Shadowed by Grace (9 page)

“Certamente.”
The woman waved a birdlike hand and then restarted the phonograph.

Rachel resumed her pace, then turned once when her senses stood at attention. She felt like someone was watching her. She turned to examine the sidewalk for someone, then shrugged and resumed her wandering when she saw no one.

Since coming to Naples, that’s all she’d done. Like the stories she’d heard in Sunday school of the Israelites. The problem was, she couldn’t afford to wander for forty days, let alone forty years.

She slowed as she reached a battered stone building. In the States it would qualify as a small church, one that would house a small, tightly connected congregation. As Rachel stood in front of this one, she wondered how many of its faithful lived. Did any remain to worship in its battered facade?

The ping of something striking stone mixed with voices carried from inside the structure. Curiosity propelled her to the steps. At the bottom she hesitated, then worked her way up the path someone had cleared. With each step her thoughts turned to her day bouncing across the countryside looking for the altarpiece, but this time Scott wouldn’t work inside.

Too many churches dotted Naples and the surrounding countryside to think she’d find the handsome lieutenant inside. If he was, would his smoky gray eyes meet her gaze? What then? He was one of thousands in town, all in uniform, stranded far from home with the threat of death never far from their minds.

She froze, her hand poised over the doorknob. She closed her eyes and sucked in a bracing breath. This was ridiculous. Lieutenant Lindstrom was not in there. Even if he was, he wouldn’t notice her. The army had assigned her elsewhere, and their paths would never cross again.

Scott brushed the layer of dust and dirt that coated the front of his uniform. “If we shore up that wall, it will support the roof.”

Anatole Origo nodded as he studied Scott’s sketch, but agreement didn’t enter his eyes.

Scott puffed out a breath and tried to relax his shoulders. The man was polite but didn’t hide his distrust of the American who told him how to fix his church. They’d worked together for a couple days. By now he should trust Scott, yet his posture remained wary.

“It will work.” Scott pointed to the sketch and explained again.

“I see.” Anatole gave the barest nod. “We make happen.”

The man knew his business—construction of Italian churches—but retained the ability to accept input. He might suggest alternatives but accepted Scott’s opinions on how to proceed. The allure of American dollars to finance the renovations and rebuilding didn’t hurt. Anatole spoke in rapid Italian to one of the laborers, and Scott turned his attention to the tiny prayer chapel. Nothing less than a miracle had protected the magnificent fresco in the alcove. Scott could imagine God’s hand outstretched to protect the image of what occurred during creation. The colors remained vivid as if the artist had dabbed the paint into the wet plaster mere months earlier rather than centuries in the past.

The screech of the doorknob caused Scott to turn toward the small foyer. Whoever had opened the door stood framed in shadows the faint light filtering through the cracked door couldn’t pierce.

Scott took a step toward the foyer, then thought again. What if it was a partisan? He wouldn’t see anything in time to protect himself or the workers. Anatole’s men didn’t need the distraction of what could go wrong. Neither did they have anyone to protect them. Maybe that was something Scott should request. With the priceless paintings, altarpieces, and relics many of these churches held, he should have someone secure them.

“Hello, Scott.”

The soft words drifted to him. He squinted and she stepped closer. Rachel Justice, a welcome sight in her army-issued skirt and jacket. Her dark hair brushed her shoulders in soft waves he longed to touch. “Captain Justice, Naples is treating you well.”

She studied him. “Thank you.” She glanced around the interior, then stepped closer. “Reports continue the Fifth will leave soon.”

“That’s what you want?”

“Yes.” She paused as if considering how much to share. “I can’t stay in Naples.”

“The water’s running, and there’s a working sewer system now.”

“I’m not a delicate flower.”

Could have fooled him. Her features carried the light gracefulness of a rose opening from its tight bud to embrace the sun.

“Will you stay?” Her words startled him.

“I’m at the mercy of the army.” He motioned to the activity around them in the nave of the church. “There is still much to do here. I’ll shore up these broken beauties until the army orders me to move.”

She stepped closer as her gaze swept the activity, then returned to him. “Do you mind?”

Did he? Wherever the troops moved, there would be damage. It was a collateral aspect of war that would continue as the army slogged from the Anzio beachhead and across the mountain passes that trapped the Allied armies in a slugfest with the German army.

“I see.” Her soft smile suggested she’d read his thoughts. How could she when she’d known him days? He felt exposed. Vulnerable. Uncomfortable yet intrigued.

The silence stretched between them like the long brushstrokes that covered a virgin canvas, conditioning it for the layers of paint to come. Could he risk sharing his thoughts? He had to if he wanted to take their friendship to a deeper place. “Life doesn’t always give me what I desire.”

“Or hope for.” She stepped deeper into the space pocked with open sky. “What are you doing here?”

“The ceiling has to be reinforced.”

“Why not start over? There’s not much left.”

“It’s an issue of supplies and resources. These men must be paid, and there are so many buildings with few materials.”

“But all those Liberty ships that fill the harbor . . .”

“Saturated with troop supplies.” He led her toward a fresco that showed a scene from the Sermon on the Mount. Jesus—modeled on some Italian nobleman from the thirteenth century, maybe the patron—teaching a multitude on a hill, with olive trees in the background. The scene could be from the Italian countryside rather than the Holy Land. “This is why I’m here.”

Rachel tilted her head to the side as she examined the painting. “Can you salvage it?”

Could he? Or were his efforts wasted? “I believe I can.”

“I know you can.” She trailed a finger along an edge of broken plaster that held the outline of a child in colorful robes. No one had told the artist peasants didn’t wear such expensive colors in Jesus’ time. “It’s beautiful, even broken.”

“Yes.”

“I wish I saw what you see.”

He studied her. What caused the lingering air of sadness that cloaked her? “Is that why you’re here?”

“What?” She turned her attention from the fresco to him. “I didn’t know you were here.”

“I know. But why come here, to this church?”

She pivoted and pulled her camera up. She wore it like some women wore a necklace of pearls. “May I? Take some photos?”

He considered pushing, learning why she redirected his question. Yet he wanted her to stay. Whatever motivated her ran deep and seemed more than a desire to take photos, to propel her into a war zone.

“It’s fine with me. Just keep me out of them unless you warn me.”

She grinned, raised the camera, and snapped a quick shot. “Like that?”

Imp, that’s what she was. He smiled back. “My mom doesn’t need to see a photo of me in her newspaper.”

He’d meant the words to be light, almost a joke, but Rachel’s smile slipped.

“I’m sorry, Lieutenant. I’ll make sure the photo isn’t published.” She walked toward a group of workmen surrounding a ladder and never looked back. She studied the workmen, watching the man at the top nail a tarp in place over the apse. Others worked from the roof, all of it an effort to keep rain from penetrating the building.

He walked over and stood next to her, shoulder to shoulder. “They’ll cover the openings with tarp.”

“Is it enough?”

“It has to be.”

They spent fifteen minutes exploring the periphery, then one of the men asked for direction. Scott walked over, but the directions took long minutes to convey. Rachel waited awhile, then waved and slipped from the church. Scott hurried after her, wanting a minute to say good-bye, but when he reached the door, she’d disappeared.

Chapter 9

RACHEL’S THOUGHTS SWIRLED AFTER
she left the church. Scott had charmed her, but heat flooded her cheeks as she remembered his reaction to her photo. He’d meant to tease. She knew that. But all she could hear was the voice of her photography teacher and yearbook editor correcting every photo she took.

Even with photos printed in the U.S.’s best papers, she still felt like she’d never take the right kind.

Tomorrow she’d leave Naples if the Fifth left as scheduled. At least that’s what the public relations officer had promised her editor. She had much to accomplish before morning. When she left, her hopes that mail would find her lessened. If mail hadn’t connected with her in Naples, how could it find her on the move? It was a miracle the public relations officers had agreed to let her leave the city.

What should she expect?

With the stories of mud knee-deep on some mountain passes, Rachel needed to find more trousers that fit. Chances were low the Liberty ships had carried any, but she’d check.

After walking awhile, Rachel made her way to the harbor. The army engineers had done an amazing job cleaning the wreckage of scuttled ships, one type of debris the Germans left when they evacuated. On a clear day, if she looked into the water just right, she could see the ghost ships lying on the bottom that hadn’t been tugged from the harbor. She’d failed to capture the haunting images. The buildings along the harbor hadn’t fared well either. Some had been hastily rebuilt. Others stood as shells, forms broken, walls sheared off exposing furniture and more.

After a couple of requests for directions, Rachel found the building that warehoused uniforms and refitting supplies. The closer she came to the building, the more uniforms strolled around.

“What’s this dame doing here?” The private didn’t bother to lower his voice.

“Couldn’t find a guy at home?”

Someone laughed, a low, cruel sound. “I bet she’d entertain us.”

Rachel kept her back straight and didn’t allow herself to react. If she kept her attention in front of her and her pace steady, maybe they’d get the message she didn’t care what they said.

“Don’t know why they let girls wear uniforms.”

“Make them feel important?”

She yanked open the warehouse door and slipped inside. Her shoulders sank as the doors closed, locking out the soldiers’ words. She must forget the words and innuendos.

A chorus of whistles reached her.

“Quiet, guys.” A private that reminded her of Mickey Rooney rushed to her side. “Can I help you, miss?”

“Captain.”

“Sorry.” He stepped back. “What brings you to our humble building?”

“I need some trousers. I move out tomorrow.”

“Orders?”

“Right here.” She tugged them from her rucksack that held extra film, a bit of money, credentials, and orders. “You’ll see all is in order.”

“Except the detail of women’s clothing. Don’t get much of that.”

She could only imagine. The military wasn’t prepped for women. Even though she wasn’t strictly part of the army, they sanctioned her arrival and provided her supplies. And she needed pants. “You must have short soldiers.”

“A few. But not many as short as you. No offense.”

“None taken.”

He led her to a stack of rickety shelves that reached much higher than her head. “The smaller sizes are usually on the bottom. We haven’t organized since the last group went through, but you should start there.”

“Thank you. May I have my orders back?”

He handed them to her with a toothy grin. “Whatever you find, you can take two pairs. I’d recommend a pair of boots and some rain protection. We’re hearing it’s a mess. Good luck.” He headed back toward the front while Rachel stared at the overwhelming piles.

Even though he’d suggested an area to start, she couldn’t imagine how she’d find anything in the piles of government-issued clothing. After she’d sorted awhile, a rowdy noise reached her. Must be soldiers ready to be fitted before they moved out. Before long, soldiers made their way into the cavernous area she was in, their loud voices betraying their fear. They might not have reached the front, but Naples was much closer than Kansas.

Rachel dug deeper into the pile. Maybe they wouldn’t see her. A shrill whistle canceled that thought.

“Looky here. A pretty lady.” A scarecrow, tall, scrawny, and dressed in uniform, sauntered toward Rachel. “How may I be of service?”

She eased to her feet and plastered on a carefree smile. “I’m quite fine. Thank you. Wouldn’t want to keep you from finding boots. You’ll need them where you’re going.”

“So they tell me. But I won’t find a bee-u-ti-ful woman where I’m going.” While his words wheedled, his eyes held something else. A darkness. Fear mixed with the reality of what waited? Desire forced to the surface by the racing future? He stepped closer, his hot breath hitting her cheek. “Join me for dinner.”