Girl in Hyacinth Blue by Susan Vreeland

and some shared admira tion for the painting, Saskia sold the woman her grandmother's blue linen table scarf with the fine tatting, and then made her way, with the wrapped painting, through the market square to the butch ery stalls.
    On the row home from Woldijk, her mind flew like a caged sparrow. What would she tell Stijn? That she couldn't sell it? That it only fetched four guilders and so it wasn't worth selling? She'd sell her small spice chest instead. They would get by on that. He'd never know what the first man offered. Or what this woman said. He would trust her. She'd never given him any reason not to.
    At home she uncovered the painting and hung it on the peg and put no clothes in front of it. Eighty guilders!
    The story she'd imagined came to life for her. Why would such a young woman who could afford to have her portrait painted by a great artist, why would she, how could she have given away her son? She wasn't at peace the way that artist painted her. She was leaning forward, and the rigidness of her spine showed the ache in her soul. She was a des perate woman with frailties just like her, tempta tions just like her, a woman who had needs, a woman who loved almost to the point of there be ing no more her anymore, a woman who probably cried too much, just like her, a woman afraid, want ing to believe rather than believing, else why would she give away her son? A woman who prayed, "Lord, I believe. Help thou my unbelief." Saying the words to herself clamped shut her throat and made her cry.
    She tried to get the children to go to sleep be fore Stijn came home. The Lord forgive her or not, she would not tell Stijn. Four guilders, if he asked. After the children were sleeping. Even though the pain of that lie would strike again at the discovery of each new beauty in the painting, truth would drive a wedge between them no tenderness could bridge.
    She watched Stijn's eyes when he came in through the window. The first thing he saw was the painting. The second was the pot of beef stew. They hadn't had beef since the flood. She put a bowl of it before him so the aroma would soften him. "I sold grandmother's handworked table scarf," she explained. He took one spoonful stand ing up and hung his mud-caked reefer on the peg in front of the painting.
    She gasped and could barely restrain herself from whisking it away. Marta and Piet poked their heads out from below the cabinet bed. "We saw lots of bridges and churches and beggars," Marta said, and Piet mimicked a blind man holding out his bowl.
    "And we rode the towboat," he added.
    "Did you, now." Stijn's hand reached down to ruffle Piet's head.
    "Ssh. You're supposed to be asleep," Saskia said.
    "What about the painting?"
    "I'll tell you later," she whispered, motioning with her head to the children. She couldn't lie in front of them.
    She watched Stijn eat the stew. When there was only broth left, he tipped the bowl into his mouth. She ladled out more. When he finished, they both stood up at the same moment, both moved one way, then the other to get between the chests and Katrina who swished her tail at the disturbance. Saskia let out a nervous, twittering laugh. He ques tioned her with his eyes. Earlier than usual, she got into her night shift, blew out the oil lamp, and climbed into the high bed. He showed tremendous patience waiting for an explanation. Only when he lay down next to her did he ask again, "Why didn't you sell the painting?"
    "I couldn't," she said, and it was the truth. "I tried," and that, too, was the truth. Let him take it as he would. She rolled away from him. In a mo ment his hand came across her to turn her again to him. Still he waited.
    "Stijn, it's like selling the boy's mother. It's making him an orphan." She knew it was foolish, what she was saying, but in the dark, she could ad mit things. All the hardness of life in the bleak northland rushed over her like a flood and she cried, "There's nothing beautiful up here. Oh, I know you love it,