The Fiddler (5 page)

Lillianne smiled and stepped onto the small white porch. A clap of thunder echoed from the north, loud enough to startle the sleeping German shepherd lying on the back stoop.

Michael, my son . . . are you safe tonight?

A
melia watched the rapid raindrops dance on the windshield as time dragged on. She chose the first Paganini caprice next on her iPod, listening closely to Sarah Chang’s fabulous rendition, taken anew by the unexpected phrasing and expressions as she sat, a captive audience.

It was one thing to be thought of as a “
wunderkind
” when she was little, Amelia thought, and quite another to compete with other adult violinists your own age. Continually Amelia endeavored to put her own special stamp on the tried-and-true concert pieces, just as the top performers did.

She thought of the recent
New York Times
review:
Devries’ performance was a perfect blend of poetry and fury
.

All for you, Dad,
she thought, leaning back in the driver’s seat to stretch her neck, enjoying the piece.

After a few minutes, she looked in the glove box for her small flashlight, thinking it wise to keep it handy.
In case of what?
But she knew there was a real possibility she might be stuck there all night.

The wind and rain swirled, a mocking reflection of the storm in her soul—Stoney’s finding her out—still maddening! And Byron’s shock at hearing she loved country music—even performed it—hurt even now.

The worst is still to come.
Amelia cringed at her father’s inevitable disappointment. All of it plagued her. There was no keeping such a secret forever. And once he did know, Dad would plead with her to stop. Once again, she would end up feeling as though she had no say at all.

Despite everything, Amelia refused to disappoint him. Not the way he suffered . . . and not considering he’d put all of his hopes and dreams into her talents.
She
was his trophy and had been given every opportunity to develop and excel.

How can I think of
not
doing the European tour?

More minutes piled up, and just when Amelia was sure she’d end up sleeping in her car all night, the rain slowly began to let up. Even the wind was noticeably retreating.

She stared off to the left, through the trees, and saw what looked to be a glimmer of light.

She leaned forward and squinted to see more clearly. There, a few hundred feet away, she thought she saw a cabin tucked back in a clearing.

Waiting and fingering the flashlight, she saw that while the rain was still steady, it was no longer lashing as before. “Now or never.” She opened the door and got out, still holding her flashlight.

Her cell phone landed in the massive puddle near the car, completely submerged in the murky water. Irritated, she pointed the flashlight down and fished around to retrieve it.

I’m toast!

Putting her soggy phone inside the car, she hoped it might dry out. Amelia shook her head, perturbed at not having paid more attention.

What else can go wrong?

“I need to slow down,” she muttered, closing the door and locking it out of sheer habit. Then she zeroed in on the faint light in the near distance and sloshed through the water and the mud, glad she’d worn boots.

As she drew closer, she heard loud music and perked up her ears. Was it coming from the cabin? Approaching the small residence, she recognized it to be country music.

She quickened her pace—weren’t country music lovers typically kindhearted? She smiled at her oversimplification yet certainly hoped so in this case. Amelia really had no idea who could be living up here in the boonies.

The light from the cabin’s interior shone out as a welcome as she strode toward the pebbled walkway. A baritone voice inside belted out the melody as unreservedly as someone singing in the shower.

Amelia walked to the entrance, but despite her flashlight, didn’t notice so much as a doorbell. She knocked on the door and the music coming from inside stopped abruptly. Suddenly, she was thrust into a brassy spray of light. And, blinking her eyes in the stark brilliance, she saw a good-looking young man standing at the door. His blond hair had been oddly cut, almost as if someone had plopped a bowl on his head and chopped around the edges. Bangs fell across his forehead. If Amelia hadn’t known better, she would’ve guessed from the clothes he was wearing that he might be Amish.

Is he alone? Can I trust him?

“Hullo?” he said, a frown on his suntanned face.

She realized she must look like a nearly drowned rat. “I got a flat tire in the storm. My car’s parked at the end of your driveway.” She turned and pointed toward the end of the dirt lane. “Sorry to bother you.”

“Ach, miss . . . let’s get you out of the rain,” he said, his blue eyes showing concern. “You’re soaking wet.”

“Thanks. I really hate to intrude.”

“No, no . . . that’s all right.” He sounded convincing enough, and his face seemed kind, even innocent. He beckoned her inside, then left her standing just inside the doorway, mud caked on her best cowgirl boots as he disappeared into a tiny bathroom, calling over his shoulder about getting her a dry towel.

When he returned, he handed it to her with a shy yet concerned expression. “Pardon my bad manners.” He offered to shake her hand. “My name is Michael Hostetler. Some of my English friends call me Mike.” His smile was warm and unassuming. “What’s yours?”

“Amy Lee,” she said, giving her fiddler name without a second thought. “Thanks so much for the towel . . . and the shelter.” She patted her thick hair and then wrapped the towel around her like a shawl, letting it absorb some of the dampness from her clothes. “Do you happen to have a phone handy?” she asked, glancing about the cozy cabin, not moving her feet an inch.

“Just my cell phone, but coverage up here is spotty at best.”

She considered this and wondered how to reach her family and Byron. She knew all too well her boyfriend would worry even more if she said she was marooned in the Pennsylvania mountains. “My own phone’s out of commission,” she explained to Michael.

“Oh?” He stood there awkwardly, as if not sure how to make her comfortable. She
was
fairly drenched.

“Silly me, I dropped it when I got out of the car—into a puddle, no less.” She’d heard that putting a waterlogged phone in a bowl of uncooked rice overnight could draw out the moisture, but she wasn’t going to ask Michael Hostetler for additional favors.

“Maybe it will dry out, jah?” His face reddened at his Dutch and he apologized quickly. “Sometimes the Amish in me just shows up.”

So he
was
Amish. She wondered why he’d want to hide it, if that’s what he meant. Shrugging, Amelia thought her lack of a phone might not be a terrible thing, at least for a little while. A respite from the bombardment of texts and calls from the disgruntled men in her life. Looking at it that way, she welcomed the break.

“Would ya want to come in . . . and sit awhile?”

Pointing to her boots, she grimaced. “Not sure I dare.”

“No problem. I can help you with that.” Michael hurried to get a wad of paper towels and laid them out on the floor, where she removed her boots and set them on the towels. “The mud will harden,” he said.

Then he showed her into the small space, complete with a corner kitchen at one end of the room, where she noticed a table with a CD player and a laptop—obviously where he had been sitting and working. And singing with gusto.

It began to rain harder again, clattering on the roof. She glanced at the ceiling and caught Michael doing the same. “Normally a flat tire wouldn’t be such a problem, but in this weather, well . . .”

“Oh,” Michael said, furrowing his brow as if considering her predicament. “I’d be glad to take a look at it once the rain stops. Unless you’re in a hurry.”

She smiled and shook her head. “I really hate to put you out.”

He waved nonchalantly. “Not to worry—I’ve got plenty of time.” He pulled out one of the wooden chairs at the table, and she accepted. Going to the fridge, he offered some cold root beer. “Homemade,” he mentioned, then caught himself and asked if she’d rather have something warm to drink.

“Hot tea sounds perfect, thanks.” Even though it was a balmy night, she felt chilled.

Quickly, he filled the teakettle—one just like her grandparents had years ago. Michael showed her an assortment of tea bags in a wooden box, similar to ones she’d seen in quaint restaurants. Was it handmade?

She looked about her as he stood at the small stove. “Do you live here year round?”

“
Nee—
no . . . just visiting.” He offered her sugar from a bowl on the narrow counter. “There’s some half-and-half, too, if you’d like.”

Smiling, she said, “My mom takes her breakfast tea with a few drops of milk.” Amelia checked herself; she couldn’t believe she’d just told a virtual stranger her mother’s personal habits.

When Michael poured the boiling water into her cup, she was aware of his steady hand, unlike her father’s.

“Didn’t I hear music earlier?” she asked.

Michael’s face flushed. “You heard that?”

“Actually, it helped me find my way to your door.”

He grinned, and the combination of his smile and the perfectly even bangs framing his face made him look boyish. “Do ya like country music, then?” he asked as he sat down across from her.

“Do I ever.” She considered mentioning her warm-up gig tonight, but she was not and never had been a name-dropper. “I play the fiddle sometimes,” she said. “It helps me unwind.”

His eyes brightened. “That’s wonderful-
gut.
”

He seemed so overjoyed it caught her by surprise, and she told him about the fiddle tucked away in her car.

“Ach, really?”

She nodded, unable to keep her smile in check.

“I’ve often wished I had learned to play a musical instrument, but my people tend to frown on that.”

“I could play for you, if you’d like.”

“That would be just great,” he said.

“Sure . . . once the rain stops,” she said, surprising herself. Already she felt oddly at ease with Michael.

She was thoroughly enjoying the relaxed moment in this remote little getaway, despite the steady rain—and the nagging frustration that she needed to get back on the road. If she didn’t check in soon, her father, her agent,
and
her boyfriend were likely to call out the National Guard!

I’m fine,
she thought, smiling back at the handsome young man across from her.
Actually, never better.

M
ichael made a conscious attempt not to stare at the pretty young woman. Her cologne smelled wonderful, and her blue-gray eyes sparkled as she engaged in conversation—everything about her was appealing. And he was especially intrigued by her long, dark hair and her fine features, all of which bore a strong resemblance to his niece, Elizabeth. Even the way Amy Lee held her cup, with the handle on the opposite side, reminded him of his wayward Amish niece. Yet there was nothing Plain about Amy.

He watched her sip her warm tea, her damp hair falling against her cheek, then glanced toward the window, not wanting her to think he was gawking. “If ya don’t mind . . . where are you heading on such a stormy night?”

“Back to Ohio.”

He chuckled. “Well, I think you’re more than just a little out of the way, don’t you?”

She smiled, her eyes and overall expression animated even as she explained how the poor visibility had caused her to make a wrong turn. “But I have to confess I’m pretty surprised to find someone, um . . . Amish living up here in the woods,” she said. “That is,
if
you are.”

“Yes,” he said, wondering how she knew about the People. “Have you met other Plain folk elsewhere, maybe?”

“My grandparents owned a dairy farm near Berlin, Ohio, so I saw Amish teenagers tending their roadside vegetable stands, or coming and going in their buggies.”