Fiddler, The

by Beverly Lewis

  © 2012 by Beverly M. Lewis, Inc.

  Published by Bethany House Publishers

  11400 Hampshire Avenue South

  Bloomington, Minnesota 55438

  www.bethanyhouse.com

  Bethany House Publishers is a division of

  Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan

  www.bakerpublishinggroup.com

  Ebook edition created 2012

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  ISBN 978-1-4412-7004-7

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.

  Scripture quotations are from the King James Version of the Bible.

  This story is a work of fiction. With the exception of recognized historical figures, all characters and events are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to any person, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Cover design by Dan Thornberg, Design Source Creative Services

  Art direction by Paul Higdon

  To

  Julie Klassen,

  sweet friend and former editor.

  May you write many more

  bestsellers!

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Epigraph

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  About Beverly Lewis

  Back Ads

  Back Cover

  Prologue

  Late-afternoon sun blinded me as I threw open the back door and stepped onto the porch, duffel bag in hand. The screen door caught my foot and dug deep into my ankle, and I dropped my bag with a thud.

  Despite my anger, I took a deep breath and wondered if I should just suppress my urge to run off, and stay put in Hickory Hollow. But Daed’s stinging words were fresh in my mind. “You’ve got one foot in the world and the other in the church, Michael. Go on with ya—and don’t come back till you decide!”

  At the height of this latest spat, Mamm winced and fled the kitchen for the next room, her prayer Kapp strings flying. I’d like to have fallen in step right behind her, to reassure and comfort her somehow. Yet what could I tell her that wouldn’t break her heart?

  No, I wouldn’t turn back. I hurried down the road to my Mennonite uncle’s place, where I kept my car, and sped away toward his cabin, not far from here. Far enough, though, to find some solace from this latest wrangle.

  Soon, though, once I calm down, I’ll be a fugitive on my knees praying, not only for wisdom in dealing with my ill-tempered father, but for my future. And it wouldn’t hurt if I put Marissa Witmer out of my mind, too.

  Awhile there, I’d actually thought she might become Amish for me, which is the worst reason to join any church. But it’s mighty hard competing with a girl’s “first love,” which is just how she put it to me months ago on our final date. There, near the old covered bridge in Gordonville.

  Shortly after that, Daed started pressuring me to settle down . . . and marry. “What’s a-matter with our girls?” he’d asked.

  But getting hitched in the Amish church would mean giving up my computer and other fancy gadgets, as well as my car—especially my car!—in order to commit to the People. “A lifer,” some of my former Amish friends describe it.

  Sure, I’m expected to honor my parents and obey the fifth commandment; I know that. But when you’ve had a taste of higher education and the Internet, how do you go back to reading the Farm Journal and relying on the Amish grapevine?

  I considered all this as I sped away, my foot heavy on the gas, gravel spraying up after each stop sign. Cranking up the car radio, I relished the feel of the booming bass in my gut. Bishop John Beiler had taken me aside more than once to warn about my interest in worldly music, shaking his finger in my face. Not because I’m a baptized church member, but because I’m approaching twenty-five and still balking about bending my knee to make the church vow. “A mighty poor example for the young folk,” the bishop said recently, his face clouded with disapproval. “Especially your niece!”

  Bishop John’s words hit close to home, considering that Elizabeth—my parents’ only granddaughter among many grandsons—was charging down the path of disobedience. Since she’s always looked up to me as her favorite uncle, I couldn’t help but wonder if I really am to blame. Doubtless Daed thinks so.

  Things might seem less futile now if I hadn’t lost my fiancée prior to all of this. The memory of Marissa’s infectious smile and, ach, those adorable blue eyes is still before me. There’s no denying she stole my heart away.

  “I’m so sorry, Michael,” she said with tears rolling down her pretty face. It was all I could do to keep from holding her till she came to her senses. Surely she would.

  Surely . . .

  But last I heard from her cousin Joanna Kurtz—our bishop’s niece—Marissa had not changed her mind. “She’s followin’ her heart,” Joanna told me, eyes shimmering.

  Sure isn’t following me . . .

  ———

  Now I was holed up in this small cabin hidden away in the woods, miles from home so Daed couldn’t come looking for me by horse and buggy. I had plenty to keep me busy, including work for my online course of study, wrapping things up for an associate in arts degree. Not that I needed a degree in anything, really, what with all the work I’d already been doing for several years now, drafting blueprints for custom houses and even a stately colonial-style church.

  What a way to spend a summer vacation, I thought as I worked offline on my laptop. There was no access to the Internet in this remote cabin.

  After a time, I wandered to the small washroom on the other side of the room and studied my reflection in the mirror over the sink. Clean-shaven . . . blond hair cropped just below my ears, with the usual old-fashioned bangs. I glanced down and took stock of my bare feet, my black “barn door” trousers, beige suspenders, and long-sleeved blue shirt. I looked like all the other young Amishmen I knew. And it made me feel even more lost.

  Deserting the mirror, I went to kneel beside one of the bunks in the main room. “Hear my prayer for guidance, O God,” I whispered, feeling guilty as I was reminded of my disobedience to the wishes of my parents. Could I expect my prayers to reach past the ceiling?

  A single gas lantern brightened the gloom. There was really no need for the lantern when the
cabin had electricity, but seeing it there gave me a semblance of comfort. It reminded me of the very thing that had brought me to this momentous day. Because I knew full well if I continued to walk the fence, I might end up on the other side—the outside, looking in.

  I inhaled deeply, knowing my father would want me to pray for forgiveness, too. But I didn’t honestly believe that driving a car and listening to music from someplace other than the Ausbund was a bad thing, even in God’s eyes. Yet the Old Ways ran deep in me, so I pressed on, spending more time on my knees before rising.

  Then, eyeing the small table where I’d put my duffel bag full of clothes, CD wallets, and fresh batteries, I attempted to shrug away my melancholy. Music was my consolation . . . but I wouldn’t give in to the craving just yet. I’d wait till sundown.

  After a long sprint through the woods, I returned to the old log cabin and stood in the doorway, staring out. The truth began to sink in—what I should’ve realized all this time. Marissa was never going to have second thoughts no matter how much I’d cared for her. Her new path was firmly set.

  I watched the sun slowly fall over the secluded woodlands. And in the stillness, the psalm my father read aloud that morning came to mind. Even the night shall be light about me.

  It wasn’t easy to push away the painful past; I knew that. But it was high time. I breathed in the spicy scent of pine, aware of distant thunder.

  We know the truth, not only by the reason,

  but also by the heart.

  —Blaise Pascal

  Chapter 1

  Amelia Devries stood waiting in the wings, her well-polished fiddle tucked beneath her right arm, bow in hand. The rhythmic vibration of guitars and a banjo buzzed in the floorboards of the outdoor theater, beneath her stylish boots. No matter the venue for her performances—classical or country, indoors or out—she often experienced a slight twinge of nerves before a concert. Normal stage fright, nothing more.

  The preshow jitters had begun on the day Amelia played her first violin recital as a precocious five-year-old. But as time passed, she learned to trust the moment—the instant she raised her bow and drew it across the strings. Just get me there became her mantra.

  Tonight she was the guest fiddler for a small country band—one of the warm-up gigs to Tim McGraw’s featured concert this sultry mid-July evening at the Mann Center in Philadelphia’s West Fairmount Park. And she had an impressive performance planned.

  The tall blond master of ceremonies, Rickie Gene, brushed past her to make his way to center stage, wearing a black tux and blue shirt. He’s fired up, she thought, remembering the first time she’d met him a year ago at a fiddle fest in Connecticut . . . unknown to Byron, her longtime boyfriend back home in Columbus, Ohio. Or to her father, a former violinist himself, stricken with early onset Parkinson’s disease.

  Rickie Gene cast his winning smile like a fishing line to the crowd. “It’s Thursday night at the Mann!”

  Loud cheers rose from the crowd.

  “Are ya ready to welcome the best little country band this side of the Alleghenies?”

  The roar of delight filled the park, where thousands of people sat in either the covered seating area or farther back on the lawn, picnicking on blankets. The smell of popcorn and honeysuckle hung in the humid air.

  “Help me give it up for . . . the Bittersweet Band!”

  Fans seated all over the grounds applauded and cheered.

  Rickie’s appealing chuckle reverberated through the sound system. “Ladies and gentlemen, we have a fabulous surprise tonight.” He paused dramatically. “Right here at the Mann . . . I give you none other than the winner of this year’s New England Fiddle Fest—Miss Amy Lee!”

  Wouldn’t my parents just cringe? Amelia thought at the sound of her stage name. She breathed in slowly, willing away the jitters, and took to the stage.

  “And . . . it’s . . . showtime!” Rickie announced, promptly making his exit.

  Amelia planted her russet boots center stage and curtsied in her flowing vintage dress. More deafening applause.

  Though still anxious, she was eager to play her heart out in this well-known open-air setting. Quickly, she brought up her fiddle and cradled it under her chin . . . bow ready.

  Almost there . . .

  And then it began to happen. Always, always, an indescribable something transpired the instant her bow touched the strings. Oh, the glory, the sheer magic of connecting this way with a receptive audience. She felt at one with the band, the stage, and her adoring fans. All the years of performing for a crowd converged in that moment.

  Despite the venue, deep inside she was the same petite virtuoso darling her father had groomed for solo work on the concert stage. Beginning her instruction at age four, he had meticulously taught her using the Galamian method, following in his own footsteps. Within four years, Amelia had auditioned at the Oberlin Conservatory in Oberlin, Ohio, where she began preparatory study with master teacher Dorothea Malloy. From then on, Amelia and her doting parents made weekly commutes on weekends.

  In an attempt to give their little girl a normal life—apart from her recognition and celebrity—Amelia’s mother planned for her to live at home while attending the best private schools. So Amelia kept busy with homework and exams and all the typical school-related activities while her father filled her leisure hours with practicing scales, arpeggios, thirds, and octaves. Only rarely had she missed a day of practice.

  Between lessons in Oberlin, young Amelia played in professional recitals and soloed with regional orchestras, first in her hometown of Columbus, and then, when she was twelve, with the big orchestras.

  Once she finished high school at seventeen, Amelia made her debut recording, as well as enrolled in college courses at Oberlin, all while traveling on the weekends. But after the years of the insane touring schedule, Amelia began to voice her frustration to her father, whose “serious music only” mentality had begun to annoy her.

  “It’s normal to feel the pressure—comes with the territory.” Her father always downplayed Amelia’s frustrations. “When you’re at the top, you’ll appreciate the effort required to get there.”

  By the time Amelia had celebrated her twenty-first birthday, she was weary of his hovering. She loved the music but disliked the expectation that she travel and perform in her leisure time, after college classes . . . and then, following her graduation. For a period of time, she rarely slept in the same bed two nights in a row, and she yearned for a more normal life—and the possibility of marriage and her own family someday.

  One night while spending time at her parents’ vacation home in Madison, Connecticut, Amelia read about a fiddling contest. Intrigued, she slipped out of the house and attended her first-ever fiddling festival in Manchester. Immediately, she was enthralled by the country style and the happy-go-lucky sound and, self-taught, eventually began playing in the East Coast’s lineup of up-and-coming fiddlers.

  And so, a country fiddler was born . . . her secret life.

  ———

  Amelia drew her bow across two strings simultaneously, creating a harmony in one masterful sweep: double-stops. Leaning into the fiddle, she began to play “Pretty Polly Ann,” Ozark-style fiddling and her first in a set of three crowd-pleasers. She loved this one, and the crowd had an uncanny way of drawing the first rousing song out of her, egging her on. So liberating . . . just what I need! They adored her, and she felt the love.

  After two curtsies the crowd quieted, and she began to play “Bumblebee in the Gourdvine,” made popular by the legendary Texas fiddler Benny Thomasson. My hero, thought Amelia.

  She had learned how to work an audience during her solo concerts, saving the best and showiest for last, just as she did with classical encores. So when it came time for “Orange Blossom Special,” she played her licks with reckless abandon. The raucous tune brought smiles to the entire front row of concertgoers, she noticed; because of the brilliant spotlights, she was unable to see much farther back. Oh, she was in f
iddle heaven with all of the string plucking and harmonic slides that mimicked a train whistle. The piece was a fiddle player’s national anthem. Focusing only on the exhilarating number, she played as fine as she ever had.

  But now she was coming to the middle section she adored. Sonny Jones, the banjo player next to her—a soft-spoken older gentleman—picked the strings like the seasoned musician he was, their resonating sound irresistibly warm and down-home.

  Stepping back on the stage, Amelia let the guys do their picking and strumming, embracing every fabulous moment. Bobby, James, and Lennie—the best mandolin player and two guitarists she’d ever encountered, bar none.

  She kept up her fiddling at a furious pace, her mind flitting to her father, whom she assumed was relaxing in his plush office, feet resting on his leather hassock, dissecting DVDs of big-city stops on her recent concert circuit. Like a football coach, analyzing plays. He would be dismayed if he knew she was goofing off instead of practicing her classical solo repertoire.

  So would Byron . . .

  Still, plenty of talented concert violinists also excelled in fiddling. I’m not alone in this. Amelia justified herself with the knowledge that the best violin concertos ever written incorporated advanced fiddling techniques—the third movement of the Bruch violin concerto, for one.

  And as she played, she visualized Byron’s text message just before she’d made her entrance tonight. You’re ignoring me, Amelia. . . .

  Her eyes roamed the first row again, these devotees of country music. Their faces were alight with pure joy, the same beaming response as classical music lovers in a very different kind of venue. The same meshing of minds and hearts, though no one here was dressed to the nines.

  Why, Amelia wondered, did she feel this way when she mixed it up with the Bittersweet Band, removed from the serious music embedded in her soul? What was so terrible that she had to conceal this side of herself from the ones who loved and knew her best?