by Cara Putman
Rachel had developed a story about her daddy dying, but it wore thin like the lie it was. Explaining sounded weak, like defending the actions of another. Instead, as an adult she’d learned to hold her head high and act the part of one who never cared what others thought and hesitated to share her full story. Then she’d met Scott and wanted to be known.
She turned the pages, hand on Momma’s necklace as she read.
Tonight he gave me a heart locket. He said to reflect his great love for me.
Then he took my hand and led me to see the stars.
He said it was to sketch me under a new light. Starlight. To craft a new page in the book that is us. To stroke a pencil across the page as he longed to touch me. Even as I pretended to believe, I knew there was more.
I still can’t write his name, as if the very act of doing so will cause him to evaporate like the mist. I can’t because when I am with him, I am alive. It is as if I hold my breath until the next moment he is with me. Too long and I feel sick as if I will expire from lack of air.
Tonight there was more.
We were more.
We were complete.
It was beautiful. Fearsome. So much more and less than I’d hoped and imagined.
What it means, I know not. Only that my love for him seems more complete and emptied.
Strange. And wonderful.
He took me to see the stars.
Rachel continued to read, inhaling the prose and wondering why her momma had never written for publication. What had stolen this gift from her?
Today my world shattered. The other girls in class giggled when I walked in. They whispered, telling secrets but saying them loud enough to ensure I heard. I told myself they were merely jealous. Upset that I was chosen while they were not. Then the truth confronted me, exposing me, my foolishness.
Tonight he appeared at the graduation party. With his fiancée.
My world erupted into a thousand pieces. My heart disappearing in the sparkle of her ring.
He had another. But took me.
I watched, a growing sickness in me. I had done everything my father warned me to avoid.
And now instead of returning with a ring or a husband, I return with a child within. A child the father shall never know.
This I vow.
The last words splotched across the line as if the author had cried even as she etched them on the page.
Rachel shut the book after that last entry. It was as if with penning those words, admitting the depth of her fall, Momma could write no more. As far as Rachel knew, she’d never kept another diary. Instead, her writing ended with that moment.
Momma had been alone for an extended period and influenced by a country known for romance and passion. It wasn’t surprising she’d been swept along. Her thoughts turned to Scott and his gentle ways. The way his strength came from seeing people and understanding them beyond a surface level. That drew her to him, made her wonder what a future with him could be like. Add in the crucible of war, the reality that life could end with the next shell, and Rachel could imagine how easy it would be for the loneliness to give way to passion. The desire to be seen and understood sweeping aside the restraints calmer times enforced.
Could she ever love a man with the passion her momma had felt?
For years she’d thought no. She’d always held back, wondering if men saw her or focused on the fallen status of her family.
Then Scott collided with her carefully ordered world. Of course, it happened in Italy. Where else did the Justice women lose their hearts?
With Scott it didn’t seem to matter. He hadn’t probed, nor had he changed the way he looked at her with the revelation she’d grown up without a father. Instead, compassion had colored his features, and he treated her with even more kindness.
Thrust into a situation where so much of her time was spent with one, very appealing man—she could imagine the direction her emotions would travel if she let them spin unchecked. Instead her momma’s life was a cautionary tale. A living example of what happened the moment she lowered her guard.
The sound of singing lured her to a window to seek its source. She stacked the letters inside the diary cover, then wandered to the small window. Standing on the lone chair positioned beneath it, she peeked out. She couldn’t see much but heard the dulcet sound of children singing a sweet tune. One she wanted to hear in person. She returned the diary to the bedroll and grabbed her camera. After it was around her neck, she exited the room, closed the door, and pocketed the key that had been in the doorknob.
After a few false turns she made her way back to the courtyard.
Fires circled the courtyard with women leaning over them stirring different pots. The children had been shooed away from danger, but she noticed the curious light in their eyes as they watched her. She eased closer, pointed at her camera, then raised it to her eye and pantomimed clicking a picture. She shrugged as if asking permission, pointing to them then her camera.
The children giggled and nodded in excitement. She gestured for them to squish together, and they did with laughter and the light of children who don’t understand anything but war. She snapped a couple shots, then turned to shoot photos of the adults strewn around the court. They carried desolation and fear in place of the children’s joy. After several tries she found the perfect shot of a woman standing by the fire, her husband slouched behind her with a couple soldiers speaking in the background. When a ball rolled across the frame as she clicked, she knew it was perfect. It captured the layers of war perfectly.
After taking an extra shot, she turned to walk outside the castle’s courtyard to a place where she could watch the sun sink beneath the horizon. A low wall built of rocks extended from the back of the courtyard. She walked along it, fingers brushing the rough surface. The heat cloaked her like a blanket, and the sounds of children mixed with the barks of a couple dogs wrestling under a bush. The faint scent of something sweet drifted from a flowering bush on the other side of the fence.
If she stood right there, eyes closed, she could imagine the war had been a horrible dream rather than a reality that exploded kilometers down the road.
And she could imagine the Tuscany her momma had loved.
Tyler slipped away before a quick gander at Venus, and Scott watched Renaldo pace the hall, wavering side to side. The man must be beyond exhausted. The stress, long walk from Florence, and lack of food couldn’t have helped. Scott slipped into Italian, a courtesy for the man he respected, one of the men he’d taken the sketchbook for. “Are you sure you shouldn’t rest first? Venus will wait thirty minutes.”
Renaldo spun on his heel and stormed back toward Scott, finger raised and stabbing. “You do not understand. Any moment one can disappear.”
“We’re here.”
“So were the Germans. They assured they safeguarded. The first troops did. Then the SS and paratroopers arrived as the others pulled back. They had no respect. So where is safe? Austria? Germany? For you, the United States?”
Scott stepped back, shocked by Renaldo’s passion. “Only for the war.”
“So they say too.”
“We mean it.”
“Words.” The man got within a foot of Scott, so close he could smell the garlic of whatever hearty Tuscan dish Renaldo had last eaten, then stopped. “Words mean nothing.” He paused and seemed to gather his emotion. “Tell me about the young woman with you.”
“Rachel?”
“That is her name?”
“Yes. She’s a photographer with newspapers in the States.” What should he say? He wanted to understand Rachel, but she hadn’t let him in far enough to understand why Renaldo was important.
“Ah, an artist.” Renaldo squared his shoulders. “She is beautiful.”
“She is.” Renaldo continued to stare at him as if seeing into his soul. “She has inner beauty t
oo. But I don’t know much about her except she’s from Philadelphia and the most amazing woman.”
“I see.” Renaldo turned from his questions and moved down the hall. “Come.”
Guess he would meet Venus tonight. “When did you develop the idea for the series we exhibited in January?”
Renaldo’s steps hitched but he didn’t turn. “The series you protect?”
“Yes.” Scott bit the word out, already tired of the recrimination he sensed from Renaldo. Things must be much worse than he imagined for the man to exhibit such bitterness.
“I was young. Maybe twenty-one, twenty-two. This way.” He barreled down a hallway that led to darkness and shadows beyond.
“Did anything trigger the inspiration? A person? An idea?”
“Why the questions? All art grows from inspiration.”
“What served as yours?”
The man waved an arm toward a closed door on the first floor. An Indian soldier from the Mahratta battalion stood guard and saluted as they approached. “Maybe she remains. Her size precludes easy taking.”
Was the man so distracted by his charges he couldn’t carry a simple linear conversation, or was it intentional deflection? The Renaldo Adamo he knew and studied under had been open and free with his thoughts and opinions. Had the war altered that part of his character? So far the man dodged certain questions. Maybe because it related to his creative process. Some artists held those thoughts and ideas very close, even after the creation had ended.
Maybe the last months and years of protecting the art, of creating the artful dodge, made it second nature.
“So? Open the door.”
Scott nodded. “Of course.” It must be an amazing painting if Renaldo was acting this intent about how Scott first viewed it. “Remember I’ve visited the Uffizi. I’ve seen her collections.”
“Not close. Never like this.” Renaldo handed him a large brass key. “You may open it.”
Chapter 27
The good-night kiss of the sun lingered on Rachel’s skin as she studied the countryside from her perch on the cooling stone. Even the distant rumbles and whistles of the artillery had stilled, maybe in the waning light recognizing the need for a pause. She shook her head. What foolishness to attribute anything so beautiful to a war machine. Both sides remained determined to win, entrenched in their respective positions, one pushing ever northward while the other refused to give way.
Now that she was ahead of headquarters, she didn’t know when she’d hear from home. She should send another letter, but what could she say? Another day, another brush with danger and the unknown. Not exactly a message of hope for Momma. Still she should write something when she returned to her room, if for no other reason than to let Momma know she was still well. And then Rachel would develop the rolls of film she’d shot on the drive north and around the castle. The stills of destroyed vehicles and the dead mixed with the children at play under the watchful eyes of parents and soldiers. For now she’d rest another moment. Enjoy the quiet beauty of twilight in Tuscany. Etch it on her mind to take out and enjoy again and again after she returned home.
“Captain.” That word sounded so strange when addressed toward her.
A throat cleared behind her, still she faced forward. She’d learned it best not to encourage a soldier. The man started again with clipped, accented words. “Captain, are you in need of a meal?”
She turned and took in the officer’s clean appearance. “I haven’t eaten. If you’re offering more C rations, I’ll pass.”
“No, I thought you’d enjoy a real meal. The cook does a decent job. The meal’s hot and not overcooked yet.” He made a show of looking around. “I don’t see the men you arrived with. Would you care to join me? Name’s Leftenant Alistair Barkley.”
“With the Indian regiment?”
“Family moved there in the late eighteen hundreds and stayed. So . . . some food?”
Her stomach rumbled and his grin widened. “My stomach answered for me. Thank you.”
“Sometimes the soul needs a spot of beauty more than the stomach needs gruel.”
What a beautiful way to phrase it. “Exactly, but my stomach voted.” She stood and straightened her cap. “Lead on.”
They walked along a side of the castle she hadn’t explored, to an open area hosting a collection of tents. “That big ’un over there is the kitchen of sorts. As long as we don’t get a repeat of the spring rains, we’ll be good.”
“Was the fight as awful as the papers said?”
The man nodded, his hands clasped behind his back. “Every bit and another foot. I’ve never slogged through such hideous streams of mud. Certain we’d all die around Monte Cassino. Lost too many good men. Nothing to compare it to, and I never want to repeat it.”
“I’m so sorry.” The reporters in Rome had told her stories he’d lived. “Have you been in Italy long?”
“I’ve walked every step from Sicily, ma’am.”
“A terrible thing.”
“Part of me wishes we’d arrived earlier. Done more to stop this. But Mussolini enjoyed power a long time.”
“That he did.”
He allowed her to enter the tent first. The inside smelled of some sort of stew mixed with bread and the aroma of unwashed bodies. The clank of silverware against trays stilled as she walked the line. Lieutenant Barkley flashed an apologetic smile. “The men are a little unaccustomed to seeing women around.”
“Nothing I haven’t grown used to.” An odd thought still, as she wasn’t used to stopping all conversation and attracting full attention in the States. Life was so different here.
After the privates in the serving line loaded her tray with an assortment of mystery food, she followed the officer to a long bench. The meal passed quickly. He didn’t bother to fill the space with conversation, which suited her fine. Odds were too good they wouldn’t cross paths again once the troops moved. However, she appreciated the opportunity to enjoy a hot meal, even with the exotic flavor lacing each bite. The man’s attention was flattering too. He seemed nice, but nothing could come of it other than a pleasant hour in the midst of the war. After she finished, he grabbed her tray.
“Thank you for the company.” He lifted their trays a bit. “I can’t salute, but you were a welcome respite.”
“Thank you for rescuing my empty stomach.”
“May I escort you back to the grounds?”
She nodded, grateful not to make the trek alone. “Thank you.”
The officer stepped closer as they proceeded to the courtyard. “I’m glad your editor asked for someone to check on you.”
Rachel felt as if cold water doused over her. “I’m sorry?”
“Your editor contacted us and asked for someone to confirm your status.”
“That’s why you sought me?”
His eyebrows crinkled as he smiled. “I would have anyway. It was just nice to have an official reason.”
She rolled her eyes and started walking again. “That assuages my ego.” After a minute of quiet, she turned to him. “Did he do this in other places?”
The lieutenant shrugged. “I don’t know but it’s likely.”
“That would explain things.”
“What things?” He watched her intently, with an intelligence that made her want to trust him.
“I’ve often felt like someone followed just out of sight.”
“So they weren’t all as bold as me?”
Rachel laughed. “No, they weren’t.” She glanced around, taking in the way twilight fell in trickles. “This must be what the old writers meant by gloaming.”
“Pardon?”
“I’ve always wondered what that felt like when I’d read the word. This fits.”
He paused and turned toward her. “You are a most unique woman.”
She dipped her chin. That wa
s one way of putting it. “I’ve heard that before.”
“You act like it’s a bad thing.” He tipped her chin up, and she caught her breath at the intensity in his eyes. A lock of dark hair fell over one eye, as if it had been too long since his last regulation cut. His attention never wavered as he released her chin and brushed her cheek.
She stepped away from his touch with a nervous chuckle. She did not want a war romance that could go nowhere. She needed someone who would stay.
Even as the thought trailed through her mind, Scott’s words chased them. “God is the Father who is always there. He never leaves us.”
What would that be like? To have a father who cared that much?
Lieutenant Barkley nodded at her. “Until next time.”
“Thank you.”
“My pleasure.” The officer turned on his heel and headed back toward the tents.
She watched him move, frozen by her fears. Annie or Heidi would have prolonged the time with the officer. They would have known the words to say, the ways to move to keep him by their side as long as they wanted. Maybe Rachel didn’t know how to interact with men on a romantic level because she’d never had a father to make her feel cherished and loved beyond all capacity to understand.
Could she trust God to love her like that?
The thought left her wanting to hyperventilate. To relinquish that kind of control and trust?
God, are you here? If you are, will you show me? Because I’m not sure I can trust something I can’t see.
The sound of families gathered inside the grounds clashed with the soldiers moving around. She should go inside, find her way to the room before it was too dark to navigate the maze. A door stood with the top half open, letting the breeze pass into the villa. Rachel walked toward it. Maybe someone on the other side could help her find her way back to her room. A bevy of activity flowed on the other side. As she looked in, a collection of women bounced off each other as they moved about a kitchen, each focused on cooking, chopping, or other culinary skills.
