“It’s the least I could do,” I say with genuine warmth. “Jo might never have accomplished this if you hadn’t lent us that dress for her meeting with De Jong.”
“Your employer impresses me,” Lisette confesses, watching Jo navigate a circle of critics with effortless authority. “She moves through these men as though she belongs among them. That’s no small feat.”
“She’s transformed since her husband’s passing. She has a distinct purpose outside of being a wife and a mother, and that seems to have changed her.”
“And is her purpose to become an art dealer?”
“Not exactly,” I say with certainty. “She has no interest in representing other artists, only in making Vincent’s art as well-known as she possibly can.”
“And earn some money.”
“The money is nice too,” I admit, though the boardinghouse is doing well enough that I have been able to save some of my own coin for the very first time in my life, perhaps enough to one day realize my own dreams, the ones I don’t whisper even to Jo, the dreams of reuniting with my daughter. But I believe it is something so much bigger for her.
“I knew Vincent in Paris, you know,” Lisette says with a cheeky grin.
“Oh?” I respond, unsurprised. Our circle was small.
“Briefly. He once offered me a painting for my services. I refused—told him I preferred the coin. Perhaps I should have taken the painting.”
“Perhaps you should have.” I glance back toward Jo, who appears to be searching the crowd. “Would you excuse me? I should see how she is doing.”
Lisette’s fingers catch my wrist before I can leave; her voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper. “I have told you this before, but it bears repeating: If you have any influence, warn her about Israels. No good will come from that association. He is a libertine through and through and is certainly not seeking a wife.”
“Thank you for the counsel,” I say, genuinely grateful for her concern.
“One more thing,” I add, before departing.
“Yes?”
“If you hear any talk about this exhibition in the coming weeks—any serious interest in the paintings—would you be kind enough to let me know?” Women like Lisette hear every whisper, and her continued intelligence could prove invaluable.
“Consider it done.” We exchange kisses, and I navigate toward Jo.
“Are they selling?” I ask once I have her alone.
“Some,” Jo whispers. “We’ve received offers, though far too low. I’ve told a strategic fib here and there—claiming most paintings aren’t for sale, that they’re already promised elsewhere. As we’ve talked about, the inability to have something right away always increases the desire for these kinds of men.”
“It truly does.” I laugh ruefully, remembering the price my old madam was able to procure for my virginity at least three times over.
“Sometimes men are so simple.” Jo’s eyes continue to scan the room. She starts to speak, but the words catch in her throat for a moment. “And sometimes they are not.”
My gaze falls on Lisette with two much younger women. One appears to have been crying, her eyes ringed red. I silently pray I won’t regret inviting them. Jo doesn’t need scandal tonight.
Then I see him—Isaac Israels—standing just beyond Lisette’s circle. His gaze locks on Jo, though he’s not alone. A third young woman clings to his arm, one of the models I recognizefrom his paintings. As he leans to whisper in her ear, their intimacy is unmistakable. I wonder what other services she provides him. It wouldn’t be surprising if she’s one of the many prostitutes who work as artists’ models during daylight hours.
The betrayal in Jo’s eyes when she finally spots him tells me everything I need to know.
“Jo,” I whisper. “Let me take you for some air.” But her feet are frozen to the ground. Isaac and the girl are soon upon us.
“Isaac, thank you so much for coming. I wasn’t sure you could attend,” Jo manages.
“I would never have missed it. Have you had much interest from buyers?” he asks, his eyes burning into her.
“Quite a bit, in fact,” I chime in. “And the critics have had good things to say. I believe there is a journalist over there waiting to speak with Jo. He has been asking after her all evening. Enjoy yourself, Isaac.” I pull Jo away.
“You did not know he was coming,” I whisper once we are out of earshot.
“Not with a guest.”
