by Cara Putman
God, does your heart break for her?
Rachel hoped so. Isn’t that what a daddy did? Hold his little girl and keep her safe even when the world fell apart around her? How she needed someone to do that for her.
Violent vibrations tremored through the earth.
How close had that shell landed?
Far enough away that their shack still protected them. The child moaned, a keening sound that pierced Rachel.
“It’s all right, darling. It’s all right.” The words felt hollow. Who was she to make promises?
She needed something to distract the child. She set the girl on the floor and tipped her chin up until she could see her wide eyes. “I’m not leaving. Just looking for something.” Rachel had no idea if the child heard and understood, but she’d tried.
The darkness hid the edges of the room, and nothing stood out in the dim light that she could use. The thought of disturbing whatever hid in the corners made Rachel want to fling open the door and run, but until the sound of the plane disappeared, she’d stay with the little girl.
She eased to her feet and dragged one foot along the edge of the building. Maybe her shoes could protect her from anything that might not appreciate a disturbance. She made it along two walls when her foot collided with something. It didn’t make noise, so it wasn’t a metal box. She knelt in front of the box, then pulled it toward her. It was the size of a hatbox. When she removed the lid, all she found were a pile of papers and some pencils. Would the girl doodle in the dark? Unlikely.
Why would someone tuck a box filled with papers in this abandoned space?
The little girl’s wails renewed and accelerated, and Rachel returned to her side. “I wish I could help.” She pulled the girl onto her lap and hummed the song her momma had sung over her each time she needed comforting.
“Jesus loves me, this I know.”
Her momma’s face had always acquired a sheen of peace, relaxation seeping from her to Rachel as she hummed or sung the words. Could Rachel accept the words the song communicated? Did her momma believe or sing? They hadn’t darkened many church doors during her childhood, but maybe that had more to do with protecting her from others’ reactions to her status than her momma’s lack of faith. In fact, Momma had made sure they were at church on what she called the important days: Christmas, Easter, Thanksgiving. Days Momma said they needed to let God know they valued what he had done.
Silence settled. A silence so deep it took Rachel a minute to recognize the planes were gone. Then the sound of life returning sank in.
Rachel should struggle to her feet, but one foot had fallen asleep tucked beneath her other leg. She shifted and waited as her foot prickled to life. Had she taken her momma’s protection of her as a lack of faith?
God, I want to believe. I want to know You as my Father. Will You stay with me?
A whisper of hope eased through her. This was something she needed to explore further. It felt like a baby step, but it was a start.
The child relaxed in her arms. It felt like a mirror of what she’d done with God. She smiled as she struggled to stand with the dead weight. Somehow she knew God wouldn’t struggle. He’d carry her if she’d let Him.
The door flung open, and Rachel squinted against the surge of brightness that blinded her.
“Rachel, thank God!” Scott’s words sounded broken. “I saw you run in here as the attack started. And I couldn’t do anything to get here. If something had happened, . . .” The words trailed off as if the thought was too terrible to complete. He moved to her and pulled Rachel close. He kissed her until her thoughts clouded, and she leaned into him as much as she could while holding the girl.
He pulled back and touched his forehead to hers. “Don’t ever disappear like that again.” He looked around the small space. “Why come here rather than the castle? You would have died. . . .”
“Castle walls wouldn’t stop shells. It’s just more to be buried under.” She swayed under the weight of the girl and her words.
“Who’s this?”
“A little girl I found tangled in a lilac bush. She couldn’t get free.”
“Let’s get you both out of here. I’d wager her parents are frantic.”
Rachel nodded and let him ease the child from her arms. She sagged under the relief of him lifting the burden. She had to tell him what had happened, but as he barreled out of the building with the girl, she held her tongue. She’d tell him when the moment was right. When he could hear the wonder of the journey she’d restarted.
The rest of the day passed in a daze of evaluating the damage and comforting those she could. She took photos, but her focus remained on the people rather than the images. They’d been fortunate—none of the shells had collided with a building. Instead, cypress trees had been uprooted and a few tents destroyed. Guess the dirty tents had been too tempting a target for the pilot. A few soldiers had been injured, but the group had escaped largely unharmed. The little girl’s parents had scooped her from Scott’s grasp and disappeared with her in a flurry of grateful Italian and relieved tears.
Later that evening things settled down, and Rachel’s thoughts returned to the box in the corner of the small building. In the middle of the attack, she’d noticed sketches along the outside of the box that reminded her of those in her sketchbook. She returned to the courtyard, determined to find the little girl, to see for herself that the child was fine. However, the child and her parents had disappeared.
Rachel wandered, drawn back to that small shack. Had it been a well house at some point? Now it was a dilapidated structure that had provided shelter when she needed. She tried the door but someone had locked it. She still had a key in her pocket, where she’d thrust it earlier.
She stood in front of the door, inhaling deeply, then releasing the air in a slow exhale. The battle had shifted, but as she stood there, she heard a sound track of plane engines and whistling artillery.
“Either do this or go back inside.” She muttered the words, waiting for courage to flood her or at least enough self-embarrassment to get her moving. She stuck the key in the hole, twisted the knob, and reentered her sanctuary. The box had been in the far corner, and she knelt in front of it. She tried to examine the box, and then shuffled through the papers as best she could in the near darkness. To learn more she’d have to carry the box to her room. She grabbed it and stood, then made her way to the castle, walking like she had every right to the box.
As she stepped through the French doors, she collided with someone. She gripped the box hard to keep from dropping it but was startled when the woman started yelling in Italian. Rachel examined the woman—the cook who’d acted so odd the prior night. Now she placed a hand over her heart, pointing at the box with the other hand as she backed away from Rachel.
“Ma’am? Can I help you?”
The woman shrieked and raced back toward the kitchen.
Chapter 30
From the moment he woke up, the day was utter chaos mixed with uncertainty. At Montegufoni the evidence of why Scott had given up his comfortable job and his future with Elaine lay stacked around multiple rooms. He’d felt a fresh aliveness from the moment Renaldo had shown him Primavera and known with certainty he was here for important work.
The air raid brought the war to the castle’s door. The German plane had swooped back and forth for no more than five or ten minutes. It had probably been a short lark to break up an otherwise boring flight for the pilot. But Scott had stood paralyzed in fear the moment he realized the plane was shooting while Rachel was outside.
The near miss still shook him as he paced. It had taken determination to let Rachel walk around the castle without hovering. She’d insisted she should check on the girl and wanted to do it alone.
He pulled the sketchbook from his bag. He wanted to take one more look before handing it to Renaldo for his verdict. If only the man hadn’t left for
Florence. The way the artist had drawn the woman indicated an attention born of love. Perhaps the kind Renaldo had spoken of in relation to Melanie Justice.
Since her mother had been in Italy and had the sketchbook, she had to be the one Renaldo had loved—if he was the artist. If that was correct, it led to one conclusion.
Renaldo Adamo was Rachel’s father. The man she’d come to Italy to find.
Against all common sense she’d found him.
Yet she didn’t know because of his deception.
Tyler’s heavy footsteps ricocheted as he whistled a hollow tune that echoed in the hallway. Scott grimaced as he took a seat in the lone comfortable chair in the room, setting the sketchbook behind him. The last thing he needed was Tyler seeing the journal and jumping to conclusions. Tyler continued down the hallway without entering the room. Scott stood and hurried to the door. When he reached the hallway, Tyler turned the corner. Something about the glimpse Scott got, the way the man carried himself, made him think it hadn’t been Tyler after all.
Scott clenched his jaw as he returned to the room and settled back into the chair. The walls felt like they were closing in, but he needed to wait in the one place he knew he could find Tyler and Rachel. Both had to return to sleep in their beds.
The first half of the book held peaceful images of the haunting woman in the Tuscan countryside, but near the end of the book were images that could be early sketches of the paintings Scott had brought to the States for the exhibit. They were dark, filled with the terror of trench warfare during the Great War. Scott didn’t remember Renaldo serving, but maybe he had. The quick pencil strokes conveyed emotion that even in rough form forced him inside the scene.
The sound of the door squeaking on its hinges caused him to jerk. The book slid from his lap to the floor. He scrambled upright and was groping for the book when he heard a gasp.
“Scott? You took my book?”
He straightened, looking from Rachel to the sketchbook and back. His mouth moved, but he couldn’t form words. She considered him, posture stiff, and he could feel her anger.
“Come here, and I’ll tell you what I’ve learned.”
“Okay.”
He vacated the chair and offered to take the dusty box she carried, but she clutched it close. “What’s in there?”
“Papers of some sort.” She sank onto the chair.
“Where did you find it?”
“In the well house.” She studied him until he wanted to squirm like a child caught misbehaving. “Why do you have my sketchbook?”
“It’s not yours.”
Color climbed her throat, and her hands tightened to fists on the sides of the box. “Excuse me?”
“I just meant you didn’t draw the sketches.”
“I never claimed I did.”
This book mattered immensely to her. “I took this to try to figure out why you had it.”
“Why?” Her face paled, and the edges of her mouth trembled. “You had no right.”
“I can’t understand why your mother would have a book of this importance.”
“It was a gift. I don’t know why.”
“But who is she? Why would she have a sketchbook from an Italian artist?”
Rachel took the lid off the hatbox and focused her attention on the contents before looking at him, disappointment flooding her eyes. “All you had to do was ask. I trusted you.”
Her hurt sliced through him. What had he damaged with his betrayal? “I’m sorry.”
“You’re a thief.” Her voice shuddered. “You stole something precious from me and then let me think it was gone.” She set the box down and launched to her feet. “I trusted you!”
Rachel snatched the book from his hands and seemed to grab her heart back with the same move. Scott edged toward her, but she held up a hand. “Stop.”
“Rachel, . . .”
“I can’t believe you did this. I thought you were different. That you might care about me. I should have known it was all about the art.”
Her words pushed him back, a barrier of truth in the face of his deception. “You’re right.” He’d let his hunger to know the story get in the way of his good sense. “I knew better. All I can say is I’m sorry, Rachel.”
She shuddered as she held the book against her chest. “This is the best link I have to my father, and I’m not even certain it’s his. I have to find him though. Without medical treatment my mom will die. Even a little money could make the difference in her living and dying. We have no family, so the hope he would help is all I have.”
“Most artists are penniless.”
“Not all. This one needs money and a caring heart.” She shrugged. “As far as I know, my mom never asked anything of him. I will.” Her face fell. “If I can find him.”
Scott sorted through the information. Should he get word to Renaldo? He’d seen Rachel and Renaldo leave the storage room, so Renaldo must have figured out Rachel was his daughter. If not, should he?
The problem was, he’d caught a fleeting glance of Renaldo that morning but had not talked to him. He hadn’t found the man in the chaos after the attack. Only heard he’d left.
An uncomfortable silence filled the room as Rachel picked up the hatbox and sketchbook. She moved toward her room, and Scott didn’t know how to stop her and make it better. He’d messed up. Royally.
She stopped in the doorway. “This morning I prayed. I think I believe. I’m at least trying. I can imagine God as a father now. And I hated the idea of that . . . before we started talking.” Her gaze collided with his. “All I could think this morning was that you were the one person I wanted to tell. I thought you’d celebrate with me. Now I don’t know if you’re who I thought you were.”
Scott grinned, one that grew from the joy in his heart and exploded on his face, even as her last words stung. “I’m so glad, though I’m sorry I’ve hurt you.”
“Thank you.” She studied her hands. “I know enough to know I need to forgive you, but I can’t. Not yet.”
“Every faith journey starts with a small step.” He wanted to pull her into a celebratory hug but restrained himself considering how he’d betrayed her. “We’ll find you a Bible. Get you introduced to Jesus. Do you know much about Him?”
“I know His song.”
“His song?” Which one would she consider His?
“‘Jesus Loves Me.’ And I remember things from Sunday school.”
“That’s a great beginning.”
She eased back on the bed and removed the lid from the hatbox, the hooded expression still on her face. “When will we move?”
“It depends on the front. Hopefully it won’t stall between here and Florence.” The box remained open but untouched. “Will you examine what’s in the box?”
He watched the light ebb from her face as if scrubbed away by the memories. “Tomorrow. Right now I’m ready for a new day.” She replaced the lid. “Do you think I’m crazy to believe the artist is my father?”
“No.” Where was Renaldo? “I think you should show it to the art superintendent.”
“Renaldo Adamo?”
“Yes. He might recognize it.”
“I think you’re right.”
Fear filled her expression. “What if he doesn’t want me?”
“Then you’ll still be an amazing woman.” He wanted to step forward, to comfort her, but the reality of where they were, alone in a bedroom, kept him frozen in place. One step in that direction would be dangerous based on the way he longed to wrap her in his arms and never let go.
The small bedroom stifled Rachel like a prison as she sat on her bed. Her ears were hyperattuned to every sound on the other side of the wall. The good news was the walls were thick enough to prevent much from reaching her.
The art superintendent had filtered in and out of her thoughts. Now she wanted
to find him, but not with Scott. She feared what he would say or do when he saw the sketchbook. Her heart still smarted from his betrayal. He probably believed his reasons for taking the sketchbook were honorable, but it hurt to know he’d done it, seen her distress over its loss, and never said anything until she caught him with it.
The box sat next to her, the sketchbook on top. Rachel fingered the binding, aching from Scott’s deceit. Her belief he was more honorable than other men had shattered the moment she saw him with the book. She closed her eyes and tried to remember the peace she’d felt, the presence that had seemed to settle next to her in that small building.
God, You’re real, right? I haven’t suddenly started talking to my imagination, have I?
A calm overwhelmed her, and she wanted to cry with relief. She wanted to learn to walk in this peace. Her journey truly had just begun.
Help me forgive Scott. He’s hurt me, but I don’t want to hold it close.
The hatbox teased her. The flickering candle on her bedside table cast enough light to see inside. She could open it and evaluate the contents. She moved the sketchbook and pulled off the top. A set of charcoal pencils and a nubby eraser sat on a stack of thick sketching paper. She removed the pencils and eraser. Next she examined the stack of papers. The first few didn’t look more impressive than what she could draw with effort and focus.
Then she flipped to another page, and her fingers trembled. This drawing had details and a style that mirrored one she knew well from the sketchbook. To confirm, Rachel flipped to the page. While not identical, the symmetry struck her. Could the artist be the same and here at Montegufoni?
The next sketch had a contemporary style, the sweeping landscape of the prior sketch abandoned for a reckless still life that was all harsh lines and angles. Incomplete sketches of a woman’s features followed that. Here an eye, there a chin, and on another page a sensuous mouth. Whoever she was, the artist had endeavored to capture the minutiae of the woman’s every line and shadow, yet her sketchbook just revealed a shadowed profile.
