I was happy for her, I truly was, but I still grieved all I had lost. She was right, however. I could not remain mired in that pain. I kept reminding myself of the sunflowers. Fear no storms, turn in gratitude toward the light.

I wiped my eyes and set the cast iron pan on the stove, having learned that keeping busy was the best medicine. “Émile Bernard wrote a biography of Vincent after his death. He even published some of the letters they exchanged. I wrote him to thank him one more time.” I nodded toward the shelf by the kitchen door where my letter waited for the postman. “When they were published, Émile’s words generated interest in Vincent’s art for a while. He might be willing to help again. All I want is to accomplish the task Theo left me.”

“I would think it must be easier to popularize a living artist.” Anna was walking again. “They can talk to people and convey their passion for their art. They can appear at events and make declarations that might appear in the papers. They can endear themselves to collectors by paying personal attention to them.”

“Probably not Vincent. He had a difficult personality.” I could admit that. “At times, even Theo despaired. He didn’t think I knew, but he had to pay Gauguin to live with Vincent in Arles so Vincent would not be so alone.”

“The brothers must have had a deep and abiding love between them.”

“Truly. In their letters—” I’d been reaching for the wooden spoon, but I spun and faced Anna. “Their letters!” I retrieved the box. Where I’d seen well-read pages before, now I saw gold treasure. The dark clouds of grief and guilt parted. “This is the answer. Émile’s publication of Vincent’s biography and a handful of their letters made a difference. People talked about Vincent’s art. I can revive that talk. I will publish letters too. I have a lot more of them than Émile does.”

Anna eyed the pile. “You might—”

“I will start by editing, organizing, and publishing what I have here.” A sudden confidence filled me, lent me support like whalebones to a corset. “And then I will write a new biography of Vincent. I will present him the way I knew him.”

“Writing a book is not like writing a diary. How many letters are there?”

“Seven hundred.”

She stared at me in shock, but she didn’t tell me the task was impossible. Of course, she didn’t know the worst about the letters.

“It’s unfortunate,” I told her, “that Vincent rarely bothered to date them.”

“How will you put them in order?”

“I shall have to guess by the events described in each.”

Anna rubbed her back. “You have a boardinghouse to run and a child to care for. Nobody would blame you if you gave up. If there is no hope…”