by Cara Putman
He lowered the bucket and waited for it to hit water.
Plunk.
He hauled up on the rope, slowly, smoothly, arm over arm. Water sloshed over the side as he set it on the rim and then unhooked the bucket. It felt good and cold.
In a few steps he was in the cottage. Rachel sat at the table mumbling something as she flipped through her sketchbook, the sort he’d carried around Rome as part of the academy. His instructors lectured they should always carry one because they never knew when inspiration would hit. In a country like Italy, that could happen every moment. He’d never forget his wonder-filled first days and months in country as a recent college graduate who’d been blessed to enter the prestigious academy.
He set the bucket on the floor in front of the fireplace. More water sloshed over the edges. Good thing there wasn’t a short supply. “Find anything?”
Rachel startled from her study. “No.” Her shoulders slumped a bit. “I’m missing something.”
“Want me to look again?”
She stared at him a moment, then gave a small nod. “I wish I knew who the artist was. RMA isn’t helpful.”
It wouldn’t hurt to look at it again, see if he noticed something she missed. As observant as she was, that seemed unlikely. “The jeep wasn’t the best place to examine it. Let me try again. Why do you believe the sketches show Italy?”
“The backdrops. They don’t remind me of any place on the East Coast. Momma didn’t travel after I was born. That narrows the possibilities.”
“Why was she here?” He flipped the pages as he waited for her response. Definitely presketches for a painting.
“Why did most Americans come in the twenties? To study art.” She tensed. “She had big dreams.”
“What happened?”
“I did.” Her smile was the saddest he’d seen. “It’s hard to rise in the art world while shackled to a child. Children can’t survive on the exuberance of creativity. They need bread and milk and shoes.”
“Did she ever say that to you?” If so, he’d love to give her momma some parenting advice. What a horrible perspective to saddle on a child.
“Not in that way. But who voluntarily goes from dreams of becoming the next Mary Cassatt to a secretary struggling to make ends meet?” Tears pooled in her eyes, shimmering in the light.
“I bet she didn’t. My mom always said kids were a gift.”
“My head knows you’re right. Momma always wrapped me in love.” She reached toward the book he held, but he ignored her.
Scott flipped through the book some more to get an overall impression. Rachel let the silence linger as she watched. After the fresh perusal, he could see why she’d think the sketches were Italian, definitely European. Not a master certainly, but she wasn’t claiming the art went back any further than the twenties. “When was your mom here?”
“1920.”
“Hmm. So the artist would be somebody who’s risen to prominence in the last ten years or so.” Mario Armati might have painted in the twenties, but by 1936 he had turned the bulk of his attention to the world of museums. Still in the twenties, he could have been the artist.
“Why?”
“These show the promise of coming greatness, but it’s not realized. It’s still germinating.” Even as he said it, something niggled at him. He should know the artist. “They remind me of something.”
“What?”
“Not sure yet, but I’ll keep looking.” Could it be Renaldo Adamo? He had risen to prominence in the last ten years. In the early twenties his career was nascent but promising, laying the groundwork for today’s growing success.
Rachel yawned, then smiled behind her hand. “Long day.”
“And it’ll be an early morning. Why don’t you go ahead and head to bed? You can take the bedroom. Tyler and I will be out here.” Maybe his mind would clear, and he could create a list of potential artists without her watchfulness muddying his thoughts.
“Thought he was banished.”
“I weakened.” He tried to ignore the satisfaction that flooded him at her look of approval. He held up the book. “Mind if I spend more time on this?”
“Be my guest. I understand it’s a long shot you’ll see anything.” Her gaze lingered on the book as if reluctant to leave it behind. “Thank you for trying.”
“I promise to take good care of it.”
“I feel connected to my mom when I look through it. There’s something there. . . .” Her words trailed off, and he waited to see if she’d fill the space. “Well, good night.” She disappeared through the doorway, and the room felt emptier.
“Is that her journal?” Tyler stood next to him, looking over his shoulder.
“I don’t know.” If Scott knew whose it was, he’d know the artist. “I’d like to help Captain Justice.” He flipped another page.
Tyler leaned closer, casting a shadow over the page as he did. After a minute he shook his head. “Good luck. It could belong to anybody.”
“You’re right.” Didn’t mean Scott didn’t want to find something. Especially when it seemed so important to Rachel. He wouldn’t mind being her hero.
Rachel unrolled her bedding on top of the firm mattress. Part of her wanted to race back into the kitchen and grab the sketchbook. Why did she turn into such an awkward adolescent around Scott? He’d agreed to look at it. She needed to accept the reality that he probably couldn’t help her search. But she wanted him to. Something about the thought they could find her father, together, made a smile swell inside her.
She snuggled into the blanket, pulling it around her face, and tried to quiet her mind.
If he could find proof she wasn’t searching for a mirage, she might have to kiss him. Her cheeks warmed at how much she’d like to do that.
In the morning she awakened to the sounds of someone banging around the next room. Sunlight seeped through a small window above her bed, and Rachel closed her eyes wishing for more sleep. As she lay there, the sound of artillery formed a distant cacophony against the song of birds perched outside the window as they welcomed the morning. She tried to filter out the whine and dull thuds, but they formed an odd accompaniment to the song.
A knock had her tugging the bedroll under her chin.
“Captain Justice, the general wants to see us in twenty.” Scott’s voice startled the birds, and their song ended midnote while the distance caused by his use of her title soured the morning.
She cleared her throat. “Thank you. I’ll be out momentarily.” The last thing she needed was Scott barging into the room to make sure she was all right.
“Tyler found some hot food too.” There was a pause. “I’ve set a pot of warm water outside your door. My mom always spends time freshening.”
Moisture filled her eyes at his kindness. She got up and opened the door wide enough to slip the cracked bowl inside, a rough cloth resting across the top. She’d have more dirt caked on tomorrow, but she’d gladly wipe a layer off now. She sponged off, then slipped into her freshest uniform. What could the general want with her? Time would tell, but maybe he could help her get film back to her editor in Rome.
A plate of lukewarm eggs and a slice of cheese waited on the table when she exited the bedroom. “Should I repack my bags?”
Scott shrugged. “I’m not sure what the general has in mind. Best to assume we won’t be back and be surprised if we are.”
“Thanks for breakfast.”
“Thank Tyler. He’s helpful when he wants to be.”
“He drives you.”
“True.” Scott sat across the table and studied her with intensity.
Rachel looked down at the plate of pale yellow eggs. She took a bite and forced a swallow. The eggs were bland with a desperate need for salt and pepper. The bite stuck in her throat, and she looked for something to drink.
“Here.” Scott slid a
cracked mug of coffee across the table.
She took a swallow, then forced a smile. “Thanks.” She swirled her fork through the eggs, not sure she could take another bite, yet knowing she needed to eat while food was available. Scott let the silence stretch until it reached the point it was uncomfortable. “Everything okay?”
He shook his head, then stopped. “Tell me again how you got the sketchbook.”
“I found it in my mom’s things. Why? Do you know who the artist is?”
“Why would your mom have it?” His words hung in the space between them, coming so close to an accusation Rachel felt righteousness rising inside her.
“What do you mean?” She placed crossed arms on the table and stared at him.
“Where did this book come from?” Scott placed it on the table. “Do you know the artist?”
“You know the artist?”
He jerked slightly. If she’d blinked she would have missed the reaction. “Who is it?”
He didn’t answer, and his gaze never left the book. Studying it as if it had great value.
She might not know him well, but the way he refused to look at her telegraphed he withheld information. “I have to find this artist.”
“I can’t help you yet.”
“Why don’t I believe that?”
“I’d like to keep this book while I search.” He tightened his hold on the edges yet kept his fingers from the sheets themselves.
“No.” She reached for it and attempted to tug it from his grasp. “I have to take it back with me.” She’d done nothing to give him any reason to believe she’d done anything wrong. “It belongs to my mother.”
He snorted. “You haven’t told me how you came to hold a book by a contemporary artist. I’m not sure which one yet, but the list is small.”
“What do you mean?” She reached for the book. “I have no idea who he is.”
His response was a quirked eyebrow and a tightened grip. The nerve!
She gave a final tug and felt a corner of the book’s spine give way. Any warm feelings Lieutenant Lindstrom had generated with his offer to help evaporated. He reached for the book, and she swung it behind her, straight into something hard.
“Oof.” Tyler rubbed his stomach where the book had landed like a punch. “What’s going on here?”
Rachel glared between the two. “Reclaiming what is mine.” She stomped to the bedroom, so upset she could hear blood rushing in her ears. “The nerve of that man.” She placed the book on the bedroll, then grabbed yesterday’s uniform and wadded it into the first bag. She threw her toiletries on top. “He can’t keep it from me.” She pushed the bag off the bed and rolled up the bedding. Her hands trembled as she tried to form knots.
She sank to the edge of the simple bed. What had happened to her trust in Scott?
“Am I pushing him away for no reason?”
Her whispered words hung in the air.
She didn’t like the answer that formed in her heart.
Chapter 20
June 11
Scott pushed his foot to the floorboard. If he were driving, they’d be at HQ instead of twenty minutes late. Rachel had slowed everything down with her preparations and then the argument over breakfast. Now the general would be furious when Scott got everyone to headquarters later than the seven o’clock appointment. How was he supposed to gain the general’s trust and cooperation when he couldn’t get two people organized enough to show up on time? Scott’s thoughts raced as the jeep inched toward the church and the general.
Scott could think of two men who could have sketched the drawings. The idea that Rachel had Mario Armati or Renaldo Adamo’s sketchbook in her possession had him twisted in all sorts of directions. A corner of his mind admitted it could be someone else’s, but he didn’t think so.
How on earth had she acquired it? From all he’d picked up, she appreciated art more than the average person, but that didn’t explain the book. As he’d studied it into the night, it dawned on him the sketches formed the foundation for a few of the paintings he’d coaxed across the Atlantic for Renaldo’s exhibition. Renaldo had hesitated to send those scenes because he insisted they were his favorites.
Did Rachel’s mother have something to do with that?
And if the paintings were precious to Renaldo, was the journal also valuable to him? If it was, he wouldn’t have parted with it willingly.
Then there was Mario. The man had painted in the modern slashes of color when Scott knew him in Rome. But his style could have evolved since the early twenties. Many painters did over their careers.
The jeep lurched, almost stopping as it sputtered. Scott felt a growl building. “Come on.”
“Cool down, Lieutenant.” Tyler thrummed a beat against the steering wheel. “I’ll get you there in a jiff.”
Scott gritted his teeth and pushed harder against the passenger floorboard. If he had the gas pedal and steering wheel, he’d get them there faster than Tyler moved this morning. “We’ll still be late.”
“You mean, you’ll be late. The general didn’t ask me.”
Scott snorted but kept his mouth shut. In the foul mood he was in, he’d make matters worse. God, help me. All I can think about is that book. How did she get it? He needed to be alert as he headed into the meeting.
Would Rachel lie to him about the book? Was it something she found in Naples or her short stop in Rome? Many soldiers and civilians were collecting items to ship home as presents or keep as souvenirs. So why create a story about her mom?
Any way he looked at it, he couldn’t shake the idea the sketchbook was Renaldo Adamo’s or Mario Armati’s. Renaldo had a distinct flair for capturing the feminine form that was clear in the lines of the featured woman. Add in the fact that Scott would vouch on a stack of Bibles that one sketch was made on Armati’s family property, and it cinched his conclusion. One or both had connected with Rachel’s momma during her year in Italy, if the woman in the drawings was her. Otherwise, there was no good reason for Rachel’s momma to acquire the book. And if that wasn’t what had happened, then Rachel was lying to him about the origins of the book.
He hated that idea.
“Here you are.” Tyler pulled the vehicle to a hard break in front of the church. “I’ll wait.” Tyler leaned back, tipped his helmet over his face, and crossed his arms.
Scott turned to offer Rachel a hand out of the jeep, but she’d already slipped out.
The MPs on either side of the large doors kept their weapons at the ready. One focused on Scott. “Purpose.”
“A meeting with General Tucker.” He gave his name.
The silent one opened the door and slipped inside. A minute later he was back and held the door open. “The general’s waiting.”
Scott waited for Rachel to precede him, then nodded his thanks to the soldier and followed her into the church. The general continued to lean across the impromptu table that held a map. It looked like he hadn’t left all night. “Sir.”
General Tucker looked up. “You’re late.”
“Yes, sir. I apologize, sir.”
“And this is . . . ?”
“Captain Rachel Justice, sir. Photographer with United Press.”
The general examined her closely. “So you’re seeing the front?”
“Yes, sir. I’ve taken photos in Naples and Rome. The action’s moved north, so I accepted an assignment to Lieutenant Lindstrom’s group.”
As the general studied her, Scott had the impression General Tucker didn’t miss anything. In fact, Scott was certain the general formed a quick opinion, one that would be dead on. “Is he keeping you safe?” The general pointed at Scott.
“He’s trying. A bit difficult in a war zone, sir.”
“True. Down to business.” The man transitioned so swiftly, Scott had visions of falling off a bicycle as it lurched to a stop. Ho
pefully, this time he wouldn’t break his elbow in the process. “You’re the Monuments Man. We’ve got a problem with troops taking art they find. Some of the losses occur in the villages you’ve visited.”
Scott pulled over a chair and eased onto its hard wooden surface. “What’s missing?”
“Small art. Things that disappear in a rucksack. Enough items we’re getting complaints. This village, then that village. Each missing something.” His gray eyes bored through Scott. “It isn’t acceptable, but I can’t take it on. My men must focus on winning this unending war. So you’ll find the culprit. Whoever they are, I will make an example of them. I will not tolerate my soldiers acting in such a manner.”
“I appreciate that, sir, but I need more than a hunch.”
“Start with the local priest. What’s his name?”
A corporal stepped forward and handed the general a piece of paper. “I’ve got it on here, sir.”
General Tucker accepted the paper. “Right. Father Francesco Gentile. The man has waited hours for someone to care about his problem.” The general studied Scott. “That man is you.”
Rachel stepped back into the conversation. “I’ll look for the priest while you continue meeting.” She slipped out of the nave before Scott could stop her. The last thing he needed was something to happen to her.
“She’ll be fine, and I’m glad to have a moment.” The general stepped around his desk and sat on the corner. “You need to find the thief.”
“Sir, I’m supposed to move forward with your men.”
“Then find him quickly. We’ll move forward. Couple days at most.”
“Any other suggestions where to look?”
General Tucker grimaced. “Every soldier could grab something small and tuck it in his rucksack. How’d we know without a search? Many might do it without any idea it’s wrong.”
A thought whispered across Scott’s mind. Had Rachel done that? Picked up the sketchbook as a memento? Now she wanted to know the artist? Who better to ask than the art expert she traveled with?
