by Cara Putman
In a flurry of action, he swung her through a reverse course, retracing their steps to the main floor. Nothing stirred except for a bird that flew in one window and then raced out another. When they reached the top floor, he set her in the niche. “Do not move from this spot unless I tell you. Understand?”
She nodded, afraid to trust her voice. Long minutes passed as she waited. Finally Scott returned. “Come quickly.”
When she saw her father, she cried out. Red covered his chest and shoulder. She rushed to his side and fell next to him. “I am so sorry,” she sobbed. “I should have stayed back.”
Her father’s dark eyes fluttered open, then closed.
“Stay with me. Please.”
“Daughter.” The word was a benediction on his lips. A balm to her aching heart. “You are worth this.” He shuddered, then was still.
“Papa!” She rubbed his shoulder, looked for breath, any sign of movement. “Scott, help me. Help.” She could feel her panic rising in the face of his utter stillness.
She couldn’t lose him, not when he’d tried so hard to protect her.
Scott pulled her back. “I’m sorry.”
She twisted away from him, feeling emptied inside, like every emotion had been scooped up and thrown across a canvas. A smattering of color and form but an absence of depth. She’d wanted to know him, learn more about him, but now she couldn’t.
You can know Me. The words resounded through her heart. An invitation to come closer. How she wanted to.
“We have to leave.”
Rachel stood. “Thank you for the paintings, Renaldo.” Sobs edged her words. Then she turned and followed Scott from the Uffizi. The weight of what had happened followed her.
She pulled into herself and searched her heart as Scott led her back to the gardens and then back to Montegufoni. Over the next days Scott spent more and more time in Florence, and she spent time in her room or in the baroque gardens at Montegufoni. She read the Bible Scott had found and pondered what her father had done. Most of all she sought peace. That elusive feeling.
The days passed in a blur—trips into the city, wrestling with the AMG for more passes, the miles of paperwork that never ended. Visits to different buildings and monuments in the heart of Florence in an effort to get repairs launched led to more paperwork. A never-ending cycle of paper and red tape. Some days Scott felt caught between the church, the art superintendents, and the battle that still raged too close to the city.
At night he escaped to Montegufoni. Rachel had stopped traveling with him. Had she worked out a break from her editor? He didn’t push. Instead he did what he could to ease the way for her to sell one of Renaldo’s paintings. His assistant curator back in Philadelphia assured him multiple buyers were interested. But each day felt like a delay that could make Renaldo’s sacrifice meaningless.
Through it all Rachel had pulled inside herself, and he’d sit next to her praying for God to reach her heart.
She had captured his, and it killed him to wait, not knowing how to smooth the process or speed it along.
Three weeks after that day in Florence, he drove back to Montegufoni with a letter in his pocket. A radio from his assistant sat next to it. He prayed the letter held news as good as the radio message. He jerked the trusty jeep into park and hurried toward the courtyard. The bite in the evening air made him wonder what fall would be like in the Tuscan countryside. The rain was already intermittent but always threatening. It looked like another fall and winter of slogging through the Italian countryside waited for the poor grunts.
Scott shook a couple lingering raindrops from his jacket and looked for the bench Rachel often occupied. Most evenings he’d find her there even in a light drizzle, waiting for him. If it was dry, the sketchbook would sit in her lap, her momma’s letters next to her. A time or two she’d even had her camera, though it wasn’t quite the automatic attachment it had been.
Today she wasn’t on the bench, so he headed to the kitchen. Only a few refugees remained. As the fight had moved north of Florence, the families had left determined to rebuild. He’d grab a glass of water before he started looking for her.
Soft voices greeted him as he reached the half door. Rachel laughed softly, and he looked through to see her wiping tears from her cheeks. He raised a hand as she found his eyes.
A shy smile graced her face, and his heartbeat quickened. She had to be the most beautiful woman God had created.
As he studied her face, he imagined a life with her. Growing old. Having children, then watching them parent grandchildren. It sounded like the perfect life. One he would be content to know and live.
“Enter.” Renaldo’s sister welcomed him with flour-covered hands. “Your Rachel makes pasta.”
Rachel grimaced and shook her hands over the table. “I’m pretty terrible at it.”
“You will improve.”
“I doubt it. I never could make bread either. Guess I should leave the cooking to others.” She turned toward Scott. “Your day was . . . ?”
“More of the same until I left.” He pulled out the letter, studied the address a moment, then handed it over. “A letter for you.”
She accepted it, holding it against her. “Your day couldn’t have been that routine.”
“Close. I’ve got more news.”
She swallowed. “They’re moving you north?”
“No, I’ll be here. Is that all right?”
“I don’t want you to leave.”
He nodded. “I don’t want to leave you either. At some point we’ll get separated.”
“Not yet.” She shuddered. “I couldn’t stand it. Being alone.”
Her hand rested on the table between them. He grasped it, trying to infuse her with his strength. “I have to trust that God sees us and knows our desires.” Renaldo’s sister had moved away, giving them an illusion of privacy. He’d bet she still heard every word. “I heard from Philadelphia.”
Rachel inhaled sharply. “Is there a buyer?”
“Yes, and it’ll be a substantial sum. This particular art investor wants to increase his holdings. He liked the exhibit and has offered several thousand for one painting.”
“Is that okay? Or is he overpaying?”
Scott clamped down a laugh. “It’s a bit high, but I agree with his assessment that Renaldo Adamo will become a name many know and appreciate. Rachel, your father created works that speak to people. As we leave this war behind us, his paintings will be in demand. I wouldn’t be surprised if the man is able to resell the painting in a couple years for much more.”
“So I should keep it? Wait until it appreciates?”
“No. You need the money now for your mom’s care. Renaldo knew that, and I have a feeling he’d approve.”
Rachel’s eyes misted and she nodded. “Then sell it.” She dipped her chin again. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” He would do so much more for her if she asked. He was grateful to do anything to relieve her burdens. He tapped the envelope where it rested in her hands. “Gonna read it?”
“I’m afraid. The next letter could tell me Momma’s passed and I was here.” Her fingers tightened on the paper. “Before I met Renaldo, I accepted I’d be alone. Now . . .” Her voice trailed off. “I get so sad to think of that day.”
“I can leave if it’s easier to read it alone.”
She grabbed his hand. “Please. Stay.”
He settled onto a wicker-back chair next to her and let the silence settle as Rachel played with the envelope. After a few minutes she gingerly opened the V-mail. The paper shook as her gaze trailed down the page.
“Everything okay?”
“Yes. They’ve seen a couple of photos they’re sure are mine in the paper. Momma appears headed to remission. If we can get her the treatment, the prognosis is much improved.”
“Then let’s
get that painting sold.”
“Thank you again, Scott. For everything. For helping me find my father.” Her fingers played with the locket at her neck. He fought to keep his attention focused on her face. “For loving me.”
His heart thundered to a stop at her words.
A flicker of emotion flashed across Scott’s face, too fast for Rachel to decipher.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean . . .”
He placed a finger on her lips, stilling her frantic attempt to make things right. “Shhh.”
“I love you, Scott Lindstrom.”
“Shhh.” He leaned closer until she could feel his breath against her cheek. As the area cleared of refugees, leaving just a few men in the security detail and a few who came and went as their work allowed, she’d tried to prevent them from having time alone. Now she wanted to give in to the longing that surged through her to feel his arms wrapped around her, holding her close enough to feel his heart. Instead he teased her by lingering in the space right above her.
“Scott . . .”
“Shhh.” He leaned close until his breath mingled with hers.
Then his lips claimed hers, and she sighed.
A moment later he pulled back, searching her eyes. “Rachel, I want to spend the rest of my life getting to know you. Even in that time I know I will barely plumb the depths of who you are. But I want to know and love you the rest of my days.”
Her mouth fell open. With conscious thought she closed it and searched for words. “Is that a proposal, fine sir?”
His eyes tightened and then he relaxed. “Yes, if you will have me.”
She leaned toward him and matched her lips to his.
A minute later he pulled back, and she looked breathlessly at him. “That was a yes?”
She nodded. “You are my home, Scott.”
As she rested in the circle of Scott’s arms, she understood the way God had shadowed her life with His grace, even when she didn’t know to look for Him. He’d provided an opportunity for her to work in Italy. Then He’d sent Scott to work with her and keep her safe. He’d even led her to her earthly father if only for a few days. In the process He’d reaffirmed His deep love for her.
Peace settled over her, and tension leached from her muscles.
She could rest in God’s care. And she could rest in Scott’s love.
Rachel smiled as Scott’s arms tightened around her.
She’d found her home in the storm of war.
Author Note
A story is rarely created in a vacuum. For me the process often starts with the spark of a historical hook. For this book that spark ignited when I found Robert M. Edsell’s book Monuments Men at the library the summer of 2010. From my first glance at the cover with its photo of World War II soldiers carrying paintings, I was hooked. While his book focuses primarily on France and Germany, it created a passion to learn more. That led me to other books including The Venus Fixers by Ilaria Dagnini Brey and The Rape of Europa by Lynn Nicholas and its accompanying documentary. While Robert Edsell had a book on the Italy art campaign release in May 2013, I’d already completed this novel. I look forward to reading it in the future. My deepest appreciation to the men and women who do the research to write the books that bring history to life.
However, the book that was key to knowing the time line and challenges of the Monuments Men as they approached Florence was Florentine Art under Fire by Frederick Hartt. He served as a Monuments Man in Italy and wrote the book in 1949. I relied heavily on portions of his book to capture how the Monuments Men responded to the devastation and challenges in Florence.
When I wanted to get a sense for life in Tuscany during the war, I stumbled upon a wonderful diary: War in Val D’Orica by Iris Origo. You can imagine the thrill when she talked about the Monuments Men in the pages of her journal. The Day of Battle by Rick Atkinson provided key information and framework for the aftermath in Naples as well as the fighting around Florence. Where the Action Was by Penny Coleman and The Women Who Wrote the War by Nancy Caldwell Sorrel were two of the resources that helped me understand what it was like to be a woman journalist during the war. Assignment to Hell by Timothy M. Gay gave me invaluable information about the campaign up Italy from a reporter’s perspective. The tidbit about how the Rome newsroom reacted to the news of D-Day came from that fascinating look at four reporters during World War II.
The history is so important to me that I do all I can to get the details correct. However, any mistakes are mine alone.
Thank you for joining me on this journey into a little told story of World War II and the battle to save the treasures of Western civilization in the face of aerial warfare.
Acknowledgments
I couldn’t have written this book without Julie Gwinn’s enthusiasm. From the first moment I mentioned the idea at ACFW in 2010, she has been a staunch supporter of this idea and the story. Karen Solem, my agent, has been a constant source of encouragement about my World War II books. Thank you, Karen, for reinforcing my desire to write stories about the Greatest Generation. Julee Schwarzburg has a reputation for being one of the elite editors in the Christian book world. For this book I had the supreme privilege of working with her. Thank you for your care with my characters, the story, and the history. I learned so much!
Many thanks also to Dave Schroeder and Kim Stanford. Dave, your vision for this book and passion for getting the word out has been a huge blessing. It’s been a true pleasure to work with you. Jennifer Lyell, thank you for your support.
I have also been blessed with a host of first readers. My daughter Abigail was the first person to read this book. Thank you for sharing your excitement as you read. Casey Herringshaw, Robin Miller, Sue Lyzenga, and Ashley Clark are stalwart first readers. Not only are these women talented writers, but they each bring a different skill they lovingly apply to my stories before my editors see them. Sue, thank you for your attention to detail and getting the words right. Robin, thanks for making the sacrifice of reading a hysterical. And Casey and Ashley, I so appreciate your sharing your talents with me and can’t wait to someday hold your first novels!
When this book was complete, my cousin Beth Hraban graciously read it for accuracy on Italy. She and her husband, Matt, had taken a vacation of a lifetime in Italy and spent time in Tuscany and Florence. Not only did she read it for details, but she also shared her photos with me. Someday I’ll get to Florence. Until then, thanks for sharing your experiences and making sure Rachel’s matched!
My husband, Eric, is an immense support to me. He is quick to research when I need help and a great sounding board when I need to test an idea. He is also my loudest cheerleader. Thank you for always believing in me.
Discussion Questions
If you would like to have me participate in your book club, please go to my website at http://caraputman.com and contact me. I’d love to join you by phone if in person doesn’t work.
1. Rachel Justice is on an impossible journey. Have you ever been thrust on a journey where success seemed impossible?
2. Rachel’s mother tells her to leave her father alone, but Rachel can’t. Have you ever faced a situation where you chose to directly go against a parent’s instruction? How did it affect your relationship?
3. Rachel travels to Italy during World War II for the love of a parent. Do you think she made the right decision? Why or why not?
4. Many of us have experienced abandonment and pain at the hands of those who should love us. How do you recover from that?
5. Rachel has a hard time seeing God as a Father who loves her and would lay down His life for her. Do you think our image of God is affected when a parent is absent in our lives?
6. Scott is a man on a mission. Do you think his mission (saving Western civilization) was a valid one in a time of war?
7. Which character did you find yourself relating to more: Rachel or Scott?
What drew you to that character?
8. Scott and Rachel find each other during a high-stress, adrenaline-laced time in their lives. In your experience is that a good time to form a relationship? Should they take any precautions? If so, how would you advise Rachel to proceed?
9. Which of the characters would you like to get to know better? Why?
Contents
Shadowed by Grace
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Author Note
Acknowledgments
Discussion Questions
Guide
Start of Content
Table of Contents
