her hand and was met by the softest, most petite handshake in all her born days. “Ever so nice to meet you, Amelia.”

  “Likewise,” the young woman said, looking for all the world like she’d stepped out of a dress shop somewhere at the Prime Outlet Mall over on Route 30.

  Lillianne followed them into the kitchen, standing back as Michael reintroduced Amelia. Paul was not nearly as cordial as Lillianne had hoped he might be. Was he also struggling with the close resemblance to their missing granddaughter? Run clean off to the world and the devil, too.

  She waited to take her place at the table till both Michael and the young woman were seated—Michael in his usual spot, and Amelia next to him on the bench. Any other day in the past few years, Michael would have rejected their mealtime invitation if he was with one of his many Mennonite buddies. Though he’d never brought the girl home to meet them, Lillianne nevertheless knew more than she let on about his former fiancée.

  But now, this one?

  “Let’s return thanks,” Paul said with a look at Michael; then he bowed his head.

  Her husband’s silent prayer lasted longer than was customary. She guessed he was making up for lost time, since Michael had missed two meals here since storming out.

  At last Paul coughed slightly and raised his head to indicate the silent prayer was done. Then he reached for the cooled-off beef gravy and mashed potatoes. Lillianne felt sure all was well—or would be by the time the men had their stomachs filled. Neither her husband nor Michael uttered a word for the next few minutes, leaving her to wonder what on earth to say to Amelia, with those big blue-gray eyes that twinkled a smile, like she was trying hard to make nice.

  Oh goodness. Lillianne wondered if this pretty young woman had romantic thoughts toward Michael. But if so, why would he announce that she was staying over at Nate and Rhoda’s? Michael didn’t flaunt his sweetheart-girls. Never had.

  “Pass the salt and pepper,” Paul said, reaching before the polite young lady even had a chance to hand them to Michael to give to Paul.

  Lillianne held her breath, waiting, but there was no thanking either of them. If she didn’t quit caring so much about what transpired at her table, she’d be a nervous wreck by the time it was time to serve the orange nut bread with real whipped cream for dessert. What must the beautiful outsider be thinking?

  Truly, Lillianne could hardly wait to dish up dessert. Anything to get up and move about—keep her hands busy so her mind had a chance to calm down some.

  “Amelia’s from Ohio,” Michael was telling his father. “She knew quite a lot of Amish there, back when she was a girl.”

  Paul’s ears perked up. “Beachys, maybe?” he asked.

  But Amelia didn’t seem to know specifics about the Plain folk there, just that they were neighbors to her deceased grandparents. “I do remember that their prayer caps were cup shaped with many little pleats,” Amelia said. “Does that help any?”

  “Ah, like Cousin Mandie’s in Walnut Creek, ain’t so?” Lillianne said, looking at both Michael and Paul.

  “If you don’t mind my asking, why are there different head coverings?” asked Amelia.

  “Different styles of Kapps identify the church group,” Lillianne replied.

  “Kapps and many other things related to the ordinances,” Michael quickly added.

  “Ordnung,” said Paul, eyeing Amelia now.

  Lillianne wished someone might change the subject. “Amelia, you’ll enjoy stayin’ with Joanna Kurtz,” she piped up. “She’s one fine Amish girl—joined church years ago now.” She said the latter for Michael’s benefit, but by the expression on her son’s tanned face, her remark must have come off as scheming.

  “Amelia spent part of the morning over there,” Michael said.

  “I loved getting acquainted with the baby goats.” Amelia exchanged a smile with Michael.

  Jah, definitely a spark between ’em, thought Lillianne. Might spoil everything Paul and I have set out to do!

  Feeling downright jittery, she rose and went to slice her freshly baked orange nut bread.

  Chapter 16

  While Michael unloaded the cooler of food he’d taken to the cabin and got resettled at his father’s house, Amelia drove the short distance to Joanna’s, then inched the car into the lane. She wished she’d thought to ask Michael about the advisability of parking on the Kurtzes’ property. Will it cause problems? She intended to ask Joanna first thing.

  She slipped her overnight bag over her shoulder and retrieved her fiddle case, then headed for the back porch. Joanna’s family seemed to prefer using the back door that led through the screened-in porch and utility room to the kitchen.

  Standing on the steps, looking in, Amelia knocked lightly. Inside, she could hear the laughter of small children and the chatter of Pennsylvania Dutch. “It’s Amelia,” she called when she saw Joanna coming through the kitchen.

  “Nice seein’ ya again,” Joanna said.

  “I parked my car, um . . . in your driveway. If that’s a problem, I’ll move it.”

  Joanna shook her head quickly. “ ’Tis just fine where I saw ya park it. Kumme . . . I want ya to meet my little nieces and nephew visitin’ from Bird-in-Hand, just up the way a piece.”

  Relieved about her car, Amelia followed her, setting her fiddle and luggage down in the kitchen before making her way into the large front room. The door was standing wide and all of the windows were open, too, letting in a sultry breeze. The cute Amish children sat on the floor, giggling and building with blocks. The girls looked like miniatures of Joanna and Rhoda, and the boy was around the age Amelia had been when her father first placed a tiny violin in her little hands.

  Joanna went over to them and bent low, patting each child’s head as she said their names: “Stephen, Sylvia, and Susan. Our three S’s—my older sister Salina’s little ones.”

  “So four S’s,” Amelia said, squatting to greet them. “Hey, kiddos. Looks like you’re having fun.” Then looking at Joanna, she said, “They’re absolutely darling.”

  “Salina dropped them off for a few hours while she cooks up a feast to take to an ailing relative.”

  Amelia studied the children. “They look so close in age,” she said, eyes glued especially to the handsome little boy.

  Joanna said the oldest and youngest were but two years apart. “Nearly like triplets, ain’t?”

  Amelia couldn’t imagine having three in a row so close together. She could hardly pull herself away from them as she admired the girls’ tiny dresses and aprons. They looked nearly like dolls with their golden blond hair pulled back tightly in a knot.

  Little Stephen followed her into the kitchen when she went to retrieve her things. “Vas?” He pointed to her bag.

  “Just some clothes, sweetie.” She stopped and smiled at herself. “Do you speak English?” she asked softly.

  Towheaded Stephen just cocked his head and looked at her with round eyes.

  Soon, Joanna came to rescue her, talking in Deitsch and motioning toward Amelia and the staircase, perhaps explaining that Amelia was going to go upstairs and unpack. Turning to Amelia, she said, “Cor
a Jane’s room is all ready for ya. Or if you’d like mine, we can switch.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t do that.” Amelia was taken aback by Joanna’s generosity. So very thoughtful! “But thanks so much.”

  After she found her bedroom, just across the hall from Joanna’s, Amelia went straight to the window and looked out. Ah, perfect! The view overlooked a meadow where the grass was lush and green. She couldn’t imagine a more inviting place to practice her music.

  More than anything, she wished for a pair of shorts, but she was actually glad she had packed the feminine clothing she typically relied on for fiddling shows. That way she wasn’t tempted to wear something Joanna—or her mother—might think immodest. Shorts would certainly be that.

  She gave her clothes a slight shake, then hung them on hangers on the wooden pegs. The humidity would take care of any wrinkles.

  Walking to the oak dresser, Amelia admired the handmade doilies, the pretty hand mirror, and a dainty white china pin holder with a tiny top. There was also a small candleholder with a votive inside, and a German prayer book. Like Joanna’s room, the wide plank floor was adorned with a single oval hand-braided rug. The walls were an interesting shade of gray-blue that worked nicely with the blues and greens in the bed quilt.

  “Simple things are best,” Grammy had told her years before. In that moment, Amelia believed she was right—she didn’t want to contemplate the European tour any longer. In fact, she wished time might stand still.

  Amelia hummed the beginning strains of Mendelssohn’s “Sweet Remembrance” while strolling through Joanna’s backyard and toward the row of poplars along the west side of the house. Young Stephen and one of his younger sisters had come out to the screened-in porch and babbled at her. She turned and smiled and waved at them, hoping they might still be visiting when she returned.

  Stepping past the poplar windbreak, Amelia rambled through the open field profuse with black-eyed Susans and other summertime wildflowers, making her way with her violin to a mighty oak, where she claimed her spot.

  Amelia left the case open under the leafy tree and took up her fiddle. She tightened the A string to its correct tone—though she had never bragged about having perfect pitch, the sound resided in her head. Just as quickly, she tuned the remaining strings to the A string.

  Then Amelia leaned into her fiddle, transforming the instrument to her present needs as, slowly, she walked back and forth. She played through the Galamian acceleration scales using the metronome in her head, striving for perfect intonation, orderly shifting, and complete bow control.

  After an hour of warm-ups—her daily regimen of etudes, scales, arpeggios, and octaves—she began to play the first of her encore pieces, one she particularly loved because of the pathos in the first section before the more buoyant—even optimistic—second section.

  The blue of the sky increased in intensity, and the brilliance of the sun became even more pronounced as she fell into the music. She could hear the delicate piano accompaniment in her mind as she played the exquisite solo part.

  Her mind wandered as it often did while practicing—her fingers knew where to press the strings. “Muscle memory,” her father described it. And while Amelia missed her more expensive violin, her father’s fiddle would do her well for as long as she was here.

  Next she played “Vocalise” by Rachmaninov, a piece she’d played as a child. The haunting melody poured over her, and tears dimmed her eyes as she thought of Byron. True, their commitment had never been formalized, but there were so many expectations. She was unable to see herself undoing the past in order to create a new and different outcome. Surely she’d cared for Byron at some point, but . . . The thought hit her with a jolt: How long ago had their relationship fizzled?

  Amelia forced her mind back to her music and continued to work through her entire selection of concert pieces, imagining thousands of smiling faces in the U.K., Netherlands, and Germany, and the eventual applause that would follow. For this moment, though, she felt peaceful, there beneath the shadow of the sheltering tree. How she’d needed this reprieve from the weight she had carried for so long within her heart.

  Chapter 17

  Never before had Michael heard such lofty-sounding music. The piece was nothing like the country fiddling he sometimes enjoyed listening to.

  He followed the haunting melody down Hickory Lane, certain that what he was hearing must be Amelia. Except that this music was completely unlike the fiddle tunes she’d played at the cabin.

  Looking in the direction of the music, he saw not a soul in the wide field where Nate Kurtz turned out his colts in springtime. In fact, not a single grazing animal could he see. Maybe, because of the heat, they’d wandered back to the stable for water and feed.

  He bent low to slip under the fence, pulled toward the splendid sounds coming from the far end of the meadow. The sun beat down on him, and Michael was glad for his straw hat, pushing it back on his head to shield his vulnerable neck. The skin there burnt crisp red every summer, then peeled even after he put the cool sap-gel from an aloe vera plant on it.

  Eventually, he found Amelia beneath an enormous oak tree, her rich brown hair moving in the breeze as she swayed. He decided to remain out of sight, merely an observer soaking up the beauty—of the music and the musician. She wasn’t just talented; she was brilliant, playing without a speck of music to look at. For the next half hour or more, he sat listening several trees away.

  Then Amelia paused in her playing and sat down in the grass, her violin tucked under her arm. As in the cabin, he felt incredibly drawn to her. The depth of emotion in her performance, even while practicing alone here, signaled some sort of inner conflict. But what? Did it have to do with her father? He longed to know.

  After a time, she surprised him and raised the instrument and began again, now sitting against the tree trunk. This tune was slower and richer, two strings played simultaneously—the way she’d played her fiddle tunes.

  Interested to know the name of the sorrow-filled piece, he rose and walked toward her, circling out a bit so as not to startle her. But her eyes were closed as she drew her bow across the strings, and if he wasn’t mistaken, her cheeks glistened with tears.

  What’s wrong?

  Michael was startled. Certainly, he should not interrupt her reverie. And just as he was about to turn back out of respect for her solitude, Amelia opened her eyes. She continued her song, her face breaking into a slow smile. She was smiling at him!

  He nodded and removed his hat, although it seemed a foolish thing to do under the excruciating sun. Quickly, he put it on again, now grinning at her.

  He pointed to the ground, silently asking permission to invade her space. She nodded, all the while still playing the pretty tune. Although he liked it, the music baffled him.

  When the final note came, she sustained it for the longest time, so long in fact he wondered if she might run out of bow. Then, raising the bow ever so gracefully, Amelia lifted her eyes to him again. “You found me,” she said softly with that amazing smile.

  “Hope ya don’t mind.”

  She shook her head. “It is a little lonely out here.”

  “That was mighty perty—your playin’,” Michael said, not daring to say anything else. She just looked so angelic sitting there, the sun-dappled light falling around her.

  “ ‘Humoresque’ by Alexander de Taeye. Ever hear it?”

  “Not till now.”

  “By an obscure composer from Brussels, Belgium.” She placed her fiddle in the case, as well as the bow. “I happen to think it’s one of the most incredible violin pieces ever written.”

  “I can see why.”

  She smiled as she closed the case and snapped the lid. “I love it.” She pushed her glossy waves of hair back over her shoulder. “There’s something serene about that melody.”

  “Please . . . don’t stop on account of me.”

  She leaned back on her arms, her feet pointing toward him. “I’m surprised you enjoy this typ
e of music . . . since you also liked my fiddling.”

  “Well, it sounded like something straight from heaven.”

  “I think so, too.” Amelia sighed and wiped her face—her tears had dried. “I thought you might actually prefer the fiddling.”

  “I wouldn’t want to choose,” he said honestly. Then he asked, “You always play without music?”

  “I read the notes until I memorize the melody lines and chords. My father—and my formal instructor—taught me never to rely on repetitious practice for my classical performances . . . but to analyze the musical form, too.” Her eyes clouded; she must’ve realized then she’d said something she hadn’t planned to tell. Revealed something she preferred he not know?

  “Performances?” he asked. “You mean . . .”

  She bowed her head. “I should think before I speak.”

  He waited, aware of her inner struggle. What was she hiding?

  A long, awkward moment passed when the only sounds were the buzzing of insects in the grazing grass, and the occasional bleating of a far-off goat.

  “I have two names, Michael, for a reason.” She raised her head to look at him. “Because I have two lives of sorts.”

  “I don’t understand.” He removed his straw hat and scratched his head. Women were truly a riddle.

  “You know me as Amy Lee, a fiddler. But I’m also Amelia Devries, a concert violinist.”

  He studied her. “And is Amelia your real name?”

  Nodding, she offered a fragile smile. “It’s the name my parents gave me at birth.”

  “But why does this make you so sad?”

  “It’s a very long story. One no one really knows . . .”

  He glanced back at the barn in the distance. “Well, as you can see, it’s just me, myself, and I out here.” He shifted his legs, resting his chin on his knees, mighty curious. Yet he wasn’t certain she was going to open up. Despite her apparent candidness toward him last night, she seemed resistant to letting him in on her secret.