I caught only a word here and there. He might have said he regretted that he couldn’t show Theo the portrait of Dr. Rey, but he’d gifted it to the man as payment for services rendered in Arles. He didn’t mention his ear, and I did not look at the stump, but I knew Dr. Rey had been the one to treat him after the accident.

I thought he also said he was unhappy with how we stored his paintings, but I couldn’t make out what exactly his complaints were.

“Lunch shall be warmed up in a moment,” I spoke up, not wanting to stand there mute, lest Vincent might find me unwelcoming. “I apologize for my lack of French.”

I had spent a year in Paris, but much of it heavy with child. I had not gone out as much as I could have. Then, of course, my confinement and the birth, then these past months with the baby kept me at home as well.

Vincent gave me a quick nod, then picked up his discussion with Theo again.

“I hope I managed all right with the lamb.” I felt the need to add at least that much, so Vincent wouldn’t think I was a terrible hostess.

The men didn’t hear me, their voices passionate and loud enough to set little Wil crying. I rushed to pick him up so he wouldn’t bother the brothers who had waited for so long to see each other.

“Here you go, my darling.” I rocked Wil from crying to hiccups, then kissed and soothed him until even the hiccups disappeared. I watched the men from the doorway. Their easy companionship made me miss my own siblings, most especially Dries.

“What I want to do first,” Vincent switched to Dutch, “is paint that bookstore I wrote you about, in the yellow light of the city’s new gas lamps.”

I crossed to the stove and flipped the meat. The pan wobbled, for I still held the child so I could not steady it with my other hand. To think I could have upended it all onto the floor.

Don’t be a nervous ninny!

I wanted to show Vincent that Theo had not married badly. Vincent was necessary for Theo’s happiness. I had to find a way to make him like me, to make us one family.

Wil began making happy baby noises, but I didn’t put him down. He would just cry again. Instead, I served dinner one-handed. Then, everything on the table, I collapsed into my chair, grateful for the moment of rest.

Vincent grabbed the rice spoon. “I invited some friends to call on me here tomorrow. Your brother,” he told me, “Toulouse-Lautrec, and a few others. I hope that is acceptable.”