Fiddler, The Page 18

  She was quiet.

  “I know you have a music schedule to keep, and there’s really no place to practice here.”

  She touched his arm briefly. “Michael, I would love to stay longer, but that’s impossible. Besides, you’re right . . . I need to be more focused on my music.”

  It was all he could do not to reach for her hand. “I’ll turn around just up the road, if you’re ready to head back.”

  “I am, thanks.” There was a catch in her voice.

  There was no point in dragging this good-bye out for either of them, Michael knew. Truth was, Amelia had come to visit Amish country, and now she wanted to return to her English world.

  Where she belongs, he thought miserably.

  Chapter 30

  As they walked up the moonlit driveway, Amelia thanked Michael for inviting her to Hickory Hollow. “And for the buggy ride, too,” she said. “It was like something straight out of the history books. Do you take the horse and carriage out much?”

  “It’s been months, really. I prefer goin’ faster than ten miles an hour.”

  She laughed. “Well, if you did this for me tonight, I enjoyed it.” She smiled at him. “It was very thoughtful of you.”

  He admitted to also having driven the carriage to Elizabeth’s parents’ earlier today. “But you’re welcome . . . anytime.”

  She wondered if he’d mentioned his niece so she wouldn’t think he was singling her out. And it crossed her mind to ask how the visit with his brother and family had gone, but it really wasn’t her business. Helping rescue Elizabeth was all she could do. Now it was up to Elizabeth to decide which life she favored. She’d lived on the outside long enough to make that choice for herself.

  “Meetin’ you has been mighty nice, Amelia,” Michael said when they stopped halfway up the driveway, just behind her car.

  “I’ve enjoyed getting to know you, too . . . and your family and friends.” She smiled, recalling the many things she’d learned in just a short time. And the secrets she had promised to keep. “I’m glad you talked me into making this little detour.”

  “Well, you got me thinking about things I’d swept under the rug,” he said. “And for that I’m truly thankful.” His eyes continued to rest on her as if he wanted to say more, and Amelia had the distinct impression Michael was about to say something that suggested he had the beginnings of feelings for her. But for some reason he pulled back. She hadn’t forgotten how he’d seemed to nearly reach for her hand while riding in the buggy. For a moment there, she hoped he might.

  “I wish I could have stuck to my original plan . . . to go English.” He stopped, still looking intently at her. “But with everything that’s happened lately, that just isn’t possible . . . at least right now.”

  She didn’t want him to feel he had to say this for her benefit, yet she sensed he wished he could spend more time with her . . . and even regretted that he couldn’t.

  Michael glanced up at the house, then quickly at her. “Ach, it’d be a wonder if we aren’t bein’ observed.”

  “Yes, we should probably call it a night.” She turned reluctantly, then waved to him, her fiddle case in hand. “Thanks again . . . or should I say ‘Denki’?”

  “I hope things work out for you, Amelia—whatever you decide about your career.”

  They moved slowly toward the house, Amelia willing her feet to keep going forward. “I appreciate that,” she said over her shoulder. “And I hope the best for you, too.”

  “Good-bye, Amelia. Da Herr sei mit du—God be with you.”

  She wanted to say it back. Something . . . anything. But she didn’t trust herself. And, besides, what Michael had said about their possibly being watched was unnerving.

  She went around the side of the house to the back porch. Pausing there, she waited until Michael’s footsteps faded and the horse and carriage moved up the road. The clip-clop-clip of the horse’s hooves had already become such a welcome and familiar sound. One she would miss.

  Inside, Amelia stood near the window as a wave of immense sadness washed over her. Just like that . . . he’s gone, she thought suddenly. Yet there was nothing she could do to alter things. She’d encountered someone interesting but from a completely different culture. It’s been a lovely moment in time . . . nothing more, she told herself.

  Sighing, she crept through the gas-lit kitchen to the staircase.

  Joanna stood at the top of the stairs, a small lantern held high. “I left the gas lamp burnin’ for ya.”

  “Thanks for lighting the way,” she said, not wanting to linger in the hallway near Joanna’s parents’ room.

  “Goodness, are you all right?” asked Joanna, studying her. “You look a bit flushed.”

  “Must be your lantern. I feel fine.”

  “ ’Tis gut, then.”

  She followed Joanna to her room, where the blue notebook lay open on the bed. Several pillows were bunched together at the head. “I hope I didn’t interrupt your writing.”

  “I wanted to wait up for you. Besides, it’s not that late.”

  Amelia sat on the bed, eyeing the notebook. “What’s this story about?”

  “A love story,” Joanna said, her eyes sparkling. Then before Amelia could respond to that, she quickly said, “Michael’s awful nice, ain’t?”

  Amelia smiled, her eyes starting to water. What’s wrong with me? “Very nice.” She blinked hard. “I must be tired.”

  Joanna watched her closely. “He’s a wonderful friend to many, which is where all gut relationships begin, Mamma says.”

  “Well, we’re as different as a fiddle tune and the Brahms concerto.” She wanted to immediately dispel any romantic notions.

  “Oh, of course. I didn’t mean to say—” Joanna gave her an almost teasing look. “But people are people, no matter what.”

  Amelia laughed. “What do you mean by that?”

  “I was just thinkin’.” Joanna looked away. “Oh, maybe I shouldn’t say.”

  “Michael and I are friends . . . it’s okay.”

  Nodding slowly, Joanna asked, “What if he wasn’t Amish—or if you weren’t English? What might happen then?”

  Amelia laughed softly. “That’s purely hypothetical. And I’ve only known him for, what, a few days?”

  Joanna smiled sweetly. “You can know a lot after only a couple hours ridin’ in a buggy.”

  So she was watching!

  Amelia welcomed the evening air coming through the open window from where she sat. She was surprised that Joanna would be so direct. Then again, hadn’t Amelia walked in with a red face that almost demanded a gentle interrogation? “I know you’ll never breathe a word of this, so I’ll just say that I found Michael to be thoughtful, kind, and fun-loving. Things you already know.” She paused, measuring her words. “He’s also very insightful and honest.”

  Joanna’s mischievous twinkle returned. “So I take it you’re not attracted to him in the least?”

  “I didn’t say that.” Amelia caught herself, noting the speed of her reply. Her cheeks felt warm again, and Joanna was looking at her with that playful expression.

  So what was she saying? Amelia felt foolish talking about something that could never be. “I’m not putting you off, Joanna.”

  “All right, then . . . I’ll assume that you must be befuddled.”

  Joanna could be just plain disarming. “Sure, let’s go with that. Actually, ferhoodled might be even better,” Amelia said.

  They shared a good laugh, and Amelia hoped Joanna would broach a new topic. Talking about Michael made her head hurt.

  “I hope I don’t embarrass you further, but I’m goin’ to miss talking to you when you go,” Joanna said, sighing softly. “Would ya mind too awful much exchanging addresses?”

  Amelia was delighted. “You don’t have email, do you?”

  “No, I prefer writing by hand.” Joanna reached for her notebook and tore out a page, then folded it in half and tore again. She jotted down her mailing address, and A
melia did the same. “This way I can keep you informed ’bout Elizabeth, if you’d like.”

  “Oh, definitely.”

  “And Michael, too.” Joanna grinned.

  Amelia kept a poker face, even though she was curious to know what his future held. “I would enjoy hearing about you most of all, Joanna. Maybe you can tell me how things progress with your beau.”

  Joanna nodded, eyes sparkling at the prospect, and reached for her hand. “It’s my truest joy to count you as a friend, even though we’re different as a tulip and a petunia.”

  Amelia laughed. “I’m so glad we met.”

  “Oh, and I am, too!” Joanna offered her a place to stay anytime she was in Lancaster County. “I’d just love to have you come an’ visit again.”

  Amelia thanked her and promised to keep in touch. Then they said good-night.

  Joanna slipped downstairs to turn off the gas lamp, then returned to “outen the lantern” before slipping into bed. Amelia did the same across the hall, musing fondly about her new friend. So sweet . . .

  She rolled to face the window and looked out at the clear moon, thinking back on her first-ever buggy ride. Hopefully, Michael didn’t think her in a hurry to say good-bye. Quite the contrary. She had curbed her true emotions, like a violinist playing without a stitch of integrity.

  Closing her eyes, Amelia sighed deeply. Tomorrow I must leave all of this happiness behind. . . .

  But it was Joanna’s question that lingered as she slipped into sleep: “What if he wasn’t Amish—or if you weren’t English?”

  Chapter 31

  Mornin’, Rebecca. Would ya like a slice of cold watermelon?” Lillianne asked her longtime friend and neighbor when she showed up at the back door midmorning on Monday washday.

  “Sounds delicious.”

  Lillianne took a plate from the cupboard and cut a thick slice from the watermelon, already halved thanks to Paul, who’d helped her earlier while inside resting his wounded ankle. “I see ya got your washin’ all hung out.”

  Rebecca Lapp nodded as she took a seat on the bench by the table, clearly not interested in talking about washing and who’d gotten theirs out first. “Maybe ya know ’bout the fiddler in our midst. Rhoda Kurtz has her stayin’ over yonder, jah?”

  “Amelia’s her name,” Lillianne said right quick, still standing.

  “Sounds as fancy as it gets.”

  Lillianne nodded, guessing what was coming. “But she’s gone, is what I’ve heard.”

  “Prob’ly a gut thing, too, from what’s goin’ round,” Rebecca added.

  “Oh?”

  “Seems one of the Harvest Road preachers is put out, what with her stirrin’ up musical cravings in the youth.”

  “Well, there’s two sides to ev’ry story, remember.”

  “You can say that again.”

  Lillianne wondered if Rebecca might bring up her own daughter, Katie’s, love for guitar playing.

  “Guess that preacher and his wife have been puttin’ out fires ’bout last night’s hoedown.” Rebecca forked a piece of watermelon. “Kinda makes my heart sad.” She looked up at Lillianne. “Besides all that, do ya think the Englischer had herself a nice time here?”

  “Well, I think so, but Joanna would know better, really.”

  Shrugging, Rebecca smiled. “Hard to know what goes through young folks’ minds anymore.”

  So true of our Elizabeth . . . But Lillianne didn’t mention her, lest they get to fretting over that, too. And from the looks of it, Lillianne felt sure her friend and neighbor might need a respite from gossip. “You just enjoy your treat there, all right?”

  “Well, won’t ya come over here and sit for a spell?”

  “Happy to.” She looked out the window and saw Elizabeth feeding the chickens, still dressed English. But instead of saying anything, Lillianne decided the poor thing had been through enough. It was just wonderful-good to know her granddaughter hadn’t made any noises about returning to Harrisburg. There’d be plenty of time to wash up the pretty fiddler’s clothes she had borrowed and send them back to her. According to Michael, Joanna had asked for Amelia’s mailing address. Of all things.

  Maybe soon, Elizabeth would realize her place was here with the People. Oh, Lillianne wouldn’t dream of giving up hope for that!

  What was I thinking? Michael mused about Amelia while he worked alongside his two older brothers and father in the harness shop that morning. It would’ve been pointless. Still, he deliberated whether he should have revealed his attraction to her.

  She has a boyfriend, after all. Despite that, he wished he could go after her, give her an excuse to visit longer. But his father’s injury—and Elizabeth’s return home—all pulled him back. Daed was in need of all kinds of help now. So much that Michael wondered how he’d even keep up with his draftsman work. He knew he was mighty tied to the People, and he tried not to resent it.

  What reason does the Lord have for extending my time here?

  By early evening, Amelia was pulling in to the gated community in Columbus where her parents lived. She stopped at the gatehouse to wave at the familiar attendant.

  The pristine landscape reminded her of Rhoda Kurtz’s own immaculate yard as Amelia drove onto the stone-paved driveway leading to the excutive-style home. Getting out, she went up the walk to the front entrance, where a water fountain was centered, topiaries nearby. No one she’d met in Hickory Hollow ever entered their homes by way of the front door.

  Putting the past few days out of her mind, she let herself in with her key and hoped both parents might be home at the same time. When she heard their voices, she followed the sound to one of several decks and balconies overlooking the pool area below. The gardener had recently deadheaded Mom’s favorite red geraniums; each cluster of blooms looked perfect. The clay pots stood in a neat row across the length of the lovely balcony where Mom sat on a wooden deck chair next to Dad’s.

  Amelia hung back a moment, taking in the pleasant sight.

  Her father turned, his furrowed brow relaxing as his tanned face burst into a broad smile. His thinning light brown hair had recently been cut. “Amelia . . . you’re back in town. Please, come and join us. We have much to talk about.”

  She held her breath as she made her way outside and pulled up a deck chair.

  Her mother smiled with her eyes. “Welcome home, dear.”

  “Thanks for letting us know you were detained,” Dad offered. “Your mother said you called.”

  “I visited an Amish community in Pennsylvania—Lancaster County, to be exact. It was a bit of a fluke but enjoyable all the same.”

  “Well, that sounds very nice,” Mom said.

  “It was, actually,” Amelia admitted.

  Dad nodded. “We wondered what was keeping you.” He paused for a moment and looked her way with scrutinizing eyes. “Byron called here . . . filled us in on your little, shall I say, musical adventure?”

  Amelia grimaced. So they knew.

  “Something about playing with a country band.” Her father coughed. “I set him straight, of course . . . let him know he was quite mistaken.”

  So it didn’t matter that Stoney promised not to spill the beans. Byron did it for him!

  “No, Dad, Byron was quite right.”

  Dad frowned. “What do you mean?”

  She told them everything: about winning the New England fiddling championship, playing with the Bittersweet Band, and of sneaking around all this time to do so. And she talked glowingly about being one of the warm-up acts for Tim McGraw. The latter mention brought a surprised and elated look from her mother, but it was only fleeting.

  “Amelia, my dear girl . . .” Dad glanced at Mom, his eyebrows raised, and Amelia wilted. “The European tour is set to begin in early October. I assume Stoney talked to you?”

  “He did. And just so you know, I haven’t sacrificed any concerto practice time for the fiddling gigs.”

  “Well, how can you manage to maintain both musical styles?”

/>   “It’s possible, Dad.”

  “But certainly not well.”

  She groaned inwardly. Naturally he’d say that.

  “When Stoney brings your contract over to sign, I hope you’ll show him the greatest respect.”

  “You taught me well, Dad.” Amelia couldn’t bear to sit there and hear the same old, same old. Besides, she had been driving all day. “You know what? I’m tired . . . and I really need to check on things at home.”

  Dad tried to clasp his hands triumphantly, holding them up as they wavered. “Think of the prestige, Amelia . . . and if not that, the money you’ll garner for each concert, upward of—”

  “Dad, please . . . it’s never been about any of that.” She leaned her head into her hands, willing herself to breathe. “I love the music, remember?” she said.

  “Which is your career,” her father punctuated. “What’s gotten into you?”

  She rose quickly and retreated inside.

  Her mother followed her into the house, where they stood in the expansive family room. “Your father’s had another bad night,” Mom said. “He’s out of sorts.”

  “I noticed.”

  “Amelia . . .” Her mom searched her eyes. “He has a dreadful cold. You know he has a tough time with any sort of illness.”

  “Well, he can relax. Nothing has changed.”

  “Your father doesn’t know how to tell you this. . . .”

  “Tell me what?”

  “He’s not up to traveling with you this fall.” Mom bowed her head for a moment, clearly upset. “He won’t be accompanying you on the tour.”

  The news was surprising—Dad lived for touring, said he enjoyed it even more than his own former glory days on the road. Amelia and her mother walked together to the marble-floored entryway and stood there.