He leans toward me, lips cool and soft as they brush my skin—fleeting, ephemeral, like a sweet desert breeze. Pulling away to gaze at the windmills again when he says, “The Netherlands is known for their windmills. And since you did spend a lifetime there, I thought you might want to visit.”

I squint, thinking he surely misspoke. We’ve no time for that trip—do we?

Watching as he smiles, gaze growing lighter as he says, “Close your eyes and come with me.”

Chapter Thirty-One

We tumble forward, hands clasped together as we land with a thud. Taking a moment to look around when I say, “Omigod—this is—”

“Amsterdam.” He nods, eyes narrowing as he adjusts to the mist. “Only not the real Amsterdam, the Summerland version. I would’ve taken you to the real one, but I figured this trip was shorter.”

I gaze all around, taking in the canals, the bridges, the windmills, the fields of red tulips—wondering if he created that last part for me, then remembering how Holland is famous for its flowers—especially its tulips.

“You don’t recognize it, do you?” he asks, studying me carefully as I shake my head. “Give it some time, you will. I’ve recreated it from memory, how I remember it back in the nineteenth century when you and I were last there. It’s a pretty good copy if I say so myself.”

He leads me across the street, pausing long enough to allow an empty carriage to pass, before continuing to a small storefront, its door wide open, as a lively crowd of faceless people gather inside. Watching me carefully, eager to see if a memory’s sparked, but I move away, wanting to get a feel on my own, trying to picture the former me in this place—the red-haired, green-eyed me—walking among these white walls, wood floors at my feet, gazing at the line of paintings dotting the perimeter as I weave through the patrons who begin to fade at the edges before strengthening again. Knowing that Damen’s responsible for keeping them here, having manifested their very existence.

I move along the walls, assuming this is a re-creation of the gallery where we first met, though disappointed to find it not the least bit familiar. Noting how all the paintings blur and fade until they’re completely imperceptible, except for the one just before me, the only one that’s intact.

I lean forward, squinting at a girl with abundant titian hair—a luxurious blend of reds, golds, and browns contrasting so beautifully with her expanse of pale skin. Painted in a way so tangible, so smooth, so inviting—it’s as though one could step in.

My gaze roams the length of her, seeing she’s nude though strategically covered. The ends of her hair damp and conforming, tumbling over her shoulders and hanging well past her waist, while her hands are folded, resting atop a pink flushed thigh turned slightly in. Though it’s the eyes that grab me, made of the deepest green and holding a gaze so direct, so open, as though staring at a lover, not the least bit ashamed at having been caught in this state.

My stomach twitches, while my heart begins to flutter, and even though I’m aware of Damen standing right there beside me, I can’t look at him. Can’t include him in this. Something is creeping upon me, the birth of an idea tugging, nudging, demanding to be known. And before I’ve even blinked, I see it. As sure as I see the gilt frame surrounding the canvas, I know that the woman is me!

The prior me.

The Dutch me.

The artist’s muse me who fell for Damen the night we met in this gallery.

But the thing that disturbs me, the thing that keeps me quiet and still, is the sudden realization that the unseen lover she gazes upon isn’t Damen.

It’s somebody else.

Someone unseen.

“So you recognize her.” Damen’s voice smooth, matter-of-fact, not the least bit surprised that I do. “It’s the eyes, right?” He peers at me, face very close when he adds, “The color may change, but their essence stays the same.”

I glance at him, taking in the lush fringe of lashes that nearly obscure the wistfulness of his gaze—prompting me to quickly turn away.

How old was I? Not trusting my voice with the words. The face appearing unlined and youthful, though the confidence is that of a woman, not a girl.

“Eighteen.” He nods, continuing to study me. Gaze pushing, probing, wanting me to be the first one to say it, pleading for me to just speak up—to spare him this task. Following my gaze to the painting as he adds, “You were beautiful. Truly. Just like this. He captured you so—perfectly.”

He.

So there it is.

The edge in his voice speaking volumes—revealing everything his words only hint at. He knows the identity of the artist. Knows it wasn’t him I unclothed myself for.

I swallow hard, eyes narrowing as I try to make sense of the black, angular scrawl at the bottom right corner. Deciphering a series of consonants and vowels, a combination of letters that mean nothing to me.

“Bastiaan de Kool,” Damen says, gazing at me.

I turn, my eyes meeting his, unable to speak.

“Bastiaan de Kool is the artist who painted this. Painted you.” He turns toward the portrait, eyes roaming over it again, before returning to me.

I shake my head, feeling light, woozy—everything I once thought I knew—about me—about us—the entire foundation of our lives suddenly gone tenuous and weak.

Damen nods, there’s no need to press it. Both of us recognizing the truth displayed right before us.

“In case you’re wondering, it was over before the paint even dried. Or at least that’s what I convinced myself of—” He shakes his head. “But now—well, I’m no longer sure.”