Shadowed by Grace (24 page)

The days slipped by, each filled with visiting one village after another.

In each village Scott led Rachel in a search of churches and other landmarks on his lists. She took careful photos as he examined the structures for damage. Then he’d look for any listed art not at the church. In almost each place Scott was regaled with stories of the lengths the Italian art superintendents and priests had taken to protect the treasures left in their care. Many landholders made their villas available for large deposits of paintings while a large statute or two might fill a stall in a barn. Other times they’d used caves tucked in the hills. Even after all the effort, the Germans had come, seeking and taking what pleased them.

Then there were the items that vanished. In a couple villages the priests or superintendents didn’t realize the piece had disappeared until Scott arrived. Could Rachel be right? Did someone follow them and slip ahead of them to take the valuable art?

The list Scott maintained of missing statues, masterpieces, and other artifacts grew piece by piece. The German SS seemed to have a list of their own as they’d moved across Italy making selections. They’d told the local art officials the paintings and statues should be moved north until they reached the Germans’ protection.

Had the pieces been moved north for protection? How many of the stolen pieces had been confiscated by the Germans rather than an Allied soldier? Scott couldn’t know unless he found a list of art the Germans held. It was possible some pieces had moved north to Florence. Yet the Germans could have used the front lines as an excuse to move the pieces into Austria and Germany.

General Tucker wasn’t impressed with his lack of progress. The man didn’t realize building relationships with the local church and art superintendents mattered. It would expedite his work as they continued north. The relationships he’d formed in Rome helped, but the local men had to trust him too. Finding a missing piece would go further than shoring up another roof. Scott needed to find something.

“You look like your best friend died.” Rachel handed him a mug of coffee.

“The locals believe our soldiers are taking their art just like the Germans did.”

“They consider it a souvenir.”

“Maybe, but to these villages it’s their religious artifact or a piece a Medici gifted.”

“I know.” She sank beside him, turning to face him.

He took another sip. “I thought I could do something important. Now I wonder.”

“You’re helping these towns restore what’s been damaged. Letting them know they aren’t alone, we’re here to help.”

He wanted to believe her. “When I left, my fiancée returned my ring because she believed I was a fool. I didn’t believe her because I knew I could help save Western civilization. Instead, I dodge artillery shells as we move from town to town. Elaine was right. I should have stayed in Philadelphia and continued working my way up the art world.”

Rachel reached across and touched his hand. “She was wrong. You’re doing something important. The soldiers just don’t understand. You can educate them.”

“DeWald made booklets for the soldiers in Rome on R & R. That won’t work here.”

“Find another way to let them know why the art is important. Your passion will catch. You have to communicate it when you work with the soldiers.”

“Look at Tyler. He’s traveled with me for weeks and has no greater understanding than the first day. He doesn’t care.”

“I think he understands more than he lets on.” Rachel stared into her cup.

She met his gaze, her chocolate eyes filled with something he couldn’t discern. “You don’t give the soldiers enough credit. Most recognize beauty. Sometimes they need help understanding it in a new format. Explain what you see in a church that looks like it should be bulldozed.”

“You’ve thought about this.”

Rachel nodded, almost dislodging her cap in the process. “I wasn’t sure this had a place in the army initially. But spending time with you and with the priests . . . you’ve changed my mind. I want to help preserve Italy’s buildings and art. They will too.”

He considered her words. He’d been quick to judge the soldiers. Even Tyler. You’d think driving around, trying to stay alive, would create some type of bond between them. Foxhole if nothing else. Yet the man remained aloof, indifferent, almost as if he schooled himself to behave that way. Maybe it was an act.

Scott poured the balance of his coffee onto the ground. “Time to get back to it.”

Despite her brave words as she sat next to Scott, the days that dragged to weeks had attained a monotony of tagging along behind General Tucker’s troops in the slow progression north. Each day they’d drive into another small village she couldn’t find on a map, and she’d wonder if and when she’d take a photo that would make it onto the front page of a U.S. newspaper. The photos felt the same. One more demolished building. One more broken fountain. One more destroyed village. One more plant poking through the rubble.

Unfortunately the men in the Rome newsroom had nailed it when they said the French landing trumped anything happening in Italy. Without a breathtaking, eye-catching photo, she wouldn’t make any extra money to pay medical bills. The good news was each day they inched closer to Florence and Tuscany, but the battle ahead constrained their speed.

She carried the sketchbook with her and showed it to priests, but while they’d been courteous, none had any ideas about the artist. They humored her and said it would take an Italian art expert to identify the artist.

Scott nudged her shoulder, and she startled. “I’ll take the cups back. Meet you at the jeep?”

“Sure.” Scott handed her the cup, then stood and headed toward the jeep.

After depositing the cups in the mess tent, she returned to the tent she now shared with nurses placed with the hospital at this temporary base. It was an unusual pleasure to have some women around after days spent primarily with Scott and Tyler. Last night she’d developed film in her helmet while they washed clothes in a tub, the group wrapping her into their camaraderie.

When she entered through the flap, the tent was empty of all but a sleeping nurse. Rachel moved as soundlessly as possible as she reclaimed the negatives. She took them to headquarters for dispatch to Rome, then walked by the mail station.

“Letters for you, Captain Justice.”

“Glad the mail can find me.”

“We do our best.” The private handed it over with a grin. “They’re getting the system worked out between here and Rome. Expect it more regularly.”

She nodded her thanks. No need to tell him letters for her were like snow in July. With the time she had before meeting the guys at the jeep, she settled into a nook of shade to enjoy her letter in peace. Sharp whistles had followed her but she ignored them, background noise to being one of a handful of women surrounded by men. A few tipped their heads as they passed, and she answered with a smile. Her thoughts remained centered on the letters in her hand.

The first was something from her editor. The other V-mail felt thin in her hand, and she wanted to savor it. This was the third letter to reach her in the months since she’d left the States. She wanted to believe others were only lost.

A small, flowering white olive tree sat off the main road adjacent to the field the army had turned into its headquarters for this phase of the approach to Florence. Terraced fields lined with grape vines rose to the north of the tents, but here she’d find a slice of peace away from the watching eyes surrounding her.

She eased to the ground beneath the tree, holding the letters in her hand. The note from her editor said to prepare for a reassignment. If she didn’t get fresh photos, he’d have to move her or bring her back to Rome. She refolded the letter and slipped it back in its envelope.

Finding fresh subjects wasn’t easy in a region ripped apart by fighting. She shook her head and raised the V-mail to her nose. She longed for one whiff of Momma’s lilac perfume. One whiff would feel like a hug, but this copy the army had made from microfiche shipped overseas carried no scent.

The penmanship looked like Momma’s, spidery and thin. The wavers through the letters weren’t normal. The
t
’s dipped and the
m
’s swooned, nothing like her normal handwriting. Momma always wrote with a strong hand, the hand of an artist.

She let the letter linger another minute, then returned to it. Time to see what news Momma had. The letter was chatty, telling all that was happening in the neighborhood. While Rachel hoped Momma was up and around, visiting her friends and learning their news, it also meant Momma was out of the hospital receiving no treatment.

Life continues. It always does though. Calendar pages flip. Months change. Years change. But one thing remains constant. I love you dearly. I will never regret my time in Italy because it gave me you. You are my treasure.

Tears slipped down Rachel’s cheeks. The words felt like a benediction, as if Momma was preparing for a good-bye. Surely Momma hadn’t given up. She couldn’t. Not while Rachel stayed in Italy, still looking even if it was as hopeless as finding the perfect dress on the battlefield.

“You ready?” Tyler’s voice broke into her thoughts.

She wiped her cheeks and took a deep breath. Then turned to watch him approach. He sauntered as if the countryside belonged to him. A lord taking in his estate. “Time already?”

“Scott’s waiting by the jeep. He wouldn’t interrupt.”

Which was why she enjoyed his company more than Tyler’s. “I’ll be there in a moment.” First she needed to slip her letter into the sketchbook. Then it would be safe until she could read it again.

She ignored Tyler’s hand and scrambled to her feet. She hurried across the field, back to the shelter of the tent. After she pulled her musette bag from under her cot, she unzipped it and felt around for the sketchbook. Where was it? It wasn’t where she’d tucked it.

Frantically she dumped the bag on her bed but didn’t see it.

Her heart stuttered at the thought it had disappeared. She’d studied the illustrations until she could probably sketch the outlines herself. However, nothing would replace the ability to turn the pages and see a representation of the woman she believed was her momma during her year in Italy.

She slipped down and looked under the cot. Pulled back her bedroll. It was gone. Utterly, completely gone. Her breath hitched and her hands shook.

Time slipped as she rammed everything back into her bag, unconcerned with where they went. She didn’t care how it was packed. She wanted that book.

Somewhere.

It was here.

It had to be. She hadn’t done anything else with it.

“Rachel?” Scott stood in the doorway watching her frantic movements.

“It’s gone.” She forced the words past the lump in her throat.

“What is?”

“The sketchbook.” Her words hiccupped. It had to be here, but she’d looked everywhere. Nobody else would value it, a simple collection of sketches by an unknown artist with the initials RMA. Momma was the one who cared about it, and now Rachel had lost it.

Just like she would lose Momma.

Her thoughts shuddered as her breath caught in her throat. She couldn’t cry. Not over this. She’d look hysterical, but the tears came anyway.

“Ah, Rachel.” Scott took a step closer. “It’s somewhere.”

“I’ve looked. Everywhere.” She whispered the words through a tight throat.

“Sure. I’ve done that too. Certain I’d checked every conceivable place only to find it later. I’ll help you search.” He took another half step, then must have noticed the resting nurse because he stopped. Still he didn’t meet her gaze.

“Why would someone take it?”

“Because it’s valuable.”

Rachel stared at him. “That book?”

“You’d be surprised.” He opened his mouth as if he might say more, and Rachel waited. There had to be more to back up such a crazy claim. However, he kept his peace, then blew out a breath. “Early preparatory works have sold for good prices.”

“When the buyer knew the famous artist.”

“Someone knows your artist.”

“Nobody’s seen the book except you and me. Tyler, I don’t know who this mystery artist is. Do you?”

“I’m not sure.” His face twisted as if he battled with the idea.

“It doesn’t matter because it’s gone. And I could be reassigned any day. Then I’ll never find it.” And with it disappeared the one, slim lead she had. Rachel sank onto the edge of her cot, ignoring the squeaking canvas.

“I’m sorry. You’re sure you checked everywhere?”

She shoved another pair of socks into her bag. “Yes. How will I explain to Momma?” It had disappeared. Or been stolen. She tried to force back the thought, but with the task General Tucker had given Scott of identifying who was stealing small pieces, it was possible.

She still wondered about Scott’s reaction to the book. He acted like it was a treasure, one he couldn’t believe someone had entrusted to her. Why wouldn’t he tell her who the artist was? Wouldn’t most art experts gladly share their superior knowledge on an item? Yet Scott had buttoned up regarding the book. Had he taken it? She shook her head. That seemed as likely as Tyler acquiring it. Neither had a reason.