The Fiddler (6 page)

“You visited your grandparents often?”

“Every summer for several weeks during my elementary and middle school years. I was an intense child; my time there was supposed to help calm me down.”

“Why’d ya quit goin’?” He blushed—was he asking too many personal questions? Although he had met a few fancy girls through the years, he’d never spent much time getting to know any of them.

Amy shrugged. “Oh, I just got busy doing other things,” she told him, sounding as if she regretted not seeing them more. “When they passed away, I missed them terribly.” She set her cup down and looked away. “I still do.”

“I understand that.” He thought again of spunky Elizabeth, very much alive but lost to those who loved her. The People’s great loss was his own doing. Surely it was.

“I craved those visits to the farm,” Amy said softly, looking back at him now. “And spending time with Papa and Grammy . . . and their Plain neighbors.”

Michael nodded. No wonder she seemed familiar with Amish.

“But that was a long time ago. And . . . I’m not sure how I ended up here tonight, at your door,” she finished quietly.

Her words struck a chord and he bowed his head. Then, very gradually, he raised his eyes to meet hers. “Well, Amy, to tell ya the truth, I don’t know what I’m doing here, either.”

“Sorry?”

He shook his head. “It’s just the way things are, I guess.”

Amy tilted her head demurely, motioning to his laptop. “Looks like I interrupted your studies.”

Once again he assured her it was no trouble. “I’m mighty glad I was here to give you shelter,” he said, realizing how much he meant it.

Mighty glad . . .

“Well, I appreciate it,” she replied. “I don’t know what I would have done otherwise.”

He smiled back, attempting to be casual in his response. And trying
not
to think about Elizabeth . . . yet wondering where she was, and if
she
was safe.

“Maybe it was Providence that we met,” he said. Instantly he felt ridiculous.
What a dumb thing to say!

Amy looked at him quizzically, then down at her tea, quiet now.

“Not sure why I said that.”

But she raised her head and smiled warmly, meeting his eyes. “Actually, I was thinking you might be right.” She shrugged shyly and bit her lip.

Clearing his throat, Michael looked away, suddenly eager for a distraction. But despite his effort to appear nonchalant, her words soared through him, affecting him in a way he hadn’t known since before Marissa broke off their engagement.

———

Amelia was surprised at Michael’s eagerness to talk so freely. The Amish she’d encountered in Ohio were more reticent, as she recalled, but perhaps he was merely killing time until the storm blew over.

He seemed especially interested in telling her about his schooling, what he referred to as “higher education.” He’d managed to get his GED after a period of years of study. “Since then, I’ve been taking classes at a community college while I work two different jobs,” he explained. “One part-time for Nate Kurtz at his dairy farm, and the other as an apprentice for an architectural drafting firm in Lancaster—
Englischers,
of course. My path has been anything but normal for someone from my community—Bishop John is staunchly opposed to pursuing learnin’ past the eighth grade.”

The bishop?
So the Amish church dictated what a person could or could not do education-wise? Amelia found this curious but didn’t question it, letting Michael continue to share about his strict upbringing and the expectations of the People as a whole—and his father in particular.

“Believe me, I know how fathers can be,” she said.

At that, Michael looked thoughtful. “I don’t know why I’m tellin’ you this. Guess it’s because I can’t speak openly to most folk about such things. So many of them are baptized Amish.”

He went on again as though he had been deprived of a friend. He backtracked to his work as a draftsman, telling of his passion for creating blueprints and describing the repertoire of homes he had worked on and helped build. “And a beautiful colonial-style Mennonite church, which I drew up plans for, stands not too far from here.”

Mennonite.
She’d heard the word numerous times. “Aren’t Mennonites Anabaptist, too?”

“Jah.” He hesitated. “I was actually engaged to a girl from that church.”

“Sounds like you have a lot of building experience already.”

He folded his hands and leaned forward on the table. “As a boy, I was always constructing things—mostly out of mud or bits of leftover wood.”

Amelia listened. “And your fiancée was Mennonite?”

“Yes,” he stated, looking uncomfortable.

“Sorry, I guess I shouldn’t have asked.”

“No, it’s all right. We just . . . weren’t right for each other.”

Based on the way Michael said it, Amelia wasn’t convinced. Had the girl’s family—or the bishop—opposed the relationship? From what she knew of the Plain tradition, most Amish couples married within the confines of their own or a neighboring church district. And Mennonites rarely married into the Amish church. Typically it was the other way around.

Loud thunder rolled across the sky, and she stiffened as more rain pelted the roof, seeming to increase in intensity. She was definitely thankful for this refuge . . . far better than sitting alone in the car.

Michael looked at the ceiling. “The rain’s not letting up. And I should warn you, Amy. Up here, the rain sometimes lingers for days on end.”

She studied his face. “I hope you’re kidding.”

“No, I’m serious. Weather systems can hang around, believe you me.”

His comment didn’t make her panic, which surprised her.
I should be dying to get home.

“What do you suggest?”

“I could check on your car—change out the tire.”

“In this storm?”

He shrugged. “Or I could drive you somewhere, but the nearest hotel is a long way from here.”

“And the roads were beginning to flood earlier,” she added.

“In that case, maybe it’s best we stay put.”

Then, astonishing her, he offered the extra bunk for the night. “There’s a curtain you can pull closed, of course. Tomorrow, when it’s light, I’ll change the tire and you can head out.”

“That’s . . . really generous of you,” she said softly. “Thank you.”

“Say, I have an idea,” Michael said, changing the subject. He got up from the table and pulled out a chessboard from beneath one of the beds, along with a drawstring bag of chess pieces. “Would you care to play?”

“Sure,” she said. “It’ll help pass the time.” Amelia hoped she didn’t sound impolite.

Michael closed his laptop and moved it off the table. Then he laid out the chessboard and the game pieces.

Even though she had little choice but to accept his offer, Amelia couldn’t believe she would consider such a thing. The real mystery, however, was that she felt quite comfortable and not at all concerned for her safety. She would never have trusted a stranger anywhere else in this sort of situation. But Michael reminded her of the gentle, soft-spoken young people in Ohio who smiled kindly beneath their straw hats and offered assistance at the bakeries and the farmers’ auction there. Certainly there was nothing dangerous about them.

“My father would have a fit if he knew I was entertaining an English girl . . . alone here,” Michael said suddenly.

“Mine wouldn’t be too thrilled, either.”

Amelia tucked one bare foot under her and helped him set the pieces on the board, glad they weren’t going to just sit and talk, face-to-face. Texting had become so ingrained in her, she felt nearly at a loss without her phone. On the other hand, Michael’s apparently effortless way with words reminded her of how things used to be.
Not so long ago.

As they set up the chessboard, she relished the peace of the cabin, despite the howling rainstorm.

I don’t remember the last time Byron and I simply sat and talked.
Lately, Amelia had preferred being alone after a long day of rehearsals or concertizing to hanging out with Byron, even though they had shared many good times together.
Why don’t I rush back to him after each concert anymore?

For tonight, she was in a completely different world. Stumbling onto this cabin was a real gift—a true blessing, her grandmother might’ve said. She was fascinated by Michael’s choice of words, the way he talked . . . even his wide-eyed sort of wonderment. Despite his laptop and CDs, he seemed somewhat untouched by modern society.

“I don’t mean to say this out of disrespect,” Michael said. “And I don’t want to mislead you, Amy. You see, I’m not here for a little summer vacation, like you might think.” He looked at the white king and the black rook in his hand. “I’m here because . . . well, I ran away.” His shoulders rose and fell. “My father gave me an ultimatum just today. Shape up or
gut
riddance . . . and ya know what? He’s quite right.”

Amelia saw the frustration on his face and felt a degree of empathy. Then, wanting him to know she understood on some level, she cracked the door open. “Well, my dad might soon be saying the same thing to me.”

“To you, Amy? But . . . why?”

She wasn’t ready to divulge that. Too painful; too complicated.

“My boyfriend has already stated his opinion, however.”
And not so long ago.

Michael tilted his head. “Well, I hope he was kind about it.”

She shrugged off his comment, not going there. “Are you required to make a decision—to answer your father?” Suddenly, she wished she hadn’t asked. This was getting too personal, too fast.

“At nearly twenty-five, I should’ve already joined the church—’least by most Amish standards.” He explained that a son’s rejection of the Old Ways was the worst possible blight on a man—and on a family. “Truth be known, I’m leaning away from what the bishop and my father want for me.” He bowed his head. “Hard to say it, but I honestly want to go fancy—become English.”

“Do they know?”

“That’s just it—what I want doesn’t count. What the
Ordnung
decrees matters most . . . and that’s my problem right there. I’ve tried, believe me. But I can’t come under every single rule of the ordinance. I don’t even think God expects it of me. Therefore, I cannot become a church member.”

One broken rule and you’re out?

Amelia shivered, still damp from the rain. Michael seemed to notice and rose from his chair, going to a large armoire and pulling out a man’s shirt and pants. Returning quickly, he gave them to her and insisted she put on something dry. Looking first at the clothes, then at Michael, she said, “Are you sure?”

His winning smile was the answer, and he motioned toward the small room on the other side of the cabin. She assumed it was the bathroom, amazed by his unusual thoughtfulness.

Amelia carried the pants and long-sleeved shirt—
his clothes
—into the bathroom and closed the door behind her.

A
short time later, Michael offered to run out to Amelia’s car and get her luggage, along with her fiddle.

“I wouldn’t think of asking you,” she protested, eyes wide. “It’s still raining hard.”

“Well, it’s not all that unselfish of me,” he admitted. “I’d really like to hear you play. Besides, you’ll want a change of clothes tomorrow, jah?” He was downright determined to do this for her, no matter how bad the weather. Still, he couldn’t help noticing how mighty cute she looked in his shirt, the sleeves rolled up, exposing her dainty wrists and a thin gold bracelet.

She reluctantly agreed and went to get her car keys from her purse, confirming what he already hoped—she trusted him.

He smiled as she dropped the keys into his hand. “Be back in a jiffy,” he said before darting out the door.

The rain was startlingly cold and pierced through his clothes as he ran through the trees. Michael could scarcely see as he hurried to the car and opened the back door on the driver’s side. Quickly, he reached for the fiddle case but noticed a program stuck between the cushions of the backseat. Midway down the front page, he saw the words
Presenting Amy Lee.

“Amy Lee?” he muttered. “A performer?” Hadn’t the brunette stranger introduced herself earlier by just that name?

Curious to know more, he climbed into the car and closed the door, the fiddle case resting on his knees, the program still in his hands. Michael stared back at the cabin, then looked again at the program.
Is she famous?

His own mother had caught him listening to fiddling several times on the radio. Yet as exhilarating as such music was, he’d never imagined a fiddler so pretty . . . nor so friendly. Michael peered again through the rain-streaked window, toward the cabin. “Unbelievable.”

Pushing the program back where he found it, he opened the door and ventured back into the rain.

This time Michael ran cautiously through the woods back to the cabin, mindful of the musical instrument he carried. His pulse pounded with anticipation at hearing Amy Lee play. What would she think if she knew music, especially fiddle music, had the power to set him right when circumstances around him baffled him and compounded his guilt?