Free The Fiddler by Beverly Lewis

Hostetler on the caller ID and assumed it was a wrong number.”
    She gulped—she’d forgotten she was using a different phone. “I had to borrow one,” she explained, trying to sound composed. “I had a little accident, and my own phone landed in water.” She didn’t say where or why, hoping he might think it was the bathtub at a hotel.
    “I take it you’re not home as of yet.”
    “No, still in Pennsylvania.” It’s a long and very strange story, she thought. But she said instead, “I got caught in a bad storm.” She hoped he wouldn’t ask where she’d spent the night.
    “Are you on your way home?”
    Quite unexpectedly, the image of Michael running through the dense woods to her car, getting drenched just so he could hear her play her fiddle, came to her. It shook her up enough to disorient her for a moment.
    “Amelia? Are you there?”
    It crossed her mind to just start talking again and then simply hang up on herself. Let Byron assume she’d lost service—a polite sort of way to terminate a difficult conversation. But she wasn’t a quitter; she would tough it out . . . and choose to be honest. “I’m taking a little detour today,” she told him.
    “I’m sorry; I thought you said you were making a detour.”
    “I did.”
    “But—”
    “I’ll be home eventually, Byron.” She didn’t wait for him to say more. “I really don’t know exactly when I’ll be back.”
    “What’s going on?” He was silent for a second. Then, “I don’t understand.”
    “I just need some time, Byron—that’s all. Good-bye for now.” And she hung up.
    ———
     
    When Amelia arrived back at the cabin, she thanked Michael for loaning his phone.
    “Anytime, Amy . . . really,” he said, and she wondered if all young Amishmen were so accommodating.
    “And if your invitation still stands—” she stopped, wondering how what she was about to say would go over—“I think I would actually like to visit Hickory Hollow with you.”
    He looked momentarily stunned. “You want to?”
    “From everything you’ve told me, I feel like I already know some of your neighbors there,” she added.
    “Wonderful, then. Why don’t you follow me there in your car? We can stop quick in Morgantown on the way to get a new tire.”
    She wasn’t having second thoughts, but she wondered aloud, “I should ask you—will the People be okay with this? I mean, are they typically all right with visits from outsiders?”
    “Ach, most will welcome you.” He nodded, grinning now. “We are plenty interested in Englischers, and don’t let anyone tell ya different.”
    We? He still thinks of himself as one of them. . . .
    Michael seemed exceptionally cheerful as he busied himself packing the food he’d brought, as well as his clothing—far more than she’d realized. Obviously he’d planned to stay here longer than for a single night.
    Later, when Michael was ready to go—before she got into her car—Amelia turned and looked back at the rustic little cabin. Feeling strangely nostalgic, she memorized the sight of it, tucked away from the narrow road, in the heart of Welsh Mountain.
    ———
     
    Amelia had done plenty of driving recently, but not without her GPS. Having tested her phone earlier that morning, she had decided it was not going to revive itself. No sense hoping it would dry out now. In some ways, this turn of events felt astonishingly good. It was a change from feeling absolutely tethered to the Big Three: Dad, Stoney, and Byron.
    No longer, she thought, knowing she would have some explaining to do once she returned home. But Amelia was determined to enjoy her day in Amish country.
    Letting go of her stress, she followed Michael to Morgantown to purchase a permanent tire and change out the spare. That done, they headed to Highway 10, down past the rural towns of Honey Brook and White Horse. She drove west on Route 340, toward Intercourse Village, just skirting the rural edge of town before turning