Shadowed by Grace (2 page)

“Tell me.”

“What?” Her gaze strayed, anywhere but Momma’s knowing eyes.

“You have news. Something big. Earth changing.”

“All of that happens across an ocean.” One of which she would cross. Soon. A chill skittered down her spine. She wanted this, didn’t she? In fact, she’d pushed so hard for it, her editor couldn’t ignore her a moment longer. She’d won. But when she looked at her mother, lying there pale and emaciated, Rachel feared she’d lost.

A harsh cough rattled from her mother. She tensed as if a vise squeezed the very air from her lungs. When Rachel knew her mother couldn’t sustain another breath, she relaxed.

Rachel laced and unlaced her fingers. “You okay, Momma?”

“As okay as I can be.” A wan smile tipped her mouth as her mother dabbed a handkerchief against her lips. Rachel exhaled when no blood dotted it. “So . . .”

“I’ve been assigned to Europe. I leave on the next boat.”

Her mother frowned, the edges of youthful grace slipping from her in the motion. “You got your way. Proved you were ready?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I see.” The words sounded harsh like leaves crunching against an autumn sidewalk.

“I want to do something that matters. Bring the war home to people who can’t imagine it. To those who are weary of the news we aren’t winning. Somewhere there are stories that show the progress we’re making. I want to share those.”

“I suppose you talked your way to Italy in the bargain.”

“Yes.” There was no way Rachel would stop before she reached her goal. It didn’t matter what she had to prove to whom—she’d do it. All to find the man who’d abandoned her before her birth . . . but the man who might have the money to get Momma the treatment she so desperately needed.

“I don’t want you looking for him.” Steel undergirded the words, the kind that if Momma had her strength, Rachel wouldn’t dare to cross. Instead, this time she’d be half a world away.

Half a world.

The prospect could scare the spit right out of her or force Rachel to find the courage the war required.

Another cough called Rachel back to her purpose. Without a miracle the tuberculosis would call Momma home soon. Her mother reached across the blanket for a handkerchief, her fingers knocking it to the floor. Rachel rummaged through her purse for a handkerchief, anything that would ease Momma’s suffering. Her hands brushed the book, then a handkerchief. She handed the soft cloth to Momma, then retrieved the book.

“What do you have?” Momma’s voice was a weak whisper.

“I found this under the bed.”

“You should have left it there.”

“What is it?”

“A trinket from the past.” A cough shook Momma’s frame, daring to pull her under and never let go.

“Momma?” Rachel tucked the book in her bag and scrambled to ease her mother. She had to stop it before the cough robbed Momma of her life.

The doctors said there was nothing more they could do, but Rachel knew it was a lie. They needed money before they’d try another treatment. Now she had the vehicle to make more money—she had to board the boat in New York City. Then Momma wouldn’t rely on the kindness of old family friends. Not when the hospital couldn’t keep her much longer without writing
paid in full
across the bill.

“Maybe I should stay, . . .” Rachel’s words trailed off.

Momma shook her head. “Why stay here and watch me waste away? Get out there. Take that camera and shoot the best pictures. You’ve got more talent than anyone over there.”

“You need me here.”

“Not as much as I want to know you’re making something of yourself.” Her momma squeezed out another smile. “Give me a hug and drop me a line every now and again. Ruth will make sure I get them.”

Rachel nodded, fighting the tears that crowded her vision. “Yes, ma’am.” She had to do this. For Momma. And for herself. She needed to prove to the rest of the world she could create art with her camera that mattered. That she could make a difference in the war effort. That her past did not control her future.

But if Momma died while she was gone . . .

Her mother struggled to rise off the hospital cot. She fumbled with the silver necklace she’d worn every day Rachel could remember. “Here, take this. I want you to have it.”

“Momma . . .” Rachel’s fear escalated. “You shouldn’t give that to me.”

“I received it in Italy. You should take it back.” Momma shoved it at her, then started coughing.

Rachel took it and slipped it into her pocket. “Here, take a sip of water.”

“Good afternoon, Miss Justice.” The nurse handed Momma a small cup filled with water. “Ready for your afternoon nap?”

Momma fought to catch her breath. “If you stop this coughing.”

“You been at it?”

Momma frowned. “You couldn’t hear me at your station?”

“No, ma’am.”

“I guess it’s not as bad as I thought.” Momma closed her eyes, fatigue that never used to plague her pulling down the muscles in her face.

“I’ll send postcards, Momma.” Rachel leaned down and kissed her cheek.

“See that you do. You know I’ve always loved getting mail.” She opened her eyes, the icy blueness standing in stark contrast to her pale skin. “And Rachel?”

“Yes, ma’am?”

“You leave your father alone.”

Chapter 2

Naples, Italy

May 15, 1944

NOTHING WAS GOING AS
advertised.

Lieutenant Scott Lindstrom’s spine locked into place where he stood. He couldn’t have heard the man right. “You want me to do what, sir?”

“You heard me. I’m attaching that photographer to you. We need the good press. And you need the work.”

Scott fought back a retort. He didn’t need a job. His parents and fiancée had told him he didn’t need this one, but he needed to come. Needed the assignment as an officer with the Monuments, Fine Arts, and Archives Division, where he could do something meaningful in the war. The problem was, even those in the brass who thought he added value to the army weren’t organized enough to let him do anything outside Naples. The rest thought his mission a waste of time.

Millennium of priceless art waited outside the walls of headquarters, and he had to cool his heels because he had no supplies and no transport. Everything was complicated by the immense needs present in a city that had been all but destroyed as the Allies battled the German army for control. Refugees due to the eruption flooded what was left of the infrastructure. The last thing he needed was responsibility for some dame who wasn’t smart enough to stay home.

He knew why he’d come, why he’d accepted the risk.

Why would she understand?

He hadn’t come only to shore up classic buildings that had stood since the Roman Empire that aerial bombings destroyed. Or locate priceless pieces of art created by masters in the thirteenth century to ensure the fighting hadn’t destroyed them. Or plan for the restoration of those that had been touched by the war. The tales that art disappeared behind the lines made it more important than ever that he leave the city for the locations where the sculptures, paintings, and altarpieces were housed.

He couldn’t do that with a tagalong.

“Sir, I’m not a babysitter.” No, he’d come to Italy to save the history of Western civilization. At least the masterpieces and sculptures he could find.

The officer stared him down. “Do you want me to attach her to a unit headed to the front lines? How do you think that would play if she got injured or killed? This way you can keep her safe.”

“She’s a woman, sir.”

“Of course. This is a new war.” The man leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest.

Scott sighed. “How long?”

“A week. Bore her. Bring her back ready to take the next boat home. You have orders. Now get to it.” The general turned to a pile of papers on his desk.

Scott snapped a salute and double-timed it out of the office back into the crazed maze that made up headquarters. His art degrees from Harvard combined with his post as curator of a small museum in Philadelphia hadn’t prepared him to ferry a woman around a war zone.

When he hit the foyer, Scott stopped. The general had left out a few key details. Like how to find this reporter. He couldn’t expect to stumble upon her. He stopped at one of the desks outside the office. “Hey, I’m supposed to squire Rachel Justice around. Any idea how I find her?”

“Check the public relations division. It’s a couple buildings over.”

“Thanks.” Scott slapped his garrison cap on and then made his way to the hallway.

Soldiers marched up and down the narrow walkway in the old hotel the army had requisitioned. He waited for a gap, then thrust his way into the flow until he wound his way outside. A jeep zipping by kicked a barrage of rocks and clods of dirt against his uniform. One more layer of grime to add to countless others. What he wouldn’t give for a hot, steaming shower. The destroyed sewer system was one of many gifts the Germans left when they destroyed Naples and pulled back.

The air overflowed with the sounds of a war machine gearing up for action. Yet he stood in place waiting to fulfill his assignment of saving masterpieces.

So far the Fifth Army command hadn’t cleared him to do anything but wait . . . now with a guest. Guess he’d better find her. He headed in the general direction of the press offices. He sidestepped a child, cheeks gaunt and eyes hollow, as the boy sifted through the rubble of what had been a home. Maybe a day ago, a week ago, even a month ago. It didn’t matter now. The stone structure sat shattered along the sidewalk. Many of the villages surrounding Naples bore the same look. Shelled remnants stood next to intact apartments, victims of the tug-of-war between the Allied forces and the Germans. The bombs fell with little perceivable discretion. Killing here. Sparing there.

In the face of the brutal realities of war, not the war correspondent’s black-and-white version but the living-color kind that plastered images he couldn’t shake, he understood the arguments that monuments and fine art didn’t matter. What mattered was ending the war.

Even the bombing of Monte Cassino began to make sense, though it had provided the perfect propaganda for the German war machine—reinforcing their image that the Allies had no understanding of the value of historic sites. That Americans were the barbarians intent on destroying rather than saving.

Scott stopped and watched the boy a moment, then reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a Hershey’s D-ration chocolate bar. “Boy.”

The child ignored him, moving as if by an unstoppable force, building small piles of rubble as he worked.

Scott slipped into rusty but improving Italian. “You must be hungry.” The thin face bore testament to the hunger that must claw at his belly. Scott might not appreciate the culinary delights of K rations, but it ensured a full stomach. The Germans had taken much of the produce and livestock in their retreat, leaving the peasants with little to live on.

Scott waved the bar in front of the boy’s eyes. “Here. A gift for you.”

The boy turned to him, the bleakness in his eyes not shifting at the sight of the candy.

Scott tucked the bar in the youngster’s pocket and then patted it. “Eat it when you like.”

The wind ruffled the kid’s hair, and Scott watched another moment before resuming his march. Scenes like that were best abandoned. There was only so much he could do to affect the suffering surrounding him. Even that little bit pulled at him, whispering,
What difference would one candy bar make to a child who may have lost father and mother and have no place to live, let alone to get real, healthy food?

He shook his thoughts loose. Straightening, he stepped around the demolished building. Despite the massive needs duty beckoned, along with a certain Rachel Justice.

The soldier bent near the boy with a candy bar. Light brown hair waved beneath the edge of his helmet, and his smile caught her, the warmth genuine even from a distance. What would it be like to have those eyes focused on her?

Rachel tightened her scarf, then reached for the camera that hung around her neck. Pressing down on the small button tucked next to the winding knob, she opened the front of the camera and drew down the bed until it locked. She looked through the viewfinder and framed the shot. Holding her breath, she flipped the shutter and prayed the photo developed the way she imagined. Could this be the one that brought the large price of the war home to people whose own houses were under no threat of enemy bombs?

Her heart broke at the emptiness in the little boy’s eyes as he stood there in tattered rags with bleeding hands.

What pain had he experienced?

Had that been his home?

Rachel snapped two more shots, then paused. She’d save film for the next image that grabbed her attention. She might have a bag full of film, but who knew when she’d find more in Naples.

“You there. What are you doing?” The soldier’s raised voice chased her back to the moment. His gray eyes sparked as he stepped between her and the boy. A head taller than her, he formed an intimidating figure, but she’d seen the tenderness he displayed a moment earlier.

She held her hands up, grateful for the neck strap that kept the camera from dropping to the ground. “Taking photos.” He edged closer and she stilled. “Lieutenant.”

“Ma’am.” His controlled voice didn’t match the fire in his eyes. He reached toward her camera, but she sidestepped out of his way and stumbled over a chunk of debris.

“No, you don’t. I’m credentialed.” She forced her lips to curve into a smile she didn’t feel.

“That’s no reason for you to take this child’s photo.”

“Every reason.”

“Like what?”

“Making people back home understand.”

“This?” He swept an arm across the shattered scene. “They’ll never understand from their warm, dry homes.” He almost vibrated with energy, a simmering passion that drew her.

She stood straighter. “Not if we don’t communicate reality through images.”

“You must be an idealist if you think a few pictures will make an impact.”

His words caught Rachel off guard as she studied his solid frame. Was she? If so she should be back home telling the propaganda the army spoon-fed journalists instead of risking her life in a place where a bomb was as likely to land on her head as she was to arrive back home in one piece.