Amy met him at the door holding a bath towel, ready to offer it to him, just as he had for her.
“Denki—er, thank you. Whew! Is it ever wet out there.” He set both the overnight bag and her fiddle case down carefully. Then Michael accepted the towel and excused himself to the washroom, where he willed his heart to slow its beating.
———
Amelia promised to play for Michael once her fiddle became acclimated to the cabin’s environment. She opened the case and tightened the horse hairs on the bow, then sat down at the table to return to their chess game.
“So, out by my grandparents’, there were a lot of Amish dairy farms. Do you live on one?” she asked, hoping to make further conversation.
Michael shook his head. “My family raises heifers, so milking’s not Daed’s focus. But now, our neighbors, the Kurtzes—dairy is their livelihood. And I bet you’d be surprised at all the ‘modern’ contraptions they use. For one thing, the milk is kept fresh in refrigerated bulk tanks powered by a diesel engine,” he added. He also went on to describe the vacuumlike diesel-powered milking machines.
She tried to visualize what Michael had described. “Interesting,” she said. “My grandpa always said there was more than one way to skin a cat.”
“That’s the truth,” Michael said, telling her of a young man in the area who’d rigged up a way to recharge batteries for buggy lights with solar panels—down in Gordonville, not far from there. “Some of the older ministers aren’t too keen on it, though.”
“Really?”
He shook his head. “Newfangled things are eyed with skepticism . . . at least at first.”
“And then what?” she asked, making her move on the chessboard.
“Sometimes a handful of folk slowly begin to see the light, although most hold a hard line in the direction of the Ordnung.”
When it was his turn she didn’t talk, letting him contemplate his move in silence. As well as Michael was playing, he had undoubtedly planned his strategy from the start. Amelia knew that Byron also liked to play in a calculated, competitive manner.
Michael remained quiet as he reached across the board, his hand still poised on the queen. Even when he finished his play, Michael still did not speak. She didn’t want to ask if he was all right; it wasn’t her place. But he had shared some surprisingly personal information with her earlier, so he must view her as harmless . . . if not a friend of sorts.
As they alternated turns, Amelia enjoyed the leisurely pace of the game, and eventually, Michael began to talk again . . . slowly at first. Church membership still seemed to be heavy on his mind. That and his father’s irritation over Michael’s reluctance to join.
“Tellin’ the truth, my father’s put out at me over several things,” Michael volunteered.
“Have you considered leveling with him?” she suggested. “Or just letting him know how you see things?”
He folded his arms. “Some. But Daed’s only part of it. My mother is such a good woman, I hate to . . .” His words trailed away.
Amelia thought of her own mother. Writing well enough to be published had been Mom’s priority for a number of years. And while Amelia longed to read what she was working on, she didn’t dare ask. “You hesitate to upset your mother, right?” asked Amelia more softly.
“It would be an unbearable distress for her.” Michael explained that a son or daughter who had been raised Amish was expected to follow in the footsteps of the devout parents.
“Right . . . I get that. Lots of parents want to see their children grow up to embrace their belief system. That’s only natural.”
“Well, it’s more than that.” Michael’s eyes were serious. “To leave the People would not only reflect poorly on my parents—my father, especially—but my family believes it would condemn my soul to an eternity separated from God. I’d be considered lost, destined to an eternity apart from God.”
“Why? Because you didn’t become a member of a particular church?”
He nodded slowly. “Amish beliefs are to be passed on . . . embraced by the next generation. The People would say I’d accepted the world as my standard for livin’.” He sighed. “If I left . . .”
“Really?”
He offered a quick smile. “But I wouldn’t be shunned, since I’m not a church member.”
“What would happen if you did join, and then left?”
“I’d be excommunicated and eventually put under the Bann for life.”
“So now would be the best time to leave, right?” She slipped a strand of hair behind her ear. “Listen, Michael, not to be tactless, but lots of groups believe they have a corner on redemption.”
“Oh sure. But it doesn’t change my situation in the least. Fact is, the People believe I will die in my sins if I leave the community for the world.”
“Well, what do you believe?” she asked gently. “Does leaving the Amish community have to mean leaving your faith, too?”
He ran both hands over his head but didn’t answer. “The Ordnung sure isn’t the Bible, no. But all the same, my walking away is not that simple.”
Given his laptop and his interest in secular music, Amelia assumed he already had one foot in the English world. “How long can a person walk the line between the Plain and the fancy?”
“That’s just it. I’ve been on the fence for a good five years already.” Michael shook his head, apparently struggling. “And Daed’s mighty peeved. He wants me either in or out.”
“So then, you’ll choose to stay because you refuse to hurt them?” She so closely related to his dilemma.
“I figure I haven’t jumped the fence yet, so why not just muddle through somehow.” There was a sudden futility in his voice. “For the rest of my life.”
Michael, you don’t mean it. In that moment Amelia felt she could see into his heart.
“I s’pose I ought to fast and pray about it, like Moses of old—demonstrate my humbleness to God,” he said quietly.
“And . . . to demonstrate how serious you are?” She looked at him, completely understanding what he was going through. He was both torn yet longing to break free, just as she was. “You know what I think? At the end of the day, you’ll follow your heart. I’m sure of it.”
His eyes flickered with recognition, as if he wanted to say, “You understand, and thanks.”
The hour was growing late. Michael briefly closed his eyes, then opened them, smiling faintly. “I’ve even confided in the Wise Woman about this, something out of character for me. Mostly she’s one to counsel the womenfolk.”
Wise Woman?
Amelia was immediately captivated; she could hardly contain her questions. Her mind conjured up a highly respected woman whom everyone ran to for advice. “This is someone in your community?”
“Jah, our gentle sage in Hickory Hollow. Some folk think more of her than even the bishop.”
How interesting!
“What does this woman suggest you do about joining the church, may I ask?”
He rubbed his neck. “Well, she’s rarely told me what to do.”
Like a good counselor.
“She once quoted a Bible verse from a psalm to me: ‘Delight thyself also in the Lord: and he shall give thee the desires of thine heart.’ Then she went on to explain that when our lives line up with God’s will, the desire referred to means Him. The Lord himself.” Michael paused, eyes brighter now. “It’s not so much that we desire things or circumstances to change, she says, but that we’ve always desired our heavenly Father. He is our first true love.”
Amelia considered that. “And all other loves are inferior . . . and send us running to Him, longing for His perfect love.” She parroted her grandmother’s own words.
Michael agreed and looked toward the door.
“Your Wise Woman sounds rather unorthodox,” Amelia added.
“She’s a cross between a Dutch uncle and the sweetest grandmother ever,” Michael said with a chuckle. “You’d like her, Amy. I know you would.”
S
he laughed. “Well, I doubt she’d know what to say to the likes of me.”
“You might be surprised.” His face beamed. “She has a way about her.”
Amelia looked at her watch and gasped. “Hey, it’s almost midnight.” How’d that happen?
Michael seemed equally surprised at the late hour, but she was the one who suggested they call it a night. “Oh, wait . . . I didn’t play my fiddle for you.”
But being the gentleman he was, Michael insisted she get some rest. “I can wait,” he said with a disarming smile.
Then, curiously, he insisted they leave the chessboard up, which surprised and secretly pleased her. So, he did hope she might stay around long enough to finish the game. For the first time tonight, Amelia found herself actually looking forward to tomorrow.
Chapter 8
Amelia could not see her hand in front of her face as she lay quietly in the spare bunk. The night sky was pitch-black and filled with the singular sound of rain, rain, and more rain.
Still glad for the small flashlight, she placed it next to her pillow. As she stretched out on the narrow bunk, she felt surprisingly keyed up. It had been an exceptionally long day—first the exciting gig at the Mann in Philly, then being found out by her agent, telling on herself to Byron, and getting lost on the Pennsylvania mountain. On top of everything, it was also quite impossible to dismiss Michael’s pressing issues, so like her own.
Running her hands over the light sheet, Amelia thought of her comfortable townhouse. And of all the nights she had spent mentally “practicing” her classical pieces as she tried to fall asleep, especially the demanding encores and curtain calls for her performances.
But when had she ever felt so comfortable in an unfamiliar place? Amelia questioned her initial impression of this out-of-the-ordinary encounter—here in this Amish stranger’s haven against his own world. She knew that if she had made the correct turn in Morgantown, she would be nearly home by now.
How ridiculous is this . . . ending up here in the woods?
She tried to shake off Michael’s weighty family concerns. He had more or less shared with ease, considering what he was up against. He’d even maintained that he had never talked about his thoughts so readily with anyone. Most men would never admit such a thing. And as for Michael’s former fiancée, Amelia guessed Marissa had been the one to break up with him. At least from clues in his demeanor, it would seem that way.
Why didn’t he fight for Marissa?
Rolling over, Amelia slipped her hand beneath the pillow, glad she could not see even the outline of the next bunk, only a few yards away. On the other side of the curtain.
But she did hear what sounded like whispering in Pennsylvania Dutch. She wondered if Michael was praying.
The rain continued to fall, steadily but slower now. “A soaker,” Mom would call it. Thinking of home, Amelia hoped her parents wouldn’t worry—if they even realize I’m gone. Considering Stoney’s recommendation to spend the night somewhere, Amelia guessed he had also informed her father, at least, of the possibility of her arrival back in town tomorrow. She wasn’t sure what scenario Stoney might spin to cover for her, however.
Just so he doesn’t say he bumped into me at the Mann! It was tough to imagine his keeping her fiddling secret. Although if he said he would, she shouldn’t have reason to doubt. Trust is a big factor between agent and client. . . .
And between friends. She thought of Michael again—yet did she really consider him that so soon?
In the near distance, an owl hooted loudly. A vision of her father, disappointed, came to mind. Hurting him was the last thing Amelia wanted to do. Anything . . . anything to keep the slightest displeasure from creeping into his hazel eyes.
I’m losing control of my life, Amelia thought, trapped between her heart and everyone else’s expectations. No one knew her private hopes, and no one seemed to care.
Amelia pulled the sheet up to her chin. This weather matches my mood, she thought, dreading going home. It would mean giving in to her need to please her father and Stoney. She sighed, thinking also of Byron. Was he more in love with their “plan” than with her?
Tears trickled down her face, and she dried them with the hem of the pillowcase. I’ll leave at dawn, she thought, momentarily forgetting she was at the mercy of the elements. But Michael had said he’d take a look at her car in the morning. From the sound of it, he could fix most anything.
Well, not everything . . .
Lillianne rose after midnight, glad for the steady rain—“gut for the crops,” she muttered as she padded down the stairs to the kitchen. She poured a half glass of milk, fresh from the cow just yesterday.
Yesterday . . .
She recalled the zeal-turned-anger on her husband’s part. Paul was sometimes known for his swift temper, in a near-constant battle to curtail it. Her sleep this night had been disturbed by unsettling dreams of Michael . . . gone. Where?
She ran her fingers through her waist-length hair, wishing she might braid it for sleeping, like Old Order Mennonite women sometimes did. But such things were mere wishes here in Hickory Hollow. More important was Michael’s leaving. There was no doubt in Lillianne’s mind that he was in need of paternal nudging as opposed to a firm hand. Even Bishop John must’ve thought so, stopping by last evening to talk straight to poor Paul.
Lillianne inhaled slowly and went to sit in her mealtime spot at the table, feeling ever so tense. She’d heard tell from Rhoda Kurtz, Joanna’s mother, that Michael’s former sweetheart was getting along with her studies and hoped to go to Uganda as a missionary in due time. And that Marissa had been the one to break things off with Michael last January.
No wonder his heart is all torn apart.
What could she do to help her son? Especially now that he’d fled? Lillianne didn’t entirely blame Paul for running him off, but she knew in her heart of hearts that Michael would be sound asleep under his father’s roof this very moment if Paul hadn’t hollered out his ultimatum. Michael never would’ve up and gone away otherwise. Now it was much too late to retract all that.
Still, maybe what had happened was for the best. Maybe their ferhoodled boy would finally make the right choice and agree to follow the Lord as his kinfolk had done, clear back to their immigration here. Their Swiss ancestors had longed so dearly for the freedom to worship the Lord God and live Plain lives here in Penn’s Woods.
Or, come to think of it, it was very possible Paul’s aggravation would only push Michael to flee to the English world, just as their son’s present leanings seemed to indicate. Truly, Lillianne feared what Michael might do. Oh, had her husband pushed him to the brink?
There were always a handful of youth in any given church district who struggled to make the decision to “stay in the faith.” Some even felt coerced into making the permanent vow. Not many, but when it came to teenagers and church baptism, there were some parents who were unbending. The wiser ones—like Lillianne’s own—permitted their children to experience Rumschpringe for as long as necessary, encouraging them to make their lifelong decision with joy and devotion. And entirely on their own, lest they join too early and regret it later in life. She knew firsthand that some parents lamented the day their grown children had ever knelt for holy baptism, only to change their minds later.
Through the years, Lillianne had noticed that thoughtful words worked far better with Michael than any spoken too quickly. She had always read this son like a book!
To his credit, Michael had proven to be financially self-sufficient since he was grown and had willingly given a good portion of his earnings to his father for room and board. He had earned his keep working as a draftsman. But to a harness maker like Paul, their son’s aspirations pointed squarely toward a modern life-style.
She recalled what a good little Amish boy Michael had been, sitting so still next to Paul on Preaching Sundays, over with the menfolk. He was as obedient as the day was long. The early years he’d worked as a hired hand for Nate Kurtz were good one
s, too. But his latter teen years till now had taken a toll, particularly his going after higher education and Michael’s work as a draftsman, where he rubbed shoulders with Englischers each and every day. The world had pressed in and all but snatched him away.
May this phase soon pass, O Lord.
She peered at the darkness outside, unable to see the rain, though she heard its persistent patter against the windowpane. She finished drinking the milk, remembering all the nights she and Michael had happened upon each other right here, pouring a glass of cold milk and eating a cookie or two. As recent as a few weeks ago, she’d found him listening to music on his radio—both forbidden. Alas, she, too, was drawn to the lively fiddle music. She’d never think of revealing the times she’d crept into Michael’s room when he was away at work and listened to his battery-powered radio. Not to her husband, and certainly not to Michael, for fear he’d misunderstand and think she was condoning his defiance. Truth was, she and her youngest seemed to gravitate to the large, empty kitchen while the house slept, better able to converse at such a late hour.
Lillianne sighed again, wishing there were some way to roll back the events of yesterday and let Michael know he was sorely missed. And dearly loved.
O Lord, please look after my son.
Michael stared into the darkness after praying longer than usual. What guy wouldn’t give his eyeteeth to get to know a pretty country fiddler like Amy Lee! He felt anew a sting of guilt for spending so much time with her alone in the secluded cabin.
Even so, he justified that in his mind. After all, she’d arrived soaking wet and clearly needing shelter. And then if they hadn’t talked nearly like old friends from the moment she arrived! Yet, despite their unusual affinity, the thing that was most appealing was her trust in him. Considering the peculiar, even awkward circumstances, it surprised him. No, it shook him up. He’d never expected such a thing to happen. Not to him, of all people.
Never in a million months of Sundays . . .
Fiddler, The Page 5
