“Do you think he might help?” Like everyone else who spent even a minute in my company, she was aware of my quest. “Is he well known in France?”

“He is becoming known.” I dumped the potatoes into the boiling water, careful not to splash my hands. “He exhibited at the Salon.”

“Oh, he has connections. What is it that you ask of him? And is a letter not too bold? To write a man out of the blue like that with a personal request?”

“I wrote him to thank him for the kind words he said of Vincent. I asked—but only in a sentence—if he might stop by the gallery where my husband worked, to lend his support to a showing of Vincent’s paintings. His recommendation might make all the difference.”

“I see.” She handed a begging and blubbering Wil one of the kittens before looking back at me. “Be careful of asking favors from strange men.”

“Of course, Mevrouw Ballot.”

I had, actually, asked George Seurat too, but then heard news of his death some weeks later. Another visionary gone. Another great to grieve.

“Oh, I nearly forgot!” The widow patted her pocket, then pulled out two envelopes. “I passed the postman at the gate. You have letters from Paris. One from some Matisse and one from a Goupil.”

“Thank you.” I fetched them from her and set them on a dry corner of the table, my heart running away with hope.

I was certain Goupil’s letter meant they would honor Theo’s memory and help me, and even without Émile Bernard having to put in a word. I would rewrite his letter and leave out my request. My missive could be a letter of pure gratitude then.

Goupil!

Was not life just like that? The moment one nearly gave up on a pursuit, a breakthrough.

“Well?” The widow waited for an explanation for the letters, which I did not give, only wished the postman might one day learn to hand my letters straight to me instead of passing them along to my boarders.

“I shall read them later.”

She didn’t move from the threshold, even though Wil was scampering down the hallway with one of her kittens.

“Behave for Mevrouw Ballot, you hear me?” I called after him, but he was too excited to answer. I slipped into my outdoor shoes. “I best hang that laundry.”

The widow’s mouth puckered as if someone had stuffed a pickled herring between her lips. She couldn’t believe I was so rude as not to invite her into my private business.

“Hmpf. I shall see you at dinner.” She marched out with undisguised disappointment.

I picked up the basket of wet clothes and my bag of wooden pins.

I hung the pillowcases first, then moved on to the sheets, and was almost finished when Wil came looking for me. “Mama!”

“I am here, my darling.”