“How did he look at you?”
“Like I might be beautiful, and also interesting.” Her voice drops to almost a whisper. “Not many men looked at me that way.”
“Theo did,” I remind her gently.
“Theo was the exception.” Jo sips her tea. “We chatted for a few minutes more, and then Theo returned from a frightful session of dancing with Madame Vignon. He did not have a jealous bone in his body. He merely squeezed in between the two of us and asked Isaac about his work. Then he invited Isaac to our home to look at some of Vincent’s paintings. Theo was always looking for more champions for Vincent.”
“Did he come?” I lean forward, captivated by this small glimpse into Jo’s life before grief carved its permanent mark on her.
“He did. It was a brief visit, and he admired Vincent’s paintings. Theo asked him to stay for dinner, but he declined, sayinghe had plans that evening to walk the streets looking for inspiration.” Jo traces the rim of her teacup with her finger. “But several days later I received a letter addressed only to me, asking if I might visit him. I threw it in the trash bin. It felt a step too far, and he was making his affections too clear. Theo’s health declined soon after, and with his troubles and the baby, I had little time to think about Isaac.”
“But now he is here. And you are a single woman,” I point out. “Perhaps you should meet with him?”
“To what end?” Her defenses rise.
“Because you deserve some joy, Jo.” I reach across the table to touch her hand.
When she scoffs, I try another tactic. “And if he was interested in Vincent’s paintings then, he may be able to help you now. You need all the advocates you can muster.”
This makes Jo consider the letter from the man who is clearly making her cheeks burn.
I take in the note’s final line and it makes me smile.Perhaps one of these days we could go to a café and watch other people dance for an evening, Jo, he had written.
“I like his sense of humor,” I say. “I think it would be nice for you to get out and meet with a friend who isn’t Anna or myself.”
“Women do not have men as friends,” Jo says flatly, but I can tell she’s weakening.
“Women also do not work as art dealers, and that is what you have been doing for this past year.” I push the paper toward her. “Write him back. What is the worst that can happen?”
She considers it for a long moment, then picks up her pen with unexpected resolve. “I will do so. But I will bring you with me.”
“Me?” I raise my eyebrows.
“So that he knows it is a formal meeting.” She’s already writing, her script neat and precise.
“Very well, then. I would like to meet him myself.”
I am delighted for her in the moment, watching as she signs her name to her response to Isaac with a flourish. There is no way I could have known I was leading her directly into the arms of the second man who would break herheart.
13
Emma
I escape thehospital as quickly as I can and lean against the smooth stone wall of the building outside. It’s times like this I wish I smoked, just to have something to occupy myself with. I close my eyes instead and try to breathe.
When I open my eyes he’s in front of me. “Walk with me?” Matthew’s eyes are red, his shoulders slumped.
“Of course.”
We wander down the sidewalk, our hands thrust in our pockets. A holiday market is set up on the banks of the Seine below us. Matthew nods toward it and we head down a crumbling staircase to the lower promenade. He buys us a five-franc bottle of red wine, a baguette, and a small wheel of Brie. The wine comes with two plastic cups because for all their perceived snobbery, the French completely approve of drinking wine from plastic cups out in the open on the street. They even encourage it. Matthew breaks off a piece of the baguette and cuts a piece ofcheese with a sharp Swiss utility knife he had in his pocket. He speaks only once he’s drained his glass and taken a bite.
“I needed that.”
I sip more modestly, but I’m just as eager to get buzzed right now.
“What did the doctors say?”
“Nothing you didn’t hear. I rang my father to let him know. Do you know what he said?”
