Now the windmill’s door was locked, the faded sign hanging on its last remaining nail.

“It’s difficult to run a successful business,” I mused. “Even for something as basic as food, which everyone needs every day.” How much more difficult, then, to sell art?

I imagined myself in the little windmill shop, selling Vincent’s paintings to passersby. Except, his art wasn’t like milk and eels, was it? Once the collection was gone, it could not be replenished.

My little son’s heritage would be gone.

Vincent’s paintings would be dispersed, one by one, into private homes. Wil might not even remember them when he grew up. We might never see any of them again. And neither would the world.

What would happen to Vincent’s legacy that Theo had so wanted to preserve? How I wished he were with me, that he could explain things to me.

I headed to the bench where the brothers might have sat. “A letter arrived as I was leaving. I brought it with me. Would you mind if I read it?”

“I will walk around the m…mill. The old joint work on the sail stock looks interesting.” Janus set my bag next to me, then lumbered away.

I dug out Gauguin’s tardy response with a surge of optimism. He hadn’t been ignoring me. He’d probably been traveling and only recently received my note. He must still think fondly of Vincent. And he would certainly feel some gratitude toward Theo. Theo had bought several of Gauguin’s paintings simply to support him. Gaugin would help me.

Even if the letter contained but a few vague promises and some friendly praise of Vincent—which, surely, good manners required—it might be enough to bolster my case with Holst.

I drew my lungs full of salt air, then unfolded the paper.

Dear Madame Van Gogh,

Thank you for remembering me. Unfortunately… You know how he never took my advice… stubborn…most resistant to constructive criticism…

Anger propelled me to my feet. I ripped the letter apart and tossed it into the wind, satisfied when a downdraft slammed the pieces into the mud.

I would not admit defeat. Not on this piece of land that symbolized Dutch ingenuity and persistence. I refused to fail.

Janus rounded the windmill and saw me standing. “Ready?”

As we walked back, a gust whipped around us from the sea, nearly knocking me into him. I put more distance between us, then realized the gesture for what it was, a cowardly act. A little distance, little hints that my heart would never be free. Honest words were what the man needed. If I were to be like the Amazons, I had to have courage.

I faced him. “My wish is to dedicate my life to Vincent’s legacy and my husband’s memory.”

He nodded, looking away.