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.
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.