Fiddler, The Page 8

“Well, I daresay you’re doin’ fine.”

  “Thanks.” Amelia smiled to herself as Joanna led her next to a hen house, where they had to stoop to go inside.

  “Cozy little place, jah?”

  Amelia looked at the two rows of nests stacked on top of each other. “Just big enough for chickens, right?”

  “You’d think so, but my Kurtz great-great-grandparents lived here with their first wee babe . . . came down from New York.”

  “Really?”

  “Jah, while they finished building the main farmhouse.” Joanna motioned toward the spacious farmhouse across the yard. “That was many years ago.”

  “How long did they stick it out?” asked Amelia. “ I mean . . .” she began again, suddenly chagrined.

  “No, no, that’s all right.” Joanna perused the area. “I agree it’s awful close in here. But they stayed six weeks, till they could move into part of the new house.”

  Amelia was doubtful that such tight quarters could offer enough space for a couple, let alone a family with a baby.

  “I was so startled by Mamma’s tellin’, first time I heard it, I sat right down and wrote a story called ‘The Chicken Shed Haus.’ ” Joanna’s eyes grew wide and the pink in her cheeks turned distinctly red. “I mean . . . ya didn’t hear none of that from me, all right?”

  Amelia nodded and wondered why Joanna was anxious to cover up what she’d said. “So you’re a writer?”

  Joanna’s eyes bored into her, and Amelia was taken aback by the peculiar, almost horrified look on the young woman’s pretty face. “Ach, I don’t know what got into me,” Joanna said, looking over her shoulder nervously. “I never should’ve—”

  “Aren’t you allowed to write stories?”

  Joanna shook her head forlornly. “You won’t tell, will ya? You’re friends with Michael, ain’t?”

  Amelia considered the strange way she and Michael had met and realized they had secrets of their own. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

  Joanna broke into a relieved smile. “I felt sure you were trustworthy by your eyes,” she said.

  Amelia blushed. And the more minutes that ticked by, the more she felt a curious kinship with Joanna. Their worlds couldn’t be more different. Yet she felt as if she and Joanna were on equal footing.

  A short time later they strolled across the backyard and into the large farmhouse. The smell of freshly baked bread filled the kitchen as Joanna introduced Amelia to her middle-aged mother, Rhoda, and a neighbor, Rachel Stoltzfus. The plump, blue-eyed women were dressed nearly exactly like Joanna, only in gray dresses and black aprons as they sat and peeled potatoes for the noon meal. They were polite yet reserved, and Amelia hoped they weren’t concerned about the worldly girl standing in the safe haven of Rhoda Kurtz’s kitchen.

  “It’s nice to meet both of you,” Amelia said.

  The women smiled shyly, but neither offered her hand, soiled as they were from the chore.

  Meanwhile, Joanna reached for a piece of fruit from the bowl in the middle of the table mounded with fleshy red and green grapes. Amelia had never seen such a large bowl. Joanna urged her to take some, too, as did Rhoda, who nodded when she looked up from her work. Amelia thanked them and plucked off only a few, noticing that the neighbor woman seemed ill at ease.

  Because of me? Amelia wondered.

  Thankfully, Joanna led the way upstairs to her room. There, she explained that her mother and Rachel rarely interacted with English folk. “They’ve been sheltered more than many of the women in Hickory Hollow. Others work outside the house at quilting shops over in Intercourse Village and at Central Market in downtown Lancaster.”

  “Well, I’m grateful to them for letting me visit you,” Amelia said as she took in the room—a double bed with a headboard and footboard, as well as a small square bedside table and a large multicolored braided rug between the bed and the dresser. There was a cane-back chair under each of the two tall windows, and a hope chest at the foot of the bed. Amelia went to peer more closely at the lovely quilt on the bed. “This is so beautiful,” she said.

  “Quilted and hemmed in a single day,” Joanna said.

  Amelia admired the tiny hand stitches. “How many quilters does it require to do it so fast?”

  “Oh, ten to twelve.”

  “Impressive.”

  “We work as a group—like very close friends.”

  Friends . . . Amelia sighed, wishing for more time to develop closer relationships with her own existing acquaintances. What would that be like?

  A large rag doll on one of the cane-backed chairs caught her eye. The faceless doll was dressed in a blue dress with a white see-through apron and white head covering. “What a cute doll,” she said, going over to look at it.

  “She’s my little bride doll,” Joanna was quick to explain.

  “How can you tell she’s a bride?” Amelia asked curiously.

  “Ah, well, Amish brides typically dress this way on their wedding day.” Joanna motioned toward the chairs. “Please take a seat, Amelia. You can move the doll if ya like.”

  “Thanks,” Amelia said, feeling as comfortable with Joanna as she had with Michael. “What is it about the Amish?” she blurted before realizing what she’d said.

  “What do ya mean?”

  “I feel so content here.”

  “Ya know, now that you mention it, I know other Englischers who say that.” Joanna knelt on the floor beside the hope chest.

  So it’s not just me. . . .

  Amelia thought of Michael again and was relieved Joanna had mentioned this, because it seemed to explain the strange attraction Amelia had initially had to him. And here she’d thought she might actually be a little infatuated with an Amishman. How absurd! We haven’t even known each other a full day.

  Joanna opened the lid to her cedar hope chest and removed an assortment of embroidered pieces that had been arranged and folded neatly inside. “These are just waiting for the day when I’ll set up housekeeping,” she whispered, then blushed as she caught herself. “You think I’m bapplich, ain’t so?”

  “You’re not too talkative at all.” Amelia grinned.

  Joanna leaned her head back. “Talkative I am—if not a blabbermouth.” Then, as if just registering what Amelia had said, Joanna asked, “Wait a minute, do you know Deitsch?”

  “A tiny bit.” Amelia told her quickly about her summers in Ohio Amish country with her grandparents.

  “You must miss going there. Do ya?”

  “Yes . . . very much.” Amelia nodded. “And I miss my grandparents, too.”

  They talked awhile about Joanna’s own two sets of Grosseldre. “Mamma’s parents live in the Dawdi Haus next door, and Dat’s live neighbors to Abe and Rachel Stoltzfus . . . but within walkin’ distance. We look after them, ya know.”

  “I wish mine had lived closer to us all those years,” Amelia said.

  Joanna agreed. “Jah, ’tis a joy, for sure.”

  Amelia nodded, knowing she’d missed a lot by living so far from her mother’s parents. Thankfully, her paternal grandparents were still alive, though she had never been as close to them. Why not? Amelia wondered, wishing to remedy that.

  She’d only just arrived, yet visiting Hickory Hollow was already beginning to stir up a myriad of memories.

  “Well, what’s this?” Lillianne Hostetler’s hand flew to her mouth. She was out weeding her flower beds when she spotted Michael walking up the road, coming this way. She tensed up immediately, swallowing hard. Just yesterday he’d taken a week’s worth of food to wherever he’d rushed off to. Was her son returning already?

  Oh goodness, she surely hoped so. With all of her heart she did. And she promised herself she would not question what had caused Michael to come back this soon. Watching him walk toward the house now, with such confidence, threw her off beam. She ought to look for Paul to alert him. “Glory be!” she said as she left the hand trowel on the ground and got up.

  She dashed around the side of the house, past
the old well pump and the clotheslines. She found Paul in the stable, grooming one of the driving horses. His light brown hair was oily from the heat and humidity, and there was a piece of a cornstalk stuck to the back of his shirt. “Paul . . . Paul,” she said, quite out of breath. “Remember what the bishop said to do if Michael returned?”

  He frowned and paused, brush in his hand. “What’s all your fluster for, Lily?”

  “Our boy’s a-comin’—just saw Michael walking up the lane,” she told him. “We must welcome him back.” She caught her breath and waved her hankie to cool herself.

  By the look of consternation on her husband’s face, Lillianne could tell the bishop’s recent admonition was still fresh in his mind.

  Paul gave her a practiced frown and turned back to his work. “I’ll do my best.”

  Without delay, she began to pray silently as she made her way toward the house. O Gott, help my husband give it his all. Then, realizing what she’d prayed, Lillianne changed her mind. No, I mean help Paul soften his tongue, dear Lord. . . .

  Feeling altogether anxious yet at the same time joyful, she intended to see this through, come what may, and not just for the sake of the bishop. Her skirt flapped against her legs as she hurried around to the front of the house in time to see Michael marching her way.

  Lillianne stared, quite befuddled. What does it mean?

  Chapter 13

  Michael’s heart went out to his mother, whose face was alight as she spotted him. He simply could not let her think he was returning for good . . . wouldn’t be fair. His gut wrenched. “I’m just comin’ to talk to Daed awhile,” he explained.

  “Oh.” Her dear face turned sad. “He’s out yonder . . . in the stable.”

  Michael gave his head an abrupt nod. “Why don’t ya come along, too?”

  “Are ya sure?”

  “ ’Course I am, Mamma.”

  “All right, then.”

  He noticed her stiffen, and the worry lines on her forehead were suddenly visible. One way or the other, I have to do this. O Lord, he prayed, have mercy on all of us.

  The humid stable air smelled like a mixture of sweet hay and feed. Daed stroked the horse’s side, working the currying brush as dots of perspiration stood out on his neck and face. His middle hung slightly over the waistband of his dark work pants.

  Mamm busied herself in the next stall, then went to water their younger horse. Michael hung back at first, observing Daed’s caring way with old Cricket. He’s so gentle with the animals. . . .

  Drawing in a slow breath, he made his feet move forward. It was time to go through with it. Long overdue.

  Thoughts of their many quarrels came rushing back. In reality, they were all about differences of opinion—molehills made into mountains. Michael knew that now. Even a short time away from this familiar setting had brought a measure of perspective. As had Amelia . . .

  His father glanced over at Michael, spotting him there. The horse neighed loudly, and Daed looked back at the animal, still moving his grooming brush. Demanding soul, Cricket . . .

  “Daed, I’d like to talk to you for a minute.”

  “What’s on your mind?”

  Pausing, Michael wondered whether to blurt out his decision and just be done with it. Just get the hatt—difficult—task over right quick. Wouldn’t it be less painful for both of them that way?

  Turning again slightly, Daed ran a callused hand through his thick, dark beard. “Listen, Michael, I’ve thought ’bout what I said yesterday. Frankly, I was out of order.” His voice was quiet, unruffled.

  “I’m not here for an apology, Daed. I’ve provoked your anger unnecessarily, and all too often.”

  “But I lost my temper—a sin and a shame,” his father rebutted. “Never should’ve talked that way.”

  “Daed, I—”

  “If ya don’t mind, let your old man finish, won’t ya?”

  Nodding but feeling frustrated, Michael waited. “Jah . . . sorry.”

  Daed scratched the horse behind his ears. “Your Mamma and I are hopin’ you’ll stay on here as long as need be . . . till you join church. We mean this, son.” Daed extended his hand. “Making your life vow’s a mighty serious thing.”

  Even though astounded by his father’s tone and offer, Michael accepted his handshake—a stronger grip he’d never felt. “Tellin’ the truth, I never expected this,” he said, uncomfortable now.

  “And, son, there’s something else.”

  “Jah?”

  “I don’t want ya parkin’ your car over yonder at your uncle Jerry’s. I ain’t blind, Michael; I know you thought you were hidin’ it there.” Daed’s brawny shoulders rose and fell. “From now on, keep it here, parked in the lane.” He pointed at the window across the stable.

  “I wouldn’t think of disgracing you thataway,” Michael replied.

  “Bishop John insists . . . and so do I.”

  The bishop? Michael was stunned, yet he knew better than to question.

  Daed’s eyes were moist in the corners.

  No . . . no, Michael thought, don’t go soft on me!

  Nearly an hour passed, and Amelia wondered what was keeping Michael—hopefully things were going well with his visit home. She mentally stopped herself. Was it possible she cared too much about the outcome, having identified so readily with Michael’s woes?

  Joanna was presently talking about several sewing projects, some of which she sold at Bird-in-Hand Farmers’ Market on Route 340, she said.

  “Do you have many encounters with Englishers?” Amelia asked.

  “Not much other than at market.” Joanna shook her head quickly. “My cousin Marissa was the closest English friend I had . . . ’cept Mennonites aren’t really considered fancy folk so much anymore. Her family is pretty conservative.”

  “Marissa? Is that the same girl who was engaged to Michael?” Amelia stared at the hope chest within feet of where she sat, determined not to meet Joanna’s eyes—like Michael, she seemed to read her far too easily.

  Joanna told her that Cousin Marissa was indeed one and the same. “You know ’bout her?” Her tone revealed her surprise. She might as well have said, “I think you know Michael better than you’re letting on. . . .”

  “She must be a very special girl,” Amelia said.

  “Oh, is she ever.”

  Amelia wasn’t sure she should ask the question but did anyway. “Where is your cousin now?”

  Rising, Joanna went to the window and looked out. “She’s training to go overseas, as a missionary.”

  “Don’t mean to be nosy,” Amelia said.

  “Not to fret.”

  “I’d guess you find it somewhat awkward talking to an outsider. Especially about family.”

  Joanna shook her head. “With you, not at all.” Then her face broke into a pleasant smile. “Gut friends—the way I feel with Marissa.”

  Do I remind her of Michael’s former fiancée? Amelia cringed.

  Then, as if reading her thoughts, Joanna pulled the other chair over next to hers and sat down. “I’m not comparing you to her, mind you. It’s more of a feeling, I guess. But like I said earlier, you do resemble someone from just up the road.” Pausing, Joanna gazed into her face. “Michael’s only niece is slender and tall, too, and has dark hair like yours.” Joanna frowned momentarily, looking away suddenly. “I guess Michael didn’t tell you?”

  “Tell me what?”

  “That Lizzie’s been a-yearnin’ for the English world. Got her first taste of it when she begged Michael to let her drive his car some time back.” Joanna shook her head sadly. “’Tis just a shame—such a gut girl she used to be. To think she’s bringing heartache to her parents.”

  “Has she left Hickory Hollow?”

  “Jah, she wanted to get her education, like Michael’s doin’. Enrolled in the spring quarter at a college in Harrisburg is what I heard.”

  Suddenly Amelia felt somehow party to Michael’s rebellion, knowing he was speaking to his father even now about
his intention to leave home.

  They sat there, neither adding more to the conversation. Finally Joanna revealed how “awful anxious” everyone had been about Michael the past few years, hoping he might become a church member . . . someday.

  Amelia did not have the heart to tell her how close he was to “going fancy.” Instead she shared something of her own father’s aspirations for her.

  One thing led to another, and eventually Amelia told Joanna about the storm that blew in last night and led her to Michael.

  “Michael’s an upstanding fella, I’ll say,” Joanna said.

  Amelia agreed, careful to hold her smile in check.

  Lillianne shooed flies with the hem of her long black apron. She had nothing at all to hide, despite the fact she’d overheard everything her husband and son had said to each other. And oh, if she wasn’t ever so pleased with Paul’s kindly way. This time . . . thank the dear Lord.

  Yesterday, their strict bishop had stopped by and declared that Paul must use a gentler hand—and words—with Michael from here on out. “Heap coals of fire,” Bishop John had encouraged them. He was adamant that they retain Michael for God and the church, no matter what it took. Obviously, what they had been doing was not working one iota.

  Lillianne had never known Bishop John to be so sympathetic, and she couldn’t help but wonder if he felt sorry about past harsh demands on some of the young folk. “You must learn to rein in your temper—show kindness and be longsuffering,” the bishop had told Paul, who had nodded, clearly wretched after Michael had fled the house.

  “O Lord, show our Michael the way,” Lillianne whispered as she headed down to the springhouse. She glanced out toward the road, hoping Michael might take his father’s invitation to heart.

  Their son had looked mighty ferhoodled when he came out of the stable. He must’ve come back to say he was leaving.

  He had surprised her, though, by telling Paul he would consider staying on at the house for a bit longer. And, oh, if her heart hadn’t leapt at that!

  Just maybe Paul’s words will burrow down into Michael’s heart. Lillianne trusted so.