The Fiddler by Beverly Lewis

measure of perspective. As had Amelia . . .
    His father glanced over at Michael, spotting him there. The horse neighed loudly, and Daed looked back at the animal, still moving his grooming brush. Demanding soul, Cricket . . .
    “Daed, I’d like to talk to you for a minute.”
    “What’s on your mind?”
    Pausing, Michael wondered whether to blurt out his decision and just be done with it. Just get the hatt— difficult—task over right quick. Wouldn’t it be less painful for both of them that way?
    Turning again slightly, Daed ran a callused hand through his thick, dark beard. “Listen, Michael, I’ve thought ’bout what I said yesterday. Frankly, I was out of order.” His voice was quiet, unruffled.
    “I’m not here for an apology, Daed. I’ve provoked your anger unnecessarily, and all too often.”
    “But I lost my temper—a sin and a shame,” his father rebutted. “Never should’ve talked that way.”
    “Daed, I—”
    “If ya don’t mind, let your old man finish, won’t ya?”
    Nodding but feeling frustrated, Michael waited. “Jah . . . sorry.”
    Daed scratched the horse behind his ears. “Your Mamma and I are hopin’ you’ll stay on here as long as need be . . . till you join church. We mean this, son.” Daed extended his hand. “Making your life vow’s a mighty serious thing.”
    Even though astounded by his father’s tone and offer, Michael accepted his handshake—a stronger grip he’d never felt. “Tellin’ the truth, I never expected this,” he said, uncomfortable now.
    “And, son, there’s something else.”
    “Jah?”
    “I don’t want ya parkin’ your car over yonder at your uncle Jerry’s. I ain’t blind, Michael; I know you thought you were hidin’ it there.” Daed’s brawny shoulders rose and fell. “From now on, keep it here, parked in the lane.” He pointed at the window across the stable.
    “I wouldn’t think of disgracing you thataway,” Michael replied.
    “Bishop John insists . . . and so do I.”
    The bishop? Michael was stunned, yet he knew better than to question.
    Daed’s eyes were moist in the corners.
    No . . . no, Michael thought, don’t go soft on me!

     
    Nearly an hour passed, and Amelia wondered what was keeping Michael—hopefully things were going well with his visit home. She mentally stopped herself. Was it possible she cared too much about the outcome, having identified so readily with Michael’s woes?
    Joanna was presently talking about several sewing projects, some of which she sold at Bird-in-Hand Farmers’ Market on Route 340, she said.
    “Do you have many encounters with Englishers?” Amelia asked.
    “Not much other than at market.” Joanna shook her head quickly. “My cousin Marissa was the closest English friend I had . . . ’cept Mennonites aren’t really considered fancy folk so much anymore. Her family is pretty conservative.”
    “Marissa? Is that the same girl who was engaged to Michael?” Amelia stared at the hope chest within feet of where she sat, determined not to meet Joanna’s eyes—like Michael, she seemed to read her far too easily.
    Joanna told her that Cousin Marissa was indeed one and the same. “You know ’bout her?” Her tone revealed her surprise. She might as well have said, “ I think you know Michael better than you’re letting on. . . . ”
    “She must be a very special girl,” Amelia said.
    “Oh, is she ever.”
    Amelia wasn’t sure she should ask the question but did anyway. “Where is your cousin now?”
    Rising, Joanna went to the window and looked out. “She’s training to go overseas, as a missionary.”
    “Don’t mean to be nosy,” Amelia said.
    “Not to fret.”
    “I’d guess you find it somewhat awkward talking to an outsider. Especially about family.”
    Joanna shook her head. “With you, not at all.” Then her face broke into a pleasant smile. “ Gut friends—the way I feel with Marissa.”
    Do I remind her of Michael’s former fiancée?