“Where will Johan go?”
“Somewhere on the sea. It will be good for him, for everyone. He thinks I am spending too much on the upcoming shows, and it has been a point of contention between us. I don’t want to discuss it with him any longer. What’s done is done. And there will be more income soon. We have increased the price of some of the paintings by fourfold already, and I am starting to consider reproductions.”
“Reproductions? Copies?” I gasp because it is something she has long been opposed to.
“Willem van Meurs in Haarlem is doing high-quality isographic reproductions. They are useful for publicity and for recordkeeping and they will allow more people to surround themselves with Van Goghs. It is a photographic reproduction, so it is very obviously not a painting. And the income stream could be formidable, perhaps five to ten guilders apiece. It has been done with several Monets. I haven’t made up my mind, but I think it could be quite lucrative. Imagine being able to send photographs to American museums and American buyers. How much easier that could make things.”
The wheels never stop turning in her mind. It is a beautiful thing to watch. I tell her so.
“I couldn’t have done this without you, Claire,” she says, taking my hands in hers. “Any of it. I’m so grateful you’ve been with me on this journey. Outside of my family, you have been the longest relationship of my life.”
It is difficult to meet her eyes as she lavishes her praise on me.
“I need to ask something of you, Jo.”
“Let’s get out of these stacks and stroll as we chat.” Jo stands. “I could stretch my legs.”
The air outside is crisp and redolent with the smell of burning leaves. “Have you finished the Claudine series?” Jo asks me. We have been trading books back and forth for years now, but this is the first time she has managed to scandalize me, with the tales of a precocious French schoolgirl’s sexual awakening.
“I had to put the last one down several times. Some of the prose was too real. In a good way. But it made even me blush.”
“I love it. Every word,” Jo says. “I wish I’d been so free as a younger woman. Things may have been very different for me. Perhaps I would have enjoyed life more. What is it you wanted to tell me?”
I choose my words carefully. I have been with Jo for more than ten years. I have helped her raise her son, built her business alongside her, and shared in her obsession over the legacy of a dead man. I’ve fulfilled my long-ago promise to Theo to watch out for her, and our relationship has taken a shape he never could have imagined. I don’t just need something of my own, I want something of my own, and it is more than acceptable to ask for it.
“I have a daughter.” It is strange to say those words out loud to another person, even to Jo.
But she has misunderstood. “You’re with child?” She moves her hand as if she’s about to touch the lower part of my belly. I cover my stomach protectively to stop her.
“No. Oh no. I had a daughter. Many years ago. Before we met. When I was working in Paris.” I keep going as quickly as possible; otherwise I will never get the words out. “I gave her up. Madam helped. A family in the countryside. They took her in and raised her.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” The hurt on Jo’s face is clear. Wehave kept things from one another over the years. She did not confide in me about everything having to do with Isaac and I know there are secrets in her marriage with Johan, but by and large we have been very forthcoming with one another.
“I did not want you to think less of me for giving up my girl. You are such a good mother to Vincent. You never would have made the choice that I did.” I see in Jo’s quick glance away from me that this is true. Though she did not exactly find herself in my circumstances either. “I was ashamed. I never thought I would have the ability or the means to be with my daughter again, but I have recently reconnected with her.”
“How old is she?”
“Sixteen. And the family needs my help. She is promised in marriage to a terrible man and needs to leave their village. I offered that she could come live with me. We have room at the boardinghouse. She can help us with the renters.”
Jo looks stricken as I tell her this. A small part of me had hoped she would welcome the help.
She steers us out of Vondelpark. “I have to show you something.” Within a moment we stop in front of a modern-looking brick building not far from the museum.
“Claire, this is my new home.” Jo gestures toward the apartment on the second floor, above a grocer.
“What?”
“Johan and I will be leaving Bussum for the city.”
“But what about your new house?” I sputter in disbelief. “And the boardinghouse…” My words, my question, taper off.What about me?
Jo sighs. “I can immerse myself in the art world much more fully if I am here. I need to commit myself even more to the socializing necessary to continue to elevate Vincent. We are so close, but I can be doing more. I know I can be doing more.” I think back to the reviews spread across the table in the library.For every bad review she will work ten times harder. As Agostina predicted all those years ago, Vincent is an obsession for her, though I still don’t entirely understand what drives it beyond wanting to fulfill Theo’s dreams. Agostina had hinted at some dark incident in her past with Vincent, but even though I know so much about him, I have never learned the details of it from all the letters.
Jo is still going. Rambling. “We will keep that house. I found a tenant already. We need the money from renting it for the upcoming shows. I have to put out funds for the frames and the transport.”
I place my hand on top of hers, hoping to calm her trembling fingers. “You have done so much, Jo. What if you let someone else take over Vincent’s legacy?”
“Who?” she practically spits.
