“Oh, Jo. Isaac Israels is infamous for being a scoundrel. He is not worthy of you. You must believe that. This is not you. You are not inclined to be impulsive.”
“That is the problem. With him I am.” A tear slides down her cheek. “I lose myself and it is not rational.”
“Lust is never rational,” I say with conviction. She looks at me in surprise at the choice of my words, but I know that I have to be straightforward with her. “Go speak to the journalists. Make your rounds. I will ensure that Isaac and his girl are far from your line of sight.”
“How?”
“I have my ways. Go. This is your night.”
“Vincent’s night,” she corrects me. It’s moments like this when I want to shake her and remind her that he’s eight feet beneath the dirt in Auvers. But I don’t. I can’t.
“Vincent will have many nights after this. Enjoy this victory as your own.”
When she walks off, I steal over to Lisette and ask her if she has any power to convince Israels to leave the gallery.
“That is a man who does not take direction from women,” she says. “But I can do my best.”
Her best is good enough. We do not see him again until the evening is drawing to a close. Jo’s spirits are buoyed from receiving several solid offers for paintings, likely the result of her convincing the buyers that many of the pieces have already been promised.
It isn’t until we are preparing to walk out the door that Isaac emerges again. He is alone this time. Lisette took care of the girl.
“Congratulations on such a wonderful event,” he says. I refuse to leave Jo’s side even though I sense she wants to be alone with him.
“Thank you,” I say, and push past him. The door is nearly closed behind me when he props it open with a foot and leans over to whisper in Jo’s ear quietly, but loud enough that I can hear.
“The best thing I can advise you is this: Let me go to blazes. You have to understand, Jo. I will never play second fiddle for anyone, and with you I will always be third, next in line to two dead men.”
17
Emma
I’m staring ata ghost. She’s beautiful, radiant, and looks ten years younger than when I last saw her in her apartment.
“You’re not dead,” I finally manage.
“Not yet. But the day is young,” she says through a toothy grin. “Colette, Lucie. We haven’t formally met, but I feel like I already know the two of you.”
“Same here,” Lucie says coolly. She never betrays her emotions, but I can tell even she is thrown.
The waiter chooses that exact moment to bring our food, though my appetite has disappeared.
“I’ll take a Bloody Mary, please. Extra sherry vinegar and hold the cucumber,” Stella orders in French. To us she says, “Please eat and I’ll explain everything.”
“Matthew told me you didn’t make it.”
“That’s what I would prefer for Matthew to believe for now.”
“He was devastated.”
“I wonder if that’s true,” she says with a raised eyebrow. “His love for me was becoming quite inconvenient for him. I know you have plenty of questions and I’m going to answer all of them. But let me get my drink first.”
There’s so much authority in her voice we have no choice but to comply. We even manage to work our way through our food as she tucks into the large cocktail. Finally, she glances around the café, and satisfied no one is listening to us, she begins.
“I need them to believe I’m dead. They were weeks away from shipping me off to some facility in the countryside and taking away the last bits of my freedom.”
“But the doctors? How did you convince them to tell Matthew you didn’t make it?” I ask.
“Oh yes. I suppose I should back up.”
