“I believe with everything I am that Theo was right about Vincent,” I rushed to say. I did not want the words no hope to hang in the air.

“Mammmaaa!”

I grabbed the dishcloth and wiped the turnip mash from Wil’s eyes. “There you go, my sweet.”

Saskia laughed. She was the cleanest child I’d ever seen. She had been dipping her finger into the food, but not a speck landed on her face or her dress.

I kissed her rosy cheek, then snagged the wooden spoon off its peg on the wall at last and ducked into the pantry for a spoonful of lard.

The lard in the pan, I fetched a bowl of potatoes. I had delayed peeling them for the zuuerkoolstamppot, in case Anna was unable to bring the sauerkraut. Although, I had no idea what I would have made instead.

She strolled to the back door and looked out at the garden, then glanced at the basket of wet clothes I’d forgotten about when she’d come in. “Aren’t you going to hang the laundry?”

“I’ll put on the food first.”

“Every time I see you, you are juggling at least two tasks, if not three.”

“I am still learning how to run a boardinghouse. Maybe it will be easier with practice,” I told her, then, “No, Wil,” to my son, who was trying to shove the small spoon up his nose. Then back to Anna, “Did Janus tell you when he was coming?”

I needed to run out for fabric to make a couple of summer shirts for Wil, who was growing fast, but I wanted to be home when Janus arrived, in case he had any questions about the work I had set out for him.

“No. Nor did he tell me why he was coming.” Anna peeked into the sitting room, where Theo’s sofa held pride of place, covered in an oriental carpet as was the latest fashion. In the evenings, if my heart could bear it, I sat there.

Behind the sofa hung a Gauguin—in the bright colors of Martinique—but Anna had only a cursory glance to spare. She strode to the mantelpiece and paused in front of Vincent’s The Potato Eaters, Vase with Flowers next to it, then she moved on to the Boulevard de Clichy over the door, before returning to the four Monticellos that hung over Theo’s aunt’s piano.

Except for the Gauguin and the Monticellos, Guillaumin’s and Bernard’s self-portraits next to the cupboard were my last remaining art from Theo’s friends. I had to sell the rest to rent the Villa Helma and give us a chance at a self-sufficient life.

“I am glad you took a chance on the boardinghouse.” Anna read my thoughts. “I love having you here.”