by Cara Putman
Rachel sat back after examining each sketch. They all reflected the talent of the artist. A couple even bore a scratched R and A.
Why would a box of collected sketches and scribbles be hidden in an outbuilding at Montegufoni?
Maybe she was getting ahead of herself. Scott would be better positioned to tell her how her insights matched an art expert’s. Would he bother to help her after the way they’d separated? She swallowed her pride and approached the door separating their rooms. She’d heard no movement for a while. Maybe he’d turned in for the night.
She tapped the door, loud enough to be heard but quiet enough to avoid waking him unless he was a light sleeper.
A moment later someone approached the door. “Yes?”
“Do you have a minute?” She swallowed around the sudden cotton in her throat. “I’d like your opinion.”
There was a moment of silence, then the door opened revealing Scott, still dressed in his uniform. He eyed her cautiously. “How can I help?”
She glanced behind him. “Is Tyler back?”
“No.” Scott’s expression clouded. “I have no idea where he is or when he’ll return. Better be soon since he has the jeep keys.”
“I need an art expert and you’re here. Unless Renaldo would be a better choice.”
“He left for Florence.” At her frown he shrugged. “Earlier he told his sister he needed to protect its art. Must have left after the attack.”
“And his wife.” Echoes of their conversation flowed into her memory.
Scott leaned against the door frame. “How can I help?”
She held up a couple sketches. “The hatbox is filled with drawings. Some struck me as similar to the sketchbook. Could the same artist have created them?”
“Anything’s possible.”
“What do you think?”
He studied her a moment, then nodded. “Let me see.”
She handed over two sketches that seemed most similar to the book. She bit her lip to keep from giving more of an opinion. Better to let him examine them and see if he reached the same conclusion.
“Can I see the sketchbook?”
She hesitated a moment.
“I promise I’ll return it.” His tipped grin softened her concerns.
“Here.”
He studied them a minute, flipping back and forth. “Why do you think the same artist drew these?”
“There’s a sketch in there.” She reclaimed the book and flipped it open. “This one. See how the view is so similar? And the woman’s profile looks identical?”
“Maybe.” His gaze bounced between the two, but he didn’t say anything more.
After a few minutes the silence annoyed her. “What do you think?”
“I don’t know.” He handed the book and drawings back to her. “There are similarities, and if Renaldo is the artist, it’s likely he drew both. But if it’s another man, he’s in Rome and wouldn’t come to Montegufoni. I don’t want to disappoint you.”
“That’s gallant.” Especially after what he’d done. She sighed. Forgiveness, Rachel. She took a breath, then spoke. “I don’t need you to protect me from disappointment. Did you notice the initials on the loose drawings?”
He squinted at the two sketches. “I see that. An R and an A.” He held them back to her. “If I’m right—” he held up a hand as she opened her mouth, “Renaldo drew these. But someone else could have. The way to know for sure is to show them to him.”
Rachel felt the blood drain from her head as she hurried to her feet. “He knew who I was.” The truth hit her . . . hard. “He knew and he still left.”
“You may be right.”
Rachel grabbed the sketches and stumbled back to her room.
Chapter 31
August 2
Scott sank onto his bed. His body told him it was late, that he needed a long installment of rest after the adrenaline-laced day. Why would Renaldo hide sketches like those at Montegufoni?
It bothered him almost as much as Renaldo leaving. His mentor had left, taking off without warning or a good-bye. It felt like the man ran to the Germans in his effort to run away from something . . . or someone . . . else.
Had Scott’s mention of Rachel caused Renaldo’s sudden return to Florence? Or had it been his subsequent visit with Rachel?
Whatever the cause, Scott wanted to know.
Scott tossed and turned all night and spent the early morning updating reports and inventorying the castle. Renaldo had provided a detailed list of everything that left Florence. It could take a week to explore the castle’s rooms and match the art he found with those listed. Primavera was easy to identify; some of the others were much lesser known works.
Scott grabbed the list and his attaché case, then knocked on Rachel’s door. If she helped, the work could progress faster. Especially since Private Salmon hadn’t appeared.
After a minute he knocked again, this time hearing movement.
“Yes?” Rachel had dark circles under her eyes and her hair stuck out at funny angles, but she still looked beautiful.
“I’m getting ready to tackle an inventory of the art. Would you help?”
Rachel rubbed her face and then looked up at him, a face so appealing he longed to pull her close for a kiss that would remove any doubt or fear of him from her mind. “I can be ready in a minute.”
“I’d appreciate it.”
She turned, then looked over her shoulder at him. “Wait for me?”
“Yes.” The words he’d-wait-the-rest-of-his-days-if-she’d-ask almost slipped past his lips. What had gotten into him? He needed a tighter rein on his attraction. Rachel was an amazing woman who pulled the best from him . . . when he wasn’t stealing from her. He slumped against the wall with a groan. Someday she’d understand, and he’d forgive himself. He’d wanted to protect her, be her hero in the midst of the chaos of war, but had failed.
A minute later she breezed out.
“How do you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Get ready so fast. My mom would take twenty minutes even when we had nowhere to go.”
She played with the silver chain around her neck. “There’s not much use primping here.” Even so, soft color painted her cheeks. Maybe she was glad he’d noticed.
“I thought we’d start in the salon. With Renaldo gone, we’ll have to be careful we don’t miss anything.”
Rachel remained quiet as they worked their way downstairs. “Do you think there’s an attic where they’d hide valuable paintings?”
Scott thought about it. “Maybe. I need to find the caretakers Renaldo assigned.”
“Who?”
“Renaldo didn’t leave the paintings unguarded. A couple farmers have the task. Maybe they can give us guidance.” He looked out a window, taking in the view. “Let’s explore what’s around us and track where we’ve been.”
Maybe he could keep her out of trouble. And maybe the Germans would pull out of Florence without a fight.
August 3
The salon’s erratic collection felt like a mad art collector’s home. The paintings sat in an odd assortment of frames—some so elaborate they overwhelmed the painting, others so simple they looked like something her momma would have purchased at a five-and-dime. Each was a different size and contained different subjects. She couldn’t discern a pattern. Thirteenth-century masters were stacked next to those of the sixteenth century. Then brightly colored, gold-leaved altarpieces leaned next to small landscapes next to portraits. The altarpieces were a variety of tri-folds that would be wall mounted and smaller pieces that would sit on a table. There was even a collection of crucifixes on the floor. A truly eclectic collection that made her appreciate her mother’s lectures in Philadelphia’s various museums.
She walked toward the crosses, noting the pained expressions on Chris
t’s face. “Why would He do that?”
“What?” Scott looked up from the stack of paper he held.
“Allow them to hang Him on the cross. If He’s truly God’s Son, why not force His way down?”
“It was the only way to restore our relationship with God.”
A powerful God would allow that to be done to His child? “If God is the best Father, wouldn’t He protect His Son at all costs?”
Scott nodded. “That’s exactly what He did. He sacrificed His Son so the rest of us would have the opportunity to become His children. Sin creates a barrier of separation Jesus’ death destroyed. Now the barrier’s gone, and the choice is ours. To approach God out of gratefulness for what Jesus did and offer our lives to Him or to remain behind a broken barrier.” Scott set the inventory aside. “The best news is that though Jesus died, He rose from the dead. So while the crucifix shows Him on the cross, Christians know He’s no longer there or in the grave.”
“I’m glad I don’t have to grasp it all today.”
“Ask God to open your eyes and help you understand. He loves to do that.”
Rachel stepped away from the crosses, though the image stayed with her. “This could take a while.”
Scott strode to the middle of the room, an oddly open space when you considered paintings lined the walls. “Let’s get started.” He handed her a packet of papers. “This is the inventory. I’m not sure how it’s organized. Mark which room each painting is in so we can find it later if needed. We’ll also note the day and time we identify the painting. Just in case it disappears later.” He grimaced. “The Indian troops will leave soon, so I’ve radioed a request for standing guards.”
The morning melted into afternoon as Rachel watched Scott examine each painting. He’d say a title and artist, then she’d scan the list until she found the painting and checked it off. On occasion he’d dictate a note she added. As they worked their way around the room, the scope of his knowledge impressed her. At the rare times he didn’t recognize a painting, he’d scan the list until he could narrow it down.
“All right. That was the last one here.” Scott stood and dusted his hands off.
“Now where?”
“We’ll check each room. Hopefully the next will go faster.”
She followed him down to the door and inhaled as they walked in. “These must be by the same artist.”
“You’re right.” Scott seemed surprised by what was in the room. “I didn’t think he’d store his work here.”
Rachel turned toward him. “Renaldo? It looks like the drawings in my sketchbook.”
“I didn’t know they were here.”
What would it have been like to see this with her father? One painting might be sufficient to provide the money for the medical treatment Momma needed. One piece. Her fingers itched to hold one, to take it and sell it as fast as she could.
“I need food.” Rachel spun and left the room. She needed time away from the art. Time to think. She rushed through the maze, not caring if Scott followed. Yet after a minute, the soft thud of his steps followed behind her.
“Where are you going?”
She pushed into her room, throwing his inventory on the bed. She grabbed the sketchbook. “Look at this.” She pointed at the sketch of the woman staring into the distance. “This painting was in that room. It could fund the treatment Momma needs. Right now, I understand how someone could take one. One painting nobody would miss.”
“Why should Renaldo give you a painting?”
“Momma contracted tuberculosis here in the twenties.” Her breath wavered but she plowed on. “The doctors say it’s waited, dormant, for years. Now it’s roaring through her with a vengeance. The doctors did all they could with the little money we had. Until I can raise more funds, she has to wait in a small room friends gave her. She can’t work; she can’t breathe.” Her words hiccupped on a sob.
“I’m sorry, Rachel.” Scott reached out, and when she didn’t step away, he pulled her into an embrace.
“I wouldn’t have left her, but there was no other way to find money. I’m crazy to try to find a man I’d never heard of that she forbad me to find. A man whose name I didn’t suspect until yesterday. He’s gone again.”
“Then we’ll get to Florence as soon as it’s safe. Track down Renaldo. I promise.”
“But it could all be too late. I hear from Momma rarely. The war slows down our letters. Maybe she’s already dead, and I should have stayed home. Maybe she died alone because I was too determined to save her.” Sobs racked through her. She wanted to hide, to prevent him from seeing her pain.
As Scott rubbed her back and murmured soft sounds, she felt sheltered.
She felt like she’d come home at long last. Even after what he’d done.
If she didn’t move away now, she’d stay forever. “I’m sorry.”
She pushed away from him and hurried downstairs. Somehow she made her way through the maze of the castle’s halls and around the refugees who had pushed into the building and the few soldiers mixed with the crowd. At the door to the kitchen, Scott caught up and spun her around. He pulled her to him.
Then before she could move, he claimed her with a kiss.
A kiss that sent sparks spiraling through her.
A kiss that had her wrapping her arms around his neck or else her knees would collapse.
A woman cleared her throat, and Scott jerked away. Rachel almost groaned at the sudden emptiness.
The woman who thought Rachel was a spirit stood next to the stove, gaze locked on her. She clucked and returned to stirring whatever was in the large pot. Was this woman related to Renaldo? Did that explain the intense reaction she had each time she saw Rachel?
Scott pulled her back to his side and gave a slow exhale. “Would you stop running?”
“I can’t. My father was here. Now he isn’t, and I don’t know where to find him. I have carried that sketchbook across an ocean and through a war and he’s gone.”
“We don’t know yet that he’s your father. Just that he’s probably the sketch artist.”
Rachel puffed out a breath. “The woman in the painting upstairs looks like my mother in her early twenties.”
“She looks like you.”
“No.” Rachel had never carried her mother’s easy grace and elegant beauty.
“Yes, Rachel. I see so much in you.”
“Upstairs?” The cook’s voice penetrated the fog Scott’s words created.
“Yes.”
“Grande?” The woman held her arms out to reflect a large painting.
“Yes.” Could this woman be the key? Could she help?
The woman’s round face split with a smile. “My brother paint.”
“Your brother?” Rachel staggered against Scott at the idea. “Where is he?”
She waved a flour-covered hand. “Gone.”
“Please, where is he?”
The woman backed away, an invisible wall settling on her features. Rachel followed her.
“Please help me. If I’m his daughter, you’re my aunt.” Rachel knew she was babbling, and the woman couldn’t understand, but that didn’t slow her words.
Scott spoke a couple quick words in Italian, listened, then nodded, and steered Rachel from the kitchen.
“What are you doing?”
“Preventing you from scaring the woman. She thinks you’re a ghost.”
Scott led Rachel to the inner courtyard and settled on a bench, then patted the seat next to him. She joined him but stared at a rosebush climbing the far wall. The cascade of blossoms colored the air with sweetness, a scent she’d noticed before, a picture tinged with the brush of hope.
Scott slipped an arm around Rachel’s shoulders and nudged her closer. He’d almost allowed the kiss to get out of control in the kitchen. He wanted to be her hero. He wanted to
be the one who provided the money she needed to get treatment for her mom.
But he thought of the pittance in his bank account. It was an impractical idea. Was Renaldo the solution?
“I need a little time alone.” Rachel edged away from him and stood. “Thank you for listening.”
“We’ll find Renaldo, Rachel. I promise we will.”
“I hope so.” Her smile didn’t reach her eyes as it trembled on her lips.
Scott remained on the bench to honor her request for privacy, even as he felt the rejection that he wasn’t enough for her. Who was he kidding?
Elaine had left him in New York because his vision of the future hadn’t been enough for her. Now he couldn’t be enough for Rachel.
After his betrayal he should be grateful she stayed here.
He looked at the sky, a clear cerulean with hardly a wispy cloud dotting it. A flock of birds cawed overhead as they circled and danced in the drafts. What would it be like to be that free of other’s expectations?
That’s what I want for you. The words echoed in his soul, as clearly as if someone had sat down next to him and spoken them.
A verse from Galatians came to him: “For do I now seek the favor of men, or God?”
He’d allowed his focus to switch to what men—and women—thought of him. In the past—before Elaine—he’d felt such freedom. But that came when his eyes and focus rested squarely on God and what He wanted from him. Scott sat on the bench praying and meditating on the Galatians verse until his stomach growled. Then he headed into the kitchen, which was filled with women doing their communal cooking. He stood a moment watching the bevy of activity, until Renaldo’s sister approached.
“Signor?” She offered him a roll.
“Grazie.” He took a bite and enjoyed the way it melted in his mouth. How could she create such delicacies with limited supplies?
He left the kitchen and stopped by his room. Tyler’s bed was a mess, like someone had decided to sleep in it. Had he come and left again? Scott looked around for a note but didn’t find one. Guess he was an adult and would reappear when they needed him.
