“Me too,” Victorine said. “I’ll take you back to the hotel.” Victorine slipped her arm into her father’s.

Which left D’Arcy able to return to Josh.

“Shall we look around?” Josh took her hand and D’Arcy’s stomach flipped with the thought that maybe…Maybe Josh had come all the way to Australia for more than just Jess.

Together, they made their way to the beginning of the exhibition, to the photographs Jess had taken during the war of soldiers and survivors and nurses and the condemned at Nuremberg and the rape victims she’d never been able to ignore. Then on through the years when she was establishing herself in the fifties, sixties and seventies, to the last twenty years and the peak of her fame.

At the second-to-last room, a film played. D’Arcy’s documentary. She’d had to work on it harder and faster than she’d ever thought possible. When the gallery had seen the rough footage, understood the context of the conversations D’Arcy had captured with Jess, the pieces of the larger story of a woman trying to be both artist and the conscience of the world, they’d insisted that it be shown.

And D’Arcy saw now that the room was almost full, that people were watching intently, some with tears in their eyes. She saw that her film had not been made by a dilettante, but by an artist too.

“You did it,” Josh said, smiling at her. “I hope you’re as proud of yourself as you should be.”

“I might actually be a little bit proud,” she admitted.

“And there’s one last room we should see.” He indicated the exhibition signs.

“No, we’ve seen it all.”

“Jess insisted the gallery take a few extra images,” he said in a peculiar voice and D’Arcy stepped into the last room with trepidation.

Just six images lined the walls, large images, as if there’d been no possible way to contain the depth of feeling caught in the pictures. The images were of D’Arcy and Josh.

Josh tipping a handful of water down her back, D’Arcy’s eyes shining, laughter pouring from her mouth like the canal water spilling over her. D’Arcy with a butterfly on her head and Josh looking at her in a way that made her heart sore. D’Arcy alone, standing in front of a table of crates and tools, staring outside as if something were missing. The two of them, sitting on a sofa, heads tipped back, faces exhausted, hands resting on the couch so achingly close that all the viewer wanted to do was to pick up those two hands and entwine them. Josh and D’Arcy lying on a picnic blanket, Josh’s mouth open as if talking, D’Arcy listening intently with not just her heart, but her entire being in her eyes. The final picture was the photograph of Jess and Dan about to kiss, utterly in love, but separated for most of their lives.

The breath left D’Arcy’s body. The D’Arcy in each picture was in love with the Josh in each picture. It was as plain to see as the love on Jess and Dan’s faces. But how did Josh feel?