Free Shadowed by Grace by Cara Putman

child. A child that will cause my parents to disown me.
Even now I love my Italian passionately. My whole heart is consumed with him. My thoughts constantly return to him, even as the boat carries me ever farther away. At least I will have my child, since I will never open my heart or arms to another man. Italy will be a chapter of my past. A page I will turn and forget as much as I can. I must turn my face to the future with its uncertainty. Somehow I will make a way for us. Us . . . not the way I envisioned my life.
    Reading the words shook Rachel. She’d been the reason Momma abandoned her life’s ambitions. Somehow her momma had survived those days of disillusionment and uncertainty when her family turned their back.
    Rachel leaned back against the headboard. What would she do in a similar position? Abandon all she knew to run back to the arms of the man she loved? Maybe someday she’d know. But as she sat in the small hotel room in a battered city, the possibility of finding a love to cherish for a lifetime seemed beyond infinitesimal.
    It was impossible.

Chapter 8
    May 24
    RACHEL HAD SEEN ONE painting and the preparatory photos her momma took while in Italy. On a rare visit to her grandmother’s, Rachel had noticed a framed photo, dotted and faded by time. She’d studied the composition of the piece, armed with new knowledge from her college art-appreciation class, and knew she would have framed the scene the same way. Her grandmother had smiled, sadness tingeing her eyes. “Your momma took that in Italy. It became the basis for her painting.”
    Rachel clutched the diary close to her chest. Her momma’s paintings had the late Impressionist feel of Mary Cassatt’s paintings. Tears flowed at the thought that her momma had given up so much to provide for her, and now Rachel was failing in her attempt to find her father. She swiped at the dampness that trailed down her skin. She had to slog forward, step-by-step, through the muck of war.
    Maybe if luck and heaven smiled on her, she’d find her father. Maybe he’d believe her. Maybe he’d have the resources and willingness to help Momma. And maybe Momma would still live.
    All Rachel could control was her search.
    If her father was an artist, would Lieutenant Lindstrom interact with him? If she had a name, she could solicit his help. Sketches alone couldn’t be enough.
    She opened the diary to Momma’s earlier entries, rubbing a hand along Momma’s spidery writing, unchanged in loops and formalness to this day. So much like Momma’s personality. A stiff, almost foreboding exterior walling off the slight silliness tinged with flair.
The nights have a depth, a richness, I can’t see in New York City. Yes, Florence is a city, but travel a few kilometers . . . only a few . . . and I find myself thrust deep into a velvet sky dotted with diamonds. I search them for the formations, the lore of old hidden in its vastness. Then my guide arrives and weaves stories of passion and war. I find myself swept away by the art and romance.
    What would Momma’s life have been like if she’d stood strong? Vastly different, nothing like her present. Instead, in the next pages her momma outlined what Rachel saw as a web of seduction. Gifts and poetry all delivered with a delightful Italian accent. What could Momma do but fall in love? At least that’s how the diary painted the situation.
    Maybe knowing her momma’s story prompted Rachel to keep her walls high, never letting anyone into her soul. She’d spent weeks in Naples, and yet Dottie remained an acquaintance despite her roommate’s continued attempts to get her to join the girls when they went out after long days of work. The girls had even tapered off on teasing her about her night with Scott.
    Someday they’d realize they teased about nothing because nothing had happened. Scott had treated her with complete respect. Did that mean he didn’t find her the least bit appealing? She shouldn’t care, yet no matter how