by Cara Putman
Rachel grabbed her camera and took a photo. “What is this?”
A startled pause greeted her before the women took to chattering in Italian. Rachel rubbed her forehead wishing she could understand.
A thin woman stumbled forward, pushed by another. “A kitchen.” She raised her chin so her dark eyes could search Rachel’s face. Her face looked drawn, pulled down by weariness and fear, yet there was a spark of hope in the way she refused to be intimidated.
“Yes, I know. But so many?”
The woman studied the ground as if searching for words. “We . . .” She looked up and ran her hands around in the air as if spinning something. “We mix together. Share.”
“A community kitchen?”
Her head bobbled to the side. “Yes.”
Movement toward the back caught Rachel’s attention. A thin woman in a worn dress covered by a voluminous apron, one that had once been as white as her cap, gasped something, then turned to the side, her face fading to the color of her apron. Another placed a hand beneath her elbow to steady her.
“Is she okay?”
The woman who interpreted studied the woman, muttered a few words, then paused to listen. She turned back to Rachel. “Not okay. She says you a spirit.”
Mutters flowed around her at the word. That must be one word that translated well in both directions.
“Why?”
The woman shrugged but said nothing.
Rachel rubbed her forehead. Wasn’t her life complicated enough?
“All right.” Scott felt the guard eye him as he inserted the key in the doorknob and twisted. The heavy baroque door eased open, and he stepped into a darkened room. Renaldo strode toward a row of windows and pushed open the curtains.
“With the electricity out, natural light must suffice.” With each set of drapes the man opened, more wonders were revealed.
Rows of dusty bookshelves lined a wall of the vaulted hall. Against those, two or three deep, stood paintings. Rows and rows of them. In the middle of the large space stood a rack, against which more paintings leaned.
Dust played in the faint sunlight streaming into the salon. Faint rays touched an impossibly large piece. It might be larger than some rooms if laid on the floor. Scott inhaled, captivated by the color and figures posed across the canvas. “Primavera.”
“Yes.”
“I thought you had the Birth of Venus.”
“Elsewhere. I bring you this Venus. No two masterpieces of such caliber from the same artist hide in one place. Too dangerous. Instead, I can show you Supper at Emmaus by Pontormo or Rubens’s Nymphs and Satyrs. There is also Raphael’s Madonna del Baldacchino. And in another room Ghirlandaio’s Adoration of the Magi.”
Scott stood in front of the massive frame. This was why he had come to Europe. To ensure masters like this had been preserved. Standing in the presence of this painting made everything right. “She’s beautiful.”
“Sì.” Renaldo smiled like a proud papa displaying his treasured daughter.
“You’ve brought the Uffizi here.”
“Yes. I would give my life for these.” He turned Scott toward the sweeping work. “This is but one piece. This is what I protect.”
Scott stepped closer, drawn by the figure in the middle of the massive canvas. “This is worth protecting.”
“They all are.” Renaldo stepped back while he absorbed the details.
“And the shelling?”
“It comes and goes, a constant companion since I arrived.”
Scott nodded, understanding why the man risked so much as the intermittent, punctuated refrain of artillery whistled around the castle. If an errant shell landed at Montegufoni, better to know only one of Botticelli’s life works stood exposed to destruction or harm. “Where is Venus?”
The man waved a hand in the air. “Irrelevant at this moment. Enjoy this . . .”
Scott walked to the windows to catch the glory of the setting sun when movement across the way caught his attention. A woman dressed in the American uniform walked next to an Indian officer. Even with her head down and away from his line of sight, he could tell it was Rachel. Who else could it be? No one else could cause his heart to stutter at sight. Nor could anyone cause this surge of protectiveness.
He didn’t know the officer. Would he honor Rachel or draw something from her she didn’t recognize or anticipate? Scott shut his eyes and clenched his jaw. This was ridiculous. He needed to back from the window and return to why he was here.
“What draws your attention?”
Scott tightened his fists as Rachel and the officer paused. Any other person and Tuscany in the evening light would be perfect for a romantic moment. Instead Rachel was sharing a moment he longed to have.
Now wasn’t the time.
It might never come.
Renaldo approached, stood next to Scott, and looked out. Scott swallowed the urge to punch the soldier who touched a strand of Rachel’s hair. She slipped a step back and lowered her chin. Yet he felt the pressure of the touch, of the man’s forwardness.
Rachel would never be his.
Not while the barrier of her questions and her quest stood between them. Not while he had a niggling doubt about how she had acquired the sketchbook.
Not until some questions were answered. Questions Renaldo might answer.
Scott couldn’t deny the way she drew him. Her creativity and the gift she had for seeing the things, the people, everyone else missed. The way she brought a tinge of joy to situations. There were depths to her he hadn’t seen in Elaine, yet Rachel held herself aloof like an island. Isolated yet longing to join the fray around her. To do something that mattered.
“She stirs much in you. Women have great power.”
Rachel turned and made her way into the courtyard. The officer returned to the sea of tents that lined the field. Good riddance.
“Who is she?”
“She takes photos of the war, sends them to papers in the States.”
“Why would a woman do such a thing?”
“Because she is gifted.”
“She looks familiar, but it is impossible.”
Maybe not as impossible as Renaldo thought. Scott turned to him. “Who does she resemble?”
“An impossibility.” Renaldo swept his hands wide. “I have never seen her before you arrived. Yet . . .” He sighed heavily.
“She had a sketchbook of preparatory drawings. For an art series. Paintings.”
Renaldo shrugged, a movement Scott could feel. “And?”
“The drawings could lead to the series of your paintings my museum holds.”
The man bristled. “On loan.”
“Of course.” Scott held his hands in front of his chest and took a step back. “Rachel asked me to look at the sketches. See if I could identify the artist.”
“Did you tell her?”
“That you were the artist?” Scott shook his head. “I’m not 100 percent certain, and I couldn’t think why she would have something so personal.”
Renaldo nodded, then turned from the window. A slight hunch shifted his frame forward as he moved toward the painting that consumed the room with its presence.
“If it’s yours, why would she have the sketchbook?” Scott kept pace with Renaldo’s quick steps. The man moved as if he needed to stay a couple steps ahead of the German SS or Kunstschutz.
The man shrugged again, his shoulders rolling in a fluid motion. “How could I know?”
“One of life’s mysteries?”
“Maybe.”
There was something in the way the man refused to meet his gaze that alerted Scott that something wasn’t quite right. “You have a theory.”
The man pulled a pipe from his pocket and shoved it in his mouth. He chewed the end, not seeming to mind he had nothing to put in the bowl. “L
ife is not a straight line.”
Scott nodded but remained quiet.
“Life inserts a curve. A stop. That happened with me.”
“Makes life more interesting.”
“More complicated.” The man pulled his pipe out and pointed out the windows at the hills around Montegufoni. “You see there. Farmers have tended that plot for centuries. Maybe at first little grew. Now grapes are trained. They grow in abundance. Our lives are like that. A barren area, one that shows nothing for the work, later it flourishes.”
“How does this relate to Rachel’s sketchbook?”
“I wish to see it. To be certain.”
Scott hesitated a moment. “I have it.”
“Why, if it is hers?”
“I wanted to protect it until I could find you, see if my theory was correct.”
A storm clouded his features as Renaldo thrust his shoulders back. “It was not yours.”
“Nor hers.” Scott stopped and inhaled the loamy scent of earth that seeped through the old windows. “It was stolen from your possession?”
The man shifted his head and grimaced. “Not from me.”
Scott turned to face Renaldo. “Spit it out.”
“I gave it to a woman who formed my heart one summer.”
“Who?”
“It does not matter now. At the time it conveyed my love.”
“But how did it get to Rachel Justice in the United States?”
The man’s skin sallowed under his olive complexion. “Justice?” He took a stumbling step, then moved toward a chair. “That woman? The one out there? Her name is Justice? I’ll sit now.”
“Are you all right?”
Renaldo held up a hand. “It is much to take in. I have spent months trying to stay alive. Trying to keep my famiglia alive. And now this.” His hand wavered, then sank to his lap.
Scott eased down beside his mentor, keeping a close eye on him. Maybe all the stress and tension had caught him. That didn’t explain why this sketchbook held such power. The fading light filtering through the window did nothing to warm the room. Instead, goose bumps trailed up Scott’s arms as he waited for Renaldo to say something. The man seemed spooked beyond what Scott would expect for a conversation about a sketchbook. Yes, it was a piece of his artistic, creative process, but more underlay his sudden pallor and need to sit.
Renaldo cleared his throat. “As a youth I knew an American. Loved her. Cherished her as best I could.”
“Many of us had such a love.”
“You Americans. Never let a man finish a story.”
“You Italians. Always so slow to get to the point.” Scott smiled at the memory of the times they’d had such discussions in the past. An answering smile did not grace Renaldo’s face. “I’m sorry.”
The man waved him off. He took a wavering breath, then seemed to settle something in his mind.
“Her name was Melanie Justice.”
Chapter 28
Rachel stepped inside the castle and walked toward the room with the window where she’d seen Scott’s stormy face. One glance had told her she needed to find him and make sure he didn’t need her. Then she’d develop today’s film. Maybe someone with the Indian and New Zealand troops could transport it to headquarters for her and from there to the press office in Rome and her editor.
It wasn’t until she found the right hallway and stepped closer to the salon that she noticed the men deep in conversation somewhere inside the room. She nodded at a sentry and slipped inside, only to return to the hallway before they could see her—the intensity on their faces warned it was more than casual. She’d wait until Scott was done talking to whoever was in there. She caught the occasional word, but she heard enough to stay riveted in place.
One glance in the room had stunned her. The soaring ceiling and the walls lined with art. Could they be discussing the paintings?
She hadn’t meant to overhear, but the cavernous ceilings seemed to carry select words her direction. Just enough to leave holes she couldn’t comprehend what they discussed. When she heard Melanie Justice, she would have rushed into the room if the sentry hadn’t stepped in her path.
The soldier sidestepped out of her way quickly, but even though she wanted to rush in, she remained frozen.
How many people knew her mother’s name?
It couldn’t be many.
She squared her shoulders and stepped into the room.
A man brushed past her, eyes unseeing, feet rushing down the hall and away. A moment later Scott followed, but he seemed more intent on the Italian than on her. She took a step to follow, but the way Scott didn’t see her stung. She’d find him later. Ask why they spoke of her mother. She retraced her steps to the room the men had occupied. The guard nodded at her but let her enter, perhaps because the door wasn’t locked. Maybe in here she could find the item that launched their conversation.
The large room stood shrouded in gathering shadows. As her eyes adjusted to the dim light, she searched the wall for a switch. When she flipped it, nothing happened. Still her breath caught at what she could see in the growing darkness. So many paintings lined the walls. The treasures of Florence? The room stood empty of most furniture except for an occasional chair. She imagined hours soaking in the beauty of each piece, let alone the combined glory. All in one room. Framed canvasses stacked like cheap reproductions, one after the other in rows.
May she never grow immune to such great works.
Momma had often taken her to museums. That was her way of conveying her affection for art to her child. While Rachel tolerated the visits as a youngster and then longed to end them as she approached adulthood, she now marveled she could move as close as she wanted to each painting. No guard waited inside the room to keep her at an honoring distance from the art.
An amazing painting overtook the wall next to the door, where it rested as if waiting to be hung. It stood over six feet tall and more than ten feet wide. She felt dwarfed by its size and even by the figures painted into the scene. Each felt larger than she was. It was the sort of painting she could spend a lifetime admiring and analyzing and still miss the true story the painter had in mind.
“She is breathtaking, yes?”
She startled and turned to see the Italian had returned. “I didn’t hear you.”
“I can be . . . stealthy.” He grinned at his word choice, revealing straight, yellowed teeth. He stood an inch or two taller than her. She met his gaze as he held a pipe in one hand, clasping the other behind his back. “I forgot to lock the door. So the painting?”
She studied the painting. “It pulls me into its story.”
“Botticelli, he had a way with paint.”
“Botticelli? But it isn’t religious.” She remembered her momma showing her several of his works in a book of collected Italian pieces. Each had told the story of a scene in the Bible, all with heavy religious undertones.
The man tsked, even that carrying a melodic Italian sound. “Sandro Botticelli did much more than that alone.” He turned to study her rather than the painting. She focused on the figures and details in front of her, unsure what to make of his attention. “Italy creates many things of beauty.”
What must it be like to be so comfortable with the masters that the person in front of you was more compelling? At the moment Rachel couldn’t imagine as her gaze seemed glued to the scene in front of her. To stand in front of it was to be consumed by the mystery. Why paint a mythical scene? Most of his famous works held spiritual overtones like The Nativity or the Adoration of the Magi. Had his patron, possibly a member of the Medici family, ordered it?
“Venus in her created glory.” The Italian accent colored the English words with a heavy stroke, one that drew her to pay attention to his words. She had the sense she didn’t want to miss anything he might say.
“Why Venus?”
�
�Why anything?” The man stepped closer to the painting. “I have loved this painting since I instructed in Florence. See the detail? The multitude of flora in her garden?”
Rachel nodded. It was impossible to miss the patterns and variety. The central woman captivated her. The red cloth she held draped around her form, not shielding her shy yet knowing smile. Her head cocked as if she gave her full attention to the person standing before the painting. It seemed an invitation to share secrets. Come closer and maybe she’d whisper hers in exchange for learning one or two of yours.
Rachel stepped back, away from the magnetic beauty that begged her to come ever closer, to risk her questions. “It tells a story.”
“Much like your camera.” He pointed the pipe at her constant companion.
“I suppose.” She held the camera up. “May I?”
“Me?”
“With the painting.”
The man shrugged, a mix of pleasant smile and shyness warring on his face. He stepped near, then shuffled his feet with one hand on his hip and the pipe held to his mouth.
“Look at her.”
“Ah, Venus. She demands attention.” The man pivoted a degree toward the painting. “I have known few women with her beauty.”
Rachel adjusted her camera, then snapped a shot. Then another. She prayed her editor would see the value in photos of an art superintendent who had worked so hard to save the beauty he now admired. Standing with the fruit of his labor in such an unlikely spot. If only she could send a sound track to accompany the photo, then the world could hear how near the battle trudged to the depositories. Replicate this moment across Italy times the number of pieces saved. It would astound those who saw, but she could capture this image, this man.
She finished, then let the camera hang around her neck. “Why store them here?”
“A way to keep them from the war. Little did anyone anticipate the armies marching through this quiet valley.” He shrugged. “We did what we could.” He looked past her as if seeing into another place. “There are many more. . . . I wish . . . ah . . .”
