The Fiddler (33 page)

After several hours of vigorous practice that evening, Amelia curled up on her sofa with her laptop. Eagerly, she checked her email and saw that her webmaster had forwarded quite a few from her web site. And there were a handful from out-of-state relatives, as well. But she scanned the list again and saw nothing at all from Michael.

Nothing in three days . . .

Sighing, she stared out the window and watched the clouds drift slowly across the azure sky as daylight faded. Was it her imagination, or had Michael been pulling away from her in their last email exchange? She pondered it further and knew it was true, feeling saddened. But she had to respect his decision—he must have chosen to salvage his life as an Amishman after all.
I have no claim on him,
Amelia thought, even though the realization hurt.

She recalled Michael’s thoughtful post on her fan page during her tour and tried to picture him enjoying a Christmas dinner seated around Lillianne’s table with his extended family. It wouldn’t be long until Joanna’s large family would be doing the same, down Hickory Lane. Ella Mae Zook would most definitely be included with her daughter Mattie and her husband and children and grandchildren. No widow would be left alone on such a day.
The family embraces each person, married or not, young or old,
thought Amelia.
A place of belonging . . .

“Will I ever hear from Michael again?” she whispered. She picked up her violin and bow. Slowly, Amelia began to play an impromptu medley, a variation on “O Come, All Ye Faithful”. . . turning once again to music to ward off her melancholy.

T
he day before Christmas Eve, Amelia received an email from Stoney saying that Nicola Hannevold was to be featured on the January cover of
The Strad.
Instead of taking the time to text back, Amelia called him. “Thanks for letting me know, Stoney. I’m happy for Nicola.” She smiled into the phone. “She must be recuperating quickly.”

“Actually, I have a motive for mentioning this,” he said.

“Why am I not surprised?”

“You know me too well, my dear.” He paused. “I’d still like South America to be your next big stop on the map, Amelia. I can get you booked
pronto
.”

“I thought we had an understanding.”

“Right. You want to do some community work, spend time going around to public schools . . . take a history class. Sure, I remember.” He paused. “Eight months or so will give you plenty of time for that, as well as keep up your repertoire.”

“And I’m recording one more CD, too,” she said. “Don’t forget.”

“Only one? Uh, your entire life lies ahead of you, kiddo. You’re still very young.”

“Well, time is a precious commodity . . . one just never knows.” She was thinking of her father’s precarious health.

“You’re not sick, are you?”

“I’m fine, Stoney. I’m merely talking about doing other things with my music.”

He breathed audibly. “I don’t like the sound of this.”

She deliberated. Should she tell him about her upcoming audition—the trip to Philadelphia? After all, he hadn’t exactly reacted well to the news that she’d sent in her résumé.

“Don’t go silent, Amelia . . . makes me nervous.”

“I’m thinking,” she said.

He laughed. “That’s
my
job.”

“Seriously, I’ve decided to take a fork in the road.”

Now
he
was silent.

She began to tell him about the Wise Woman, how she’d urged Amelia to pray about her music and about her future.

“Pray all you want—terrific. But how does that figure into your detour?” He sounded tense, and she half expected him to scoff. “Think about it, Amelia. Be logical. Does God care about what musical choices you make?”

She didn’t want to get into a theological debate. “I believe He does, yes.”

“Have you been hanging around that country band again?”

“Not yet, but I hope to . . . and very soon.”

“Oh, so
that’s
the fork?”

“Actually, it’s something else. And I’ll let you know when or if it happens.”

He sighed again. “You’re going to get the best of me yet.”

“Listen,” she said. “I don’t believe we’re chosen to simply
receive
gifts, whether musical talent or something else. The most profound ones come our way so we can extend grace and compassion to others. God’s gifts are multiplied when we use them to bless others.”

“You didn’t get religion in Amish country, did you?”

“Well, it’s been coming on gradually, starting way back when I was a little girl, out milking cows with my papa and grammy—learning how to talk to God.” She paused a moment. “It has nothing at all to do with religion, Stoney. And everything to do with faith.”

Her agent said nothing.

“Maybe you don’t understand where I’m going with this.”

“That is correct.”

She told him straight out that she was ready to start giving away her gift—by encouraging other young violinists, for one thing. “I want to set up music programs in impoverished neighborhoods.”

“And where’s the money in that?”

She laughed. “My father taught me to be frugal, so I’m fine. I have money to invest in my pet projects. And what I need for myself, I’ll earn from my new job . . . if I get it.”

Stoney groaned. “You’ve gone way out on a limb.”

“Not as far as you might think. I’m auditioning with the Philadelphia Orchestra right after New Year’s.”

He groaned loudly. “I hope you’re kidding.”

“I
really
want this, Stoney.”

“But you’re a star—a solo violinist . . . a musician’s musician. And you have many years of touring ahead.”

“No, Stoney. I’m tired of always traveling. I want to belong somewhere . . . I
need
this position for many reasons.” Amelia tried to explain the feeling of community she was looking for, something she had so delightfully observed in Hickory Hollow. “I had no idea what I’ve been missing . . . and for my whole life.”

“Oh, Amelia, think about what you’re throwing away. None of this makes good career sense.”

“You’re right, it doesn’t.”

“Well, your father will—”

“You can’t keep threatening me that way in an effort to keep me boxed in.” She inhaled slowly. “Look, I’m not trying to be difficult. I’m no longer a child prodigy. . . . I’m all grown up, and I want to contribute to a group—by playing full-time with an orchestra. One of the best in the world, in fact. I’ll still do solo work, maybe play in a chamber music setting—you know, start up a new string quartet. Who knows? The sky’s the limit.”

He was quiet for a moment. “Are you thinking of settling down and getting married, Amelia? Is that what this is all about?” Now his tone was more thoughtful.

“No,” she sighed. “I’m not even dating anyone. But marriage to the right guy would be nice someday. Actually, rather wonderful.”

“And you want a houseful of kids, too, right?”

“Absolutely.”

He stopped grilling her, his voice softer now. “Sounds like you’ve been thinking about this a lot, kiddo.”

“I certainly have.”

“Well, I’d rather not be present when you inform your father of your drastic change of plans.”

“That’s fine,” she said respectfully, recalling her mother’s promise to pave the way. “I’ll manage it myself.”

“All right, then. If you think this is the right path.”

“I know it is.” Amelia wished him a merry Christmas and a happy New Year.

He snuffed a bit. “Same to you, Amelia.”

She said good-bye and hung up, hoping her news hadn’t been too shocking. It was, after all, the end of an era.

Going to the window, she looked out at the glimmering half-moon as it appeared over the neighbors’ rooftops, its light turning the snowy ground silver. Helen Keller had once written that when one door to happiness closes, another opens. But we so often fix our eyes on the closed door that we miss seeing the one opening wide right before us.

Standing there, a strange little seed of a thought popped into her head. And the more Amelia considered it, the more she had a yearning to see the cozy log cabin on Welsh Mountain in this wintry setting.
Why not? I’ll just drive by on the way back from my audition in Philly.

A
melia was delighted to spend a relaxed Christmas Day with her parents. Surrounded by the glistening appeal of seasonal décor, they opened beautifully wrapped presents and, later, enjoyed a four-course brunch. Amelia’s father was nicely dressed in his crisp white dress shirt, red tie, and navy blue slacks, but a ragged cough held on, and he looked alarmingly pale and much too thin. His outlook was jovial, nevertheless, and Amelia thought it especially dear when she caught him looking tenderly at her mother during the lovely meal.

After the final course, Amelia offered to play excerpts from the Brahms concerto, her father’s favorite. Later, she also played a few Christmas carols, tempted to break into a fiddling style, though she did not. There would be plenty of time to explore more fiddling in the coming year.

Then, when it looked like her father was ready to sit in his chair and snooze awhile, Amelia kissed him on the cheek and went to help carry her mother’s finest china and silverware into the kitchen. “You outdid yourself, Mom,” she said, lauding her mother’s delicious brunch.

Mom smiled as she began to load the dishwasher. “I wanted to make this day extra special for you . . . and . . .” She paused and bit her lip. “For your father, as well.”

“I’m so grateful, Mom, and I’m sure Dad is, too.”

Her mother nodded thoughtfully, a pensive look on her pretty face.

They continued working together to wash and then dry the china, both aware of their unspoken worry.

Later, while scrubbing a pan, Amelia ventured in a completely different direction. “I’ve been wondering . . . how’s your manuscript coming?”

Mom’s eyes sparkled at the question. “Nice of you to ask,” she said. “I have to admit, though—writing is an ongoing challenge.”

“But you enjoy the process, don’t you?”

Mom squinted momentarily. “There are times when it all surprises me and scenes actually flow, yes. Other times, not so much.” She laughed nervously.

“So it’s a love-hate sort of thing?”

“Most days, yes, definitely.”

“Then how do you get started? Do you outline or just write as the ideas come?” She thought suddenly of Joanna, who so dearly loved writing.

“Honey . . .” Her mother grimaced slightly. “Are you really interested in all of this?”

As private as her mother had been about her work, the book hadn’t really been a topic of conversation between them, and Amelia understood why her mother found it curious that Amelia should ask so many questions now. “I’m
very
interested, Mom. And always have been . . . just didn’t know if I should ask or not.” She was heading into deep waters, not sure how far she should go.

“Well, this book is intensely personal, that much I’ll say.” Mom sighed and looked away. “A family story from more than a generation ago.”

“The best kind.”

Mom agreed. “Navigating the past is part of the challenge—remembering the way things truly were. And then getting what’s in my head onto the page.”

Amelia glanced toward the family room, where Dad sat napping to one of the Isaac Stern CDs from his vast classical violin collection. “I’ve always wondered . . .”

Mom wiped the counters without speaking, her face bright. “Keeping my writing under wraps was the only way I could manage things, I guess. I had very little confidence . . . this being my first attempt at a novel.”

Amelia listened, cherishing her mother’s unexpected openness.

Mom motioned toward the expansive breakfast nook, where greenery lined the perimeter and a small, colorful Christmas tree stood in the middle of the table. There, they sat down next to each other, and her mother continued to talk about her manuscript, more freely now.

“The book I’ve been working on all these years is about my grandmother’s relationship with her sister and one of their cousins. It’s a mystery, of sorts, and it’s finally finished. And surprisingly, an agent is interested.”