“We could have had more of this.”

“Yes.” Oh thank heavens, the man understood me. Air rushed into my lungs. I was unsteady with relief.

De Jong progressed to scrutinizing the Sunflowers.

“Vincent painted the flowers more than once,” I kept going. “Two of the paintings are with the artist Paul Gauguin. He loved them so much, Vincent gave them to him as a gift.”

“Why a plant that came from America, and not one of our native flowers?”

“He wanted a fresh subject?” I improvised. “The flowers migrated across the ocean to thrive on the continent. As Vincent hoped to thrive in France. Those strong roots and thick stalks have a sturdiness about them.”

De Jong stepped closer to the canvas. “He used nothing but shades of yellow.”

“And yet the painting lacks for nothing. It’s complete. It is almost as if the artist is saying, Hope is all you need.” This I said from the deepest recesses of my heart.

“Do you think the painting is about hope?”

“Yellow is the color of the sun. We survive the cold and the darkness of the night in the hope that the sun will rise in the morning.”

“My goodness, you didn’t mention you were a poet.” The man cast me a curious glance that quickly changed into a look of approval.

I relaxed. “Vincent said the sunflowers turned toward the sun in gratitude.” Confidence bloomed slowly in my chest, unfurling like the golden petals on the canvas. “I have more of his work.”

De Jong carried his gaze from one painting to the next, then the next. “Meneer Van Gogh had a distinct style, I’ll give him that.”

I advanced, while I was brave enough to do it. “I am here to ask you to sponsor him with an exhibit.”

De Jong offered a smile. “I cannot say I see everything you do in the paintings, Mevrouw Van Gogh, but I do see the effect they have on you, the passion and loyalty they inspire. Even love. And who am I to say they will not have the same effect on our viewing audience? Certainly, it is worth giving Meneer Van Gogh a chance.”

I bit the inside of my cheek so I wouldn’t cry. After all this time… Did you hear that, Theo, my dearest?

“I cannot guarantee interest, of course,” De Jong warned.

“I understand. A chance is all I ask. I am convinced that if we bring the works in front of an audience, the pieces will speak for themselves.”

“You are a determined woman.”

And what could I say to that? “If you hear a voice within say you cannot do something, then by all means, do that thing, and that voice will be silenced.”

“Wise words.”

“Vincent van Gogh said them.”

De Jong gestured at the two armchairs by the fireplace on our left. “Why don’t you sit, madam, and tell me about the man?”

Chapter Thirty-One

Emsley