AMSTERDAM 1971

Think what shuts you up, imagine what sets you free. I had been mulling over one of Uncle Vincent’s more poignant self-reflections. Today I will be set free.

I pry from the wall a letter my mother had hung there, against my wishes, decades ago. I hated this news article, and I’d begged her to throw it in the fire.

Mrs. Van Gogh is charming enough, but it irritates me when someone gushes fanatically on a subject she understands nothing about, and although blinded by sentimentality still thinks she is adopting a strictly critical attitude. It is girlish twaddle, nothing more. The work that Mrs. Van Gogh would like best is the one that was the most bombastic and sentimental, the one that made her shed the most tears. She forgets that her sorrow is turning Vincent into a god.

Shame is a wasted emotion, my mother would say. When I think of my family, I gasp with a flushing warmth. I’ve become an emotional old man. In this ancient office I see them all sitting in the bay window, young. I see myself as a child stepping between the most beautiful women in the world: my mother and Aunt Fleur. They both reach out to me and pet and coddle me until I squirm away, pretending. They loved me. This is what I remember from over six decades ago.

But my pair of guests are here, wearing eager but strained smiles to mask their confusion at this incongruous scene. A once-professional office, now neglected, broken down into storage spaces loaded with packed four-foot wooden crates. It is filthy with dust, dim too, with windows boarded up. These rooms hold treasure. And my guests have figured it out. The decades-old rumors in Amsterdam about hidden art, worth millions, are true and they are enthralled.

I am Willem van Gogh, the nephew of Vincent van Gogh, and the son of Johanna Bonger and Theo van Gogh, Vincent’s younger brother. They smile and nod in excitement at Vincent’s name, Theo’s too. Nothing but curious faces, raised eyebrows, at Johanna’s name. They look to each other and nod out of politeness. This is part of what I need to change to be free.

What an honor! They are effusive, which is lovely. They are young, modern, but still tasteful.

They walk around the old offices, where Vincent’s personal belongings, memorabilia, drawings, and unsold treasured paintings are now stored.

You are looking at hundreds of paintings, drawings, sketches, letters, and Vincent’s own collection of prints and paintings. And there is more in the basement, as well as my own personal collection. Here is the inventory. This is what I will gift to create the Van Gogh Museum. I want to be tantalizing but feel more like a circus barker. It isn’t necessary. I see their eyes sparkle with excitement as I hand them the inventory list.

Elizabeth, the young woman, keeps her head tilted toward me, her eyes prying at the containers as she tries to read the lettering sideways and upside-down. Her hands instinctively reach for the tops as she walks by. The young man, Patrick, is more aggressive, to the point.

Mr. Van Gogh, this storefront is housing millions of dollars’ worth of art and history of Vincent van Gogh, Patrick says after looking at the inventory list. Incredible, he says, his hands searching for a way to pry open an already-ajar crate, one I had prepared for this visit. May I…

Here, let me, I say as I tug open the lid, as I had done countess times for my mother, decades ago.

She had all these crates especially made by a local carpenter. She was very particular in storing. I stop speaking as my guests crowd around me, desperate for a peak in. Too bad the light isn’t—

The young man reaches into the crate.

No, don’t! she says, tugging on a pair of white cotton museum gloves used to protect art objects from hand oils. We can’t have any damage.

I know the crate well—still after so many years. I pull out the painting by the edge of the support without touching the image. They are both breathing heavily, and they bend down to stare closely at the painting. Outstanding, breathes Elizabeth.

I picked this one to show you, I say. It’s one of his finest. My mother saved this sunflower for the museum. In the light the thick impasto of yellow golds sparkles. It is most impressive.

I heard rumors there was a family collection of van Goghs, but I could only dream this, says Elizabeth.

It is a museum’s worth, right here in this old horse of a building, I say proudly.

‘Yes, Mr. Van Gogh, it certainly is. If you don’t mind my asking, how did this all come to be?" asks Elizabeth.

My mother, Johanna. This building used to be her family offices.

Johanna van Gogh-Bonger, again. I can see the young woman making a mental note. She will investigate Johanna. They might now hunt for her, but they won’t find much.

Elizabeth walks behind the greeting desk, her hand lingering on the old wood. Even the furnishings are lovely, she says, looking at the large desk with admiration.

She picks up a box of diaries my mother left me, still unopened, unread, in the same spot I left them, covered in decades of dust. "Ah, what is this treasure? The Journals of Johanna van Gogh-Bonger. Wow, may I look at these?"

An old memory is trying to shake loose. Was Johanna the final blow pushing Vincent to his dismal end? The woman who won Theo’s heart and forever changed the history of the two brothers?

I extend my hand for the package of diaries, and she swallows and turns them over like a cache of stolen diamonds. I motion for them both to move to the sitting area in the front. She wants those journals.

Would you prefer for us to take you out for tea or lunch? asks the young man.

I wave my hand at the offer. After a moment of silence, I am ready.

Did you ever wonder how Vincent, selling only one painting in his lifetime, dying in obscurity, could rise posthumously and within twenty years become a household name?

They look at each other, and then smile back at me.

My mother, Johanna.

PART 1

Amsterdam

1887

1

I am chained to misfortune and failure and the more unfavorable outward circumstances become, the more inner resources are required ...the love of work increases. Life is not long for anybody, and the problem is only to make something of it.

Vincent

Johanna

Inside the office Jo double checked her savings ledger. Eight years of teaching, six years of part-time translations into the six different languages she spoke, and the meager salary her father paid her for managing his back office at Bonger Insurance. She was proud, it was a good amount. The turn of the century was coming slowly here in Amsterdam, but culture was changing a decade faster in Paris, and she had to be there. Women lived on their own in Paris and pursued their choice of careers. Every woman with aspirations needed to move to Paris. She had enough money to get to Paris, sightsee and educate herself on the possibilities of life there.

In one ear she heard her brother Andries trying to get her attention. She threw him a quick smile and held up her pointer finger hoping he would give her a moment.

Johanna? Her brother sounded annoyed.

What? She looked up from her ledger. The numbers still repeated in front of her eyes as Andries’s face came into focus.

I have spoken to you about my good friend, Theo van Gogh. You remember? She did remember because he was a fellow Dutchman who had moved to Paris and was involved with the arts.

Yes, I remember. He’s helping you begin an art collection. New art. You promised to show me the paintings.

Theo wants to meet you. This afternoon if possible. He is here visiting his brother, but he’ll be heading back to Paris in a few days.

Mr. Van Gogh wants to meet me? Jo was surprised. Why?

Her brother answered too fast. I have no idea why. He sat with his legs crossed, weary. Andries was very handsome and smart, which he seemed to think entitled him to feel superior.

"Do you mean he wants a personal introduction…today?"

Yes, Jo, like that.

One day I hope you grow up, she said, and meant it.

I know, I am working on it.

He was sarcastic again. She could just say no and end this inane conversation. This is the man who convinced you to invest in modern art…you probably spent more shipping it here than acquiring it.

Very funny.

Her family was worried about her, unmarried, still living at home, past twenty-five, with no regular man in her life. But she wasn’t worried and wouldn’t be made to feel guilty or inadequate because she hadn’t met the right man. That was yesterday’s sorry thinking.

She stood up behind the tall, carved-walnut counter at the Bonger Insurance Company, closed her ledger and placed it out of sight in her bag. Andries sat at the desk behind her. The clerks threw them glances, wondering what the future owner of Bonger Insurance was discussing with his sister. Women were still not allowed to inherit in this backward world.

How does Mr. Van Gogh know of me? Jo asked, this time in Italian to confuse the workers. She was entitled to information despite Andries’s stingy introduction.

He saw your picture at my apartment in Paris. Last year’s family portrait. He said you looked pretty and asked about your hair and eyes. I told him both were brown. You always look beautiful, Jo.

Thank you, you do too, she said. Do you have his photo? She held out her hand.

With a flourish, he handed her a small pocket photo. She scanned it, careful not to let her face betray anything. Theo van Gogh seemed wooden in the photo, no smile, but that was common for photo portraits. Why me? Why not a Parisian exotic?

I tried to warn him.

Ha ha. Let’s go out back and talk in private.

They stepped into the spacious alley where, on a nice day, the office workers gathered for breaks, lunch and fresh air. Late morning sun cut an angle into the alley as they stepped into the brightness. Andries stuffed a hand in his pocket and withdrew a hand-rolled cigarette. He rolled back and forth on his feet, heels to toes, which was his habit when annoyance was getting the better of him. He lit the cigarette –he was going to wait her out. She hated interference in her life.

She wondered if he was entirely comfortable with this arrangement, either. Sometimes he pursed his lips and drawing them back to a thin line of anger. Like when they were children and she and her best friend Fleur got into a schoolyard brawl, shouting at bullying boys and caught in a shoving match. She hated bullies and so did Fleur. It was almost always Andries who would break up the mess.

Jo cleared her throat and smiled at him, waiting for him to say something.

I believe you will like him. His background is interesting. He is not the usual bourgeois type you avoid. He might even tolerate your obsession with right, wrong, fair, unfair, Andries threw a smug challenge.

Jo pointed a finger at him, You’re a spoiled brat, she snapped.

So, I will tell him yes or no? This was all part of the fabulous world Andries lived in that she hungered to hear about. His life in Paris, new art, new anything was a thrill she couldn’t get enough of. Out of dreary Amsterdam to Paris, the capital of the world.

This meeting was your idea? she asked.

Absolutely not, I know better.

She breathed a sigh of relief.

What do you think he wants to do? I need to dress accordingly.

Try wearing a smile.

She smiled, baring her teeth and bulging her eyes. He threw his cigarette down.

Theo’s family has a good history, famous galleries in Paris and London.

How avant-garde!

Yes, right up your alley. Just try not to embarrass me. Go have fun. Remember fun, Jo? It’s not like he’s proposing marriage.

Johanna twirled her small white parasol as she walked alongside Andries at the Amsterdam Zoo where they would meet Theo van Gogh. She had changed into her light-blue cotton summer dress. They moved slowly around the entrance. She thought she must look very plain compared to the fashionable women of Paris. She was surprised this man would really want to meet her from seeing her in a photograph. She never considered her looks noteworthy. Her best friend Fleur was a beautiful woman. Just walking down the street with Fleur and watching men of all ages unabashedly stare was entertaining. Fleur never paid any notice.

She grabbed her handkerchief and dabbed at her face discreetly. Pungent here at the zoo today.

The musky zoo smell reminded her of both her childhood and her teaching. So many school trips to the zoo with squealing children. Outings were hard work for a teacher, but she loved seeing the children so happy and engaged. When she was a child, the zoo smell seemed exotic. Now she felt queasy—maybe the smell, or from the awkwardness of meeting a man in front of her brother. She didn’t get nervous or even anxious meeting men anymore. Usually, she knew the moment she laid eyes on a man. Always the meeting turned boring for both and ended pleasantly and quickly. But she was intrigued by Theo. He looked handsome enough in the photo. An art dealer—that was interesting, unusual, and better than talking to another teacher, banker or boring broker selling everyday nothings. Or the worst, a man whose living depended on Dutch colonialism, or selling sugar harvested by exploited workers. Jo was proud to be among the new thinkers who found these old ways of profiting at the expense of others to be immoral and cruel.

Theo and Andries had become fast friends. Theo recommended paintings for Andries to buy as investments. Either way this went with Mr. Van Gogh, good or bad, it would make for fun chatter with Fleur, who always loved hearing about Andries’s schemes.

I’ll light up a smoke ring around us. Keep the bugs away and hide the smell for you. Andries reminded her to smile by pointing at her mouth.

Right, smile, she thought.

Suddenly a man stood next to Andries, clapping him on the back. The man came right up to her and bowed, smiling.

Where did you come from? Andries asked.

Theo ignored him. My pleasure to meet you, Miss Bonger. He offered his hand, and Johanna took it. Thank you for meeting me on such short notice.

Jo, this is Theo van Gogh, my good friend. Theo, my sister Johanna.

How do you do? asked Theo.

Very well, thank you, replied Johanna.

Theo didn’t take his eyes off her and unexpectedly she felt quite comfortable with him staring. Thank you, Andries, for making the introduction.

He was more attractive than the grim man in the photo. This man smiled with his entire face, and even his eyes laughed. She’d imagined an avant-garde showman, trolling the streets of Paris with her too-handsome brother, freely hobnobbing with all the internationals who lived in the home of modern art. She hadn’t expected this tall, lean figure in an understated suit. His jacket was short, and he wore no waistcoat. It was not at all the way Dutch men dressed, but he did maintain the familiar bowler hat.

They strolled through the zoo, Andries behind them, tipping his hat to all the lovelies, young and old alike.

Your photograph doesn’t do you justice, Theo said. What do you think of my photo? Accurate?

No, you appear younger and happier in person, she said, smiling and excited by his openness in asking such a bold question.

You teach school and sell insurance? They were standing in front of a large Gothic-style wrought-iron cage filled with lethargic monkeys dangling from tree branches.

I teach and work in the family business. I sound like a parrot, she thought. I suppose Andries told you everything.

Yes, Andries said you are very good at managing the office. Two jobs—impressive.

Two jobs weren’t unusual for a Dutch woman. Two boring jobs. But he was complimenting her.

Do you like the insurance business?

It’s very routine, but sometimes we save the day! Fix what is broken, replace what is stolen, restore order. There is power and purpose in that. But really there is no way to make insurance interesting to me.

Theo smiled at her in a way that told her he liked her answer, his eyes, a deep hypnotic brown color, crinkling at the corners. She felt it in the back of her head, making her lighter. This is already a good meeting, she thought. He offered her his arm and she asked him about his art dealing.

Every day is new. The art world constantly changes, and my mission is the change. New painters, new collectors, a new way of doing business. Bigger bets, planning the future, rather than simple transactions. Now the new trick is to identify an artist, assess his long-term potential, get exclusivity from him. Pay him money up front, house the work carefully, encourage critics to review the work. And it also helps to have a network of galleries, across Europe and America. Then a solo show, a whole room—one artist only. Then again, sometimes it is simple matchmaking between those who desire beautiful works and artists who live to create. Too long an answer?

No, it’s fascinating—so much to think about—I never imagined. What if you choose a painter who doesn’t sell?

Why he or she doesn’t sell would be the question. Financial challenges are part of the business, though we try to avoid bankruptcy. Theo laughed, a low, rolling rumble, unexpected.

Your love of art, this is why you live in Paris? she asked.

Paris is the center of the art world now. Some say the capital of the world. I plan to open my own gallery, specializing in modern art.

I am planning to spend my summer break from teaching in Paris, hopefully longer. With my good friend Fleur Dutcher.

What excellent timing, Johanna. I could introduce you to the art world personally.

Andries broke in. She’d forgotten he was still with them. Really Jo, Paris with Fleur? I didn’t know. Anyway, I need to leave. Theo, I trust you will return Johanna home? He gave her a peck on the cheek and whispered in her ear, Au revoir, Jo.

Theo acknowledged him with a bow. Yes, I will make sure Jo gets home safely. Thank you. See you in Paris.

She and Theo walked farther into the zoo. He asked which way she would like to go, what she was interested in seeing. She had seen everything there a thousand times. She walked quietly, wishing she could study his handsome face and voice more. His voice was a deep baritone, and he emphasized each word as if he were on stage, making everything he said feel loaded with meaning. She wanted to make him laugh and hear that low rumble again.

Theo led her to a bench shaded beneath a lush tree. Bright white flowers bloomed against the dark green leaves. For a moment there, under the flowering tree, the smell was sweet.

She asked him questions about his work. There were no modern art dealers in Amsterdam so far as she knew. Modern art wasn’t known, much less popular. She hadn’t yet seen the paintings Andries had collected as investments and stored at Bonger Insurance. She would find a way to open them, to study them. She had read periodicals that were disparaging of the new artists and what was called the impressionist approach. But Theo made it sound interesting and elegant. His passion was infectious.

Each painter develops his own, or maybe her own, uniqueness—a new way, a total break from the past. And with the impressionists, they are exploring light and its effects for maximum chromatic impact. But so critical to the new movement is the artist’s selection of subjects. Real life, real people, working life, a celebration of the everyday.

I love that idea, Jo said. Celebration of the everyday…so powerful. She paused a moment. What is chromatic impact?"

The new artists aim to use the science of colors and color theory. Their goal is to make the colors vibrate to the eye.

From his breast pocket he pulled out a few chromolithographs, postcard reproductions of paintings, and handed them to her. They were colorful landscapes, mostly of France.

The smaller scale doesn’t do them justice, she said. I’ve read some critics think the color is a vulgarity. They think the work is ludicrous and make fun of the painters in cartoons. Anarchy, some say. She loved that word anarchy, so provocative.

Yes, and some think the word ‘impression’ means unfinished. They are afraid of change, but change is our only sure thing.

His voice hummed in her head.

His deep tones vibrated like music. Was he staring at her?

Johanna, will you trust me for a moment? Close your eyes.

Yes. He made yes easy.

Turn your face to the sun.

She collapsed her parasol and turned toward the sun.

Keep your eyes closed, but not too tight. What do you see?

I see dancing dots.

What colors are they?

Bright…purple, blue, red, pink, yellow, orange…Have I left any color out?

She could feel Theo staring, examining her face. His shadow on her skin felt larger as he moved in closer. The brightness of the dots diminished to purple and blue.

She was amazed at how bold he was. She felt herself smile, couldn’t stop it from taking over her face. She struggled to control her breathing as she felt his shadow grow bigger, the dots dimmer. She had to bite her lips to keep from laughing. She felt him inches from her face, so close.

Heaven. She felt Theo lean back. Opening her eyes, she realized he was more handsome up close—only his modest lips kept him from being overwhelmingly so, and his smile was unselfconscious and inviting.

That is what the new painting is, Johanna—pure color. Mostly, I wanted to study your face.

She felt herself flush with happiness and laughed. She had never had such an intimate moment with a man she had just met. She liked it.

I wonder what you’re thinking? Theo asked.

I am thinking art is your passion.

My purpose. Theo responded.

Your life? She looked into his brown eyes rimmed with gold and held his gaze for a delicious moment.

Yes, you understand. Of course, I am leaving room in my life for family, Johanna. He said the words softly, sweetly, not in his theatrical baritone.

She felt a flush again. He was so bold, but not inappropriate, just daring and exciting. She was feeling excited by this man in a way she hadn’t ever felt.

You’re turning pink.

The sun, I suppose. Should we walk some more? Yes, move, get my wits back.

Afterward, euphoria still lifted her as she and Theo sat close and easy by the canal, talking and laughing until the sun dimmed. They walked back to the Bonger family home.

What a perfect day, Theo said.

And it was, her most perfect day ever.

May I kiss you good night?

In public, how scandalous! she said and laughed, but hoped he would go ahead and kiss her.

Yes, I suppose you are right, Jo.

Sadly, Amsterdam is not Paris.

Then may I see you tomorrow?

Yes.

…and then in Paris?

"Yes, Paris." Inches away from kissing, and they held each other’s eyes for a very long moment. So close, the world disappeared around her.

Tomorrow, she agreed.

Theo held Jo’s hand and helped her down the narrow dock along the canal to the rowboat he had arranged for them.

Blue ripples and foamy gray waves brushed against the rowboat as he gracefully pulled on the oars. He made it look effortless, but soon sweat was forming a nice glow on his skin.

Did he notice her staring? He looked at her between his scans of the water, always with a smile. Last night, she’d thought perhaps she had overestimated his appeal—sometimes memories were bigger than reality. But no, he was the most interesting and romantic man she had ever met.

He had a way of moving that was uniquely his—his gestures were strong but slow, always calm. Johanna knew from her years teaching children that bodies betray minds. Nervous, compulsive minds produced twitching, restless bodies. Theo had a serene, confident quality that made her feel as though she was being pulled toward him. And she wanted to get closer.

Now, with his jacket off, she could see his shoulders—square and strong, not bulky or bunchy. His skin was clear, no childhood scars, not puffy from drink He was nicely groomed. He was thoughtful, sincere. She felt his magnetism slowly drawing her in. Light sparkled off the water and bounced around him.

He rowed them out from the canal into open water, away from the other boats. Jo looked. You’re taking us out?

Why do you look nervous? Every Dutch girl knows how to swim, Theo teased. She didn’t feel nervous, in fact she felt completely at ease and excited to be with Theo again.

Swimming will be demanding in this dress. And if the boat hits my head on the way over, I might fall unconscious. Then I will die. She teased back.

Perish the thought. You can count on me. He winked at her.

What if you are hit on the head too? Or you strangle in your clothes?

Do you always worry so much, Johanna? Fortunately, there are many people around. You will be saved, even if I sink. He continued to row a few more strokes.

Do you go out this far a lot?

No. In fact I haven’t rowed since I was a boy.

Then why are we leaving the canal?

It is such an amazingly blue, beautiful day. And the water is so tempting. I am happy to be with you.

I’m glad you’re happy. I’m happy too, Theo.

She was happy. Everything about Theo was a wonderful surprise. He had passion, purpose. He was a step ahead of her in his thinking, and he had found a path for his life with meaning and value to others.

Her parents often told her she was too picky about men. She always found something that bothered her so enormously she couldn’t see beyond it—a man’s work, his politics, or trivial matters such as his hair or his smell. You felt something when you looked at someone or you didn’t.

Once they were in the tributary, he put the oars down and the boat rocked with the waves.

What a surprise. I’ve never been out this far, she said.

What do you think?

I think the city looks smaller and far away. ‘Perspective’ in painting—smaller the farther away, correct?

Oui, mademoiselle, Theo said.

He looked at her for a long time, not saying anything, just smiling. She smiled back, relishing their serene silence. She stretched out her legs and leaned back against the boat, enjoying the soothing rocking of the small waves.

Theo reached into his coat. The boat shimmied with his movements, and she let herself jog with the movement too.

Theo inched up, sitting on the very edge of the bench.

He reached across the space and held her hand.

I should have rented a smaller boat. We could be closer, Theo said, chuckling.

He released her hand and then reached into his jacket pocket. He pulled out a small red velvet jewelry box, opened it, and handed it to her. A shining gold ring sat inside.

Don’t drop it in the water, he joked.

It’s beautiful. She heard her voice quiver. Her throat was dry. She’d been holding her breath.

Will you marry me?

What?

Will you marry me?

Are you serious?

Yes, very serious. I’m deeply in love with you.

After two meetings? Really? Theo, I’m shocked. She had not seen this coming. She was at a loss for words. Confusion reigned. He looked so confident, smiling brilliantly at her.

You’ve turned red, Theo said. Are you alright? Too much sun?

She handed the ring back to him. Please take it. She leaned forward and forced herself to put it on his lap, surprised that this was hard to do. She couldn’t marry a man after two days, could she?

For now, for safety, you hold it. Jo said and looked out across the water. Maybe she was making a mistake. Instead of leaping for joy she felt herself withdraw.

He took back the ring and she slid away on the bench, her body suddenly rigid against the rocking.

Jo, may I presume to guess what you are thinking? She nodded.

You are surprised, naturally, this is so sudden. And now wondering…maybe this man is crazy? Theo said.

No, I don’t think you’re crazy. I wonder why the rush to marriage?

You don’t believe in love at first sight?

She thought and watched the sun bounce around the boat.

I do believe in love at first sight, she said. But I never considered marriage at first sight. Why do you want to marry me? You don’t even know me. I wonder how much I know you after two days.

His eyes, so intense and sincere. I know enough.

To that she was speechless again. Didn’t they meet just yesterday? She hadn’t even talked about herself much. Name three things you know about me, she said.

He very quickly responded.

I know you enough. I love you because you are smart and, even better, an independent thinker. You have big ideas going around up there—he touched her forehead. You don’t know them yourself yet. He held his finger on her head and paused there. The he slowly traced his finger down the side of her cheek. I believe you will accomplish all you set out to. That is two.

How do you know all that?

And the last reason, he took a breath and gestured a sweeping waving hand before her. You’re not afraid to be unmarried. You are choosy, and many men have thrown themselves before you. I admire that.

She half laughed, half gasped. What an astonishing thing to say! Theo was the first man who somehow understood and approved of her independence and her desire to live a different life. Well, what about you? Have you ever proposed before?

No. You are the one and only.

I am the first and only! I don’t know you enough to…trust you.

You said you believed in love at first sight. Knowing and trusting don’t have to go together. You can just believe in me, trust your instincts.

My instincts? She was intrigued. He was challenging her, another complete surprise. Please don’t take offense—things often go wrong, as you know.

None taken. Tell me your concerns, I will debate them with you.

She paused, thinking. You won’t make a living selling art.

At this, his eyebrows rose. You surprise me with this bourgeois fear. There are challenges, but generally art is very profitable. Modern art, now bought for pennies, will soon be worth thousands. Within our lifetime. No, Johanna, I will be a great success. What else?

She frowned. You really want me to come up with things that can go wrong?

Yes

What if I say yes even though I don’t really know you. And then…discover I am not really in love with you, that we aren’t suited to be together? She felt a huge relief just saying it. She could be as bold as he was. Then what?

"Jo, in your heart