The Fiddler (28 page)

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.

Mom continued. “We have a doctor’s appointment tomorrow, and we’ll see what the doctor thinks—we can’t risk his getting pneumonia.”

Her father had suffered that several times since the Parkinson’s diagnosis years ago. “He does look a bit pale.”

Mom agreed, frowning. “He’s tired a lot lately, so anything you can do to help alleviate stress would be welcome.”

She sensed Mom’s protective attitude toward Dad, but the implication was also there for Amelia to be more sensitive, which struck her hard. No matter how she’d felt about the tour, or her musical future—her
life—
while in the tranquil bubble of the Amish community, all of that had just flown out the window. This was reality, and her father’s fragile state required that she continue on with the plan, if for no other reason than to honor him.

“Between you and me, Mom, I’d really hoped to have a say in this tour. That’s all.”

“Well, of course you will.”

“No . . . I mean about going at all.”

Mom looked puzzled. “Well, honey, why wouldn’t you want to?”

Amelia looked away, tears threatening to spill over. Unable to speak, she felt all too aware of her parents’ expectations, the walls closing in . . . again.

Her mother inched forward, then stopped. “You’ll be well looked after, Amelia. All of your needs taken care of . . . you know that.”

She sniffed softly. “I’m thinking of getting off the fast track. I have other goals, too.” Amelia shook her head. “No one seems to care what I want.”

“But performing is your thing. It’s what you do so well.”

“Right, but I want some balance in my life. I’m interested in community, in being a part of something. I’d also like to help raise awareness for the arts—for instance, maybe speak at libraries and public schools . . . share my love of music in general.”

“Those things are wonderful,” her mother said, offering a smile. “Is that everything you long for?”

“I want it all, of course—a good husband, my own family.” Amelia hugged herself. “Star status is meaningless without a real life.”
I’m losing it,
she thought as the tears rolled down her cheeks.

“Amelia, honey, are you okay?”

She looked at her mother’s sweet face and swallowed hard. “I’m sorry, Mom. It’s just that—” Her voice broke, and she left the thought unfinished.

“I didn’t know you felt this way, Amelia. It’s quite a surprise.”

“Well, it hardly matters now. The bookings for Europe are practically set in stone.”

Mom nodded. “Your father’s counting on you to pull off this tour—brilliantly, as always.”

“Most definitely.”

“But if you still feel this way after you’re home—”

“Well, I have for a few years.”

Mom’s expression was more serious now. “Then I’ll do what I can to lay the groundwork with your father. When you return, we’ll sit down and discuss it as a family.”

“I’d love that, but what will Dad say?”

“Amelia, he’s
convinced
you’re excited about touring. So if you haven’t told him otherwise, how would he even know?”

Amelia was heartened but wouldn’t hold her breath. “I really don’t want to hurt or disappoint him.”

“I’ll figure out something. In the meantime, you enjoy this opportunity in Europe—play from your very heart. Fulfill everything you’ve worked for, and when you come back, we’ll talk.”

An enormous burden began to lift. Amelia wiped her eyes again, wishing for a box of tissues.

“Mom?”

“Yes, honey.”

“Thanks.”

Her mother reached to embrace her. “No worries?”

Amelia shook her head and excused herself, walking back to say good-bye to her father. “I’m sorry about walking away from you earlier, Dad,” she said, reaching for his hand. He gave it a gentle squeeze, and she continued. “This is going to be the best tour ever. I’m totally focused on the two concertos I’m planning . . . and there’ll be no more fiddling stints in my near future. Okay?”

He suddenly looked frail, his head trembling as he slowly nodded. “Thanks, Amelia.”

“We’ll talk soon, okay? Take care of yourself.” She meant every word.

Amelia returned to the family room, where her mother stood waiting, dark eyes glistening. “Call me if you need anything, Mom,” she said.

“We’re glad you’re home. Come over for dinner sometime, all right?” Mom smiled.

Reaching for the door, Amelia let herself out and strode down the stone walkway to her car, then glanced back to see her mother standing at the living room window.
Please work your magic with Dad!
she thought and waved.

I
nstead of going straight home, Amelia headed to the wireless store and purchased a new cell phone. By the time she’d set it up, she was starving. She texted Byron to ask if she could meet him somewhere for a bite to eat. Within seconds, he texted back—he was away at a concert.

When can we talk?
she asked.

He waited momentarily, then replied:
I’ll give you a call on the drive to the hotel, OK?

Amelia stopped to pick up a few groceries and headed home to make a quick supper for herself. Tired and very hungry, she was anxious to relax over a nice hot meal . . . and then put in some practice time. After a day of sitting behind the wheel—and the difficult discussion with her parents—the thought of playing her warm-ups and the Tchaikovsky concerto made her feel revitalized.

“Wonderful-
gut
,” she said, trying on the words. But they fell flat as Amelia considered her father’s delicate health. Even a cold could pose problems for him. She steamed a medley of vegetables and tossed a fresh salad while waiting for salmon to grill out on the deck. Maybe she should have taken the groceries over to her parents’ to cook for all of them instead.

But music was her comfort, and she needed to be alone with it tonight. The Wise Woman had counseled her to make music as if it were a divine calling, Amelia remembered suddenly.
“Play your fiddle for the Good Lord above.”
And so she did just that.

That night, Byron phoned Amelia as promised. Despite the awkwardness between them last Thursday, their conversation was initially pleasant, filled with casual niceties. But when Amelia suggested their lives were no longer moving in the same direction, he fell silent.