“Thank you.” I scanned the articles on top, reading out the titles. “Warhol’s New Side Piece an Artist Herself. Greenwich Socialite, Daughter of Victor Velar, Dabbles in Art. De Kooning’s New Muse Can Also Paint. Sounds like these are from her early career. I wonder if being defined by the men in her life ever made her want to shove her paintbrushes up people’s…noses.”

Strena snorted. “Knowing Violet, she found her revenge in more subtle ways.”

I riffled through dozens of photos, Violet at splendid parties with all the famous people of the sixties and the seventies and later, gallery openings and award ceremonies. Each image filled a hole in my soul. They made me whole by filling out the past. I teared up all over again. “This is unexpected, and it means a lot. Thank you. Again.”

The doorbell rang downstairs.

“I’d better see who is here.” I grabbed the hatbox and ran.

Downstairs, the mailman handed me an envelope from the stroke care center—the final bill. The number required more coffee. Thank God, the buyer was moving up the closing. The weird coincidence was, the money Violet was receiving for the house almost exactly matched the amount of her unpaid bills and her new NYU scholarship. The math worked, as if she had managed to predict her life expectancy to the day and her medical expenses to the penny. She left neither debt nor wealth behind. She died as she’d lived: on her own terms.

I carried the hatbox, the bill stuck on top, to the kitchenette. And while I caffeinated, I picked through the contents once again. I especially scrutinized the men, willing the photos to show me my mystery grandfather.

The Tiffany’s box Violet had given me had brought me nothing but questions. But the hatbox, the hatbox promised answers.

Chapter Twelve

Johanna

1890, May 17, Paris, France

“I must not stare at his ear.” I poured water over the rice on the stove, jittery with nervous expectation, but talking quietly.

The baby was sleeping in our bedroom. I had set up his little room for Vincent.

I glanced at Theo over my shoulder. “I can’t believe we’ve been married for over a year and I am just now meeting your brother. Should we have gone to visit him before this?”

“You were expecting, dearest.” Theo’s smile was warm with love. He bent over and tied his shoes. “Vincent would have come sooner if his meddling neighbors didn’t interfere in his life. If he didn’t feel the need to stay at that damned asylum.”

“Poor man.” I wiped my hands on the dishcloth, then folded it, maybe too precisely, but I so badly wanted to make a good impression. “Are you certain he’s ready to leave there just a few weeks after…”

He’d eaten his paints to kill himself.

“He’s dragged himself up from that dark bottom since,” Theo promised.