No sooner have I pushed the face of my “twinsie” – Jane Babies – into the potato salad then I feel my cell phone vibrate with a text. Caller ID alerts me that it’s Rebekah.

        “I hope you are doing well and that your convention is fun. I miss you. I love Maria. She took me to see Wicked today in NYC. It was AMAZING! I love music, but performing it will never be my career. Rachelle, I miss my family and my simple life. Can you please come get me and take me home?”

        I hurl a handful of glazed carrots at Jane and watch with deep satisfaction as they splay across her forehead on impact. They leave gooey brown tracks down each side of her nose like a pair of Olympic dirt bike riders.

        Where’s my low-class Dixie chick? She would be so totally impressed by this. I know for a fact that she would immediately award me six stars.

Bullhorns resonate throughout the ballroom as police swarm in and tell us to put down whatever we have in our hands.

        I catch sight of Gretchen’s black strappy sandals peeking out from beneath the table. I kneel, lift the tablecloth and gape at my roommate. Like a squirrel in November with acorns, she is cramming Swedish meatballs into her mouth two at a time. Unlike the squirrels, however, my little Steel Magnolia has tossed aside every Southern grace she ever acquired and is swilling wine right from the mouth of the bottle.

        “Oh, you have got to be kidding me,” I say, not even caring that I sound like a losing coach in the locker room at half-time. “There are POLICE here!”

        Gretchen holds up her index finger to indicate I need to hold that thought a second. She polishes off her last two meatballs, gives me an apologetic smile, then drains the remaining wine.

        Suddenly, stripper music fills the convention hall.

        “Whoa! I’m thinking they weren’t the real police,” says Gretchen.

        “Nonetheless, we’ve got to go,” I tell her. “Rebekah’s done with Rumspringa.”

        We extricate ourselves from beneath the table and nearly careen into Mrs. KT and Dolly. I have an epiphany.

        “Diane, did you drive here?” I ask Mrs. KT.

        “Yes,” she answers.

        “Do you need a better experience than this one?” I ask her, opening my arms to the debauchery-laden scene before us.

        At this point, septuagenarian Begin Again is getting a lap dance from two “policemen,” and Lancellot is doing hula moves in his hotel-issued white bathrobe, splattered now, like a Jackson Pollack painting, with colorful offerings from the buffet table.

        “Yes!” she exclaims without hesitation.

        “Do you care that it would be over two hours away?” I ask.

        “Absolutely NOT!” says Diane. Her Northern Michigan accent has ratcheted to a near-yelp. “The further away from here, the better!”

        “And Dolly?” I say, turning to the sleek British beauty in gold sequins. “Would you like to see a much classier view of America?”

        “Would I EVER!” she says as our four sets of eyes get drawn toward Lancellot who’s now yodeling and swinging his robe tie above his head like a lasso.

        “Then follow us,” I say.

        We sneak out and catch the private elevator that leads to Gretchen’s and my suite.

        Once there, we share the story of Old Reliable and Rebekah, as well as that of Maria and her private music school. Then, for good measure, we throw in several vignettes starring Jane.

        The women listen with rapt fascination.

        “If you ever write about this,” Diane says, “you’ll have to list it as ‘fiction.’ Who would ever believe this could happen in real life!”

        “Agreed!” says Dolly.

        “So how about if you follow us to Long Island so we can attend Rebekah’s recital together, then follow us to Lancaster, Pennsylvania, to drop her off and say our goodbyes?”

        “This is better than anything I could have imagined!” says Dolly.

        “Thank you,” says Diane and gives me a good hug.

        Less than an hour later, we have all cleaned up and are en route to Maria’s. I have texted her to let her know, and in her ever-gracious way, her response is, “Can’t wait!”

        We head out with Gretchen at the wheel of my car, me riding shotgun, and Diane and Dolly following close behind in Diane’s vehicle.

        When we pull into Maria’s driveway, we receive a Deja-vu-But-Better greeting because this time both Maria and Rebekah are running from the front door with their arms reaching out for hugs.

        We introduce Dolly and Diane, and Maria ushers us all inside. There, we share every detail of the outrageous FanStory International Convention, as well as the pre-convention red-carpet fashion show spoof in our suite.

        Maria is laughing so hard that she has to get a towel from the kitchen to sop up her tears. More than once, she says, “Wait – tell us that part again!” And when we do, we all get hysterical with laughter all over again.

        At midnight, we break up the festivities and head to our respective rooms, with the understanding that, at ten the next day, we will get to hear Rebekah perform.

        I’m on my bed, reading a text from Jim Wile that asks where Gretchen and I are, then relays that Diane and Dolly are both MIA. I explain the situation and request that he pass the word.

        Just then, there is a quiet knock on my door.

        It’s Rebekah. We pull up chairs next to each other in the cozy seating area of the room.

        “You’re not disappointed in me, are you?” she asks. “You’ve done so much – and I don’t want you to think I’m ungrateful.”

        “Oh, Sweetie,” I say, “the whole point of Rumspringa is to help you sort out what path you do or do not want for your life.” She gives me the sweetest smile. “So, isn’t it wonderful that you have that figured out now?”

        She nods. “Do you think I should have given it more time, though?”

        “Have you talked it through with G-d?” I ask.

        “Yes!” The answer rushes out of her so quickly and emphatically that it actually carries a little squeak at the end. “I’ve done nothing BUT talk about it to Him since I arrived.”

        “Then what further time do you need?” I ask. “You can trust your instincts, and you can certainly trust G-d’s answer.”

        She looks me squarely in the eyes. “I love you,” she says simply. “You are a wonderful gift that Gott brought me.”

        “Ditto,” I tell her. “Ditto in THE biggest way imaginable, Sweetheart.”

        In the morning, the FanStory Four meet in the gorgeous Recital Hall of Maria’s impressive facility and sit in the front row, excited for the impending performance.

        Maria takes the stage and says, as if to a packed house, “Good morning! And welcome to this landmark event. My student, Rebekah, might be new to this school, but she is an old soul of a musician. For this recital, she will be performing O Mio Babbino Caro by Giacomo Puccini. After that, we have a wonderful surprise for you.”

        Rebekah enters, and the four of us draw a collective breath. She is indescribably beautiful in her perfect black recital dress, with her glossy, waist-length auburn hair held back with a sparkly black headband. The cameo necklace could not be a more fitting accessory.

        She looks nervous, and yet there is a steely resolve in those radiant blue eyes. The term that applies is “Recital Ready.”

        She’s not even four notes in, and we in the audience are all dabbing at our eyes with tissues. We savor what we recognize immediately as one of those rare, perfect moments of life.

        Our applause and calls of “Bravo!” are tumultuous as Rebekah takes her bow, and we continue them well after she stands back up and smiles.

        Maria returns to the mic and says, “And now, we’ll have my former voice and piano teacher, Rachelle Allen, come to the stage and join Rebekah for a duet from the musical Wicked. It’s called “For Good.”

        We had worked on it the previous night, after our chat, in Rebekah’s sound-proof bedroom/practice suite. I was touched beyond words when she suggested we also perform it together at her recital. Originally, I’d said, “No,” because I didn’t want to horn in on her debut. But then, I had no choice after she said, “But the lyrics perfectly describe our relationship, Rachelle. Please?”

        I’ve been a performer since third grade when I was cast as The Patridge in the Pear Tree in our school’s rendition of The Twelve Days of Christmas, but never have I loved performing more than at that moment with my beloved Rebekah. All the Jane memories in the world can never take away from that joy.

        After an enormous homemade meal, we all extend our thanks and appreciation to Maria, who gives each of us a bag full of goodies for the ride to Lancaster. I watch her give extra hugs and a loving smooch on the cheek to Rebekah, and then she does likewise with me.

        “You are second to none,” I tell her. “Thank you for your unequaled generosity.”

        “That’s like thanking me for eating ice cream,” she says with a mischievous smirk.

        “Hey! That’s MY line!” I mock-protest.

        “Well, I’m just showing off one more facet of what I learned from you,” she says with her charisma-laden smile.

        The drive to Lancaster is pensive, like the feeling in a hospital room before someone is wheeled away for open-heart surgery.

        When we finally drive up the long, gravel path from the road to the two houses, Hannah’s voice can be heard like a fire whistle.
 

        “SHE’S HERE!!! REBEKAH IS HOME!! REBAKAH IS HOME!”

        Helene is doing a bona fide run from the house, and rushing in from the fields are Simeon and Solomon. Even Ezra is hurrying.

        Rebekah disembarks from our car and, like Cinderella after midnight, is once again wearing her long blue dress, apron and cap.

        Her family encircles her and holds her tight for a very long time. Gretchen, Dolly, Diane and I are actually quite grateful for their extended embrace because it gives us time to regain our own composure, as well.

        When they finally break apart, Rebekah introduces them to Diane and Dolly, who are both quick to marvel to Helene about the beauty of her gardens.

        While the men return to the fields, Helene herds us, her weary travelers, into the house, where she fortifies us with heaping ladles of – G-d help me – pork butt soup that is still warm from lunch. I opt out and wait for the blueberries in cream.

        Afterward, I see Gretchen sensing that the hard part is near. “Hey,” she says to Dolly and Diane, “come with me. I want to show you the hot springs before we head out.”

        “We’ll go with you, too,” says Helene. “Come on, Hannah.”

        They follow her out, leaving Rebekah and me to stand and stare at each other. In the next instant, we watch each other’s eyes fill up with tears. Then we hug and cry into each other’s shoulders because there are no words right now that will suffice.

        A video begins to play in my mind of how this unusual relationship came into being. How G-d’s most beautiful of plans was bestowed upon a simple Amish girl and a frou-frou leopard-loving music teacher who thought corn cobs were hair curlers, all because of a car named Old Reliable that broke down en route to a writer’s convention.

        What a story it will be for us to tell for the remainder of our lives.