The Life She Wanted: A Novel(22)

“The Enrights have a drawerful in the pool house,” Lucy replied as she took his arm.

Archie turned to Pandora.

“Are you coming?”

Pandora gulped. She wasn’t ready to face Lillian and Owen together.

“Go ahead, I’ll be right out,” Pandora said brightly. “I’m going to find the powder room first.”

Inside, the house was cool and dark; thick curtains shielded the furniture from the sun. The entry had stone floors painted with pink flowers. The walls were the exact color of an avocado, with recessed molding and gold trim. A huge chandelier dangled from the ceiling.

Pandora took what she thought was the hallway leading to the powder room, but it brought her to a library. She poked her head inside. Walnut bookshelves holding leather-bound books lined the walls. A rolltop desk took up the center of the room, and a chandelier hung from the ceiling. A spiral staircase led to a second floor of books, where there were leather chairs and a great stone fireplace. The walls were painted a red that was so rich it was almost plum colored, and the floors were covered with floral rugs.

“It’s a wonderful room, isn’t it,” a female voice said. A woman stood next to the window. She looked to be in her late forties. She had light brown hair, wide green eyes, a warm smile, and the smooth complexion of a film star.

“I didn’t mean to barge in,” Pandora said. “I was looking for the powder room and took a wrong turn.”

“I’m happy to have company,” the woman said as she held out her hand. “I’m Adele Enright.”

“Pandora Carmichael.” Pandora shook her hand. “What a beautiful room! I’d love to have a library like this one day, filled with books on fashion. My dream is to be a fashion designer and open my own boutique.”

Pandora stopped. She was babbling to a woman she just met.

“Do you study fashion design at school?” Adele asked.

Adele sat down and motioned for Pandora to do the same.

Pandora was certain that all the other guests at the house party came from wealthy families. She couldn’t tell Adele that her father had wanted her to attend secretarial school, but she couldn’t hide who she was.

Pandora shook her head. “Not at the moment. I live at Riverview; my father is the Van Luyens’ tennis instructor.”

“That’s right.” Adele’s eyes lit with recognition. “Your father is Willie Carmichael. Milton and I saw him play at Wimbledon years ago. All the other players were terrified of his serve.”

She expected Adele to react the way that Lillian did, with a touch of disdain. Instead, Adele’s smile broadened.

“All my children played tennis,” Adele said. “Harley wasn’t very keen, he preferred performing plays,” she said fondly. “I spent a great deal of his childhood watching home productions of The Tale of Peter Rabbit.”

Adele’s gaze turned to framed photographs arranged on the desk. There was a photo of four children wearing tennis whites and holding racquets. The older two boys had Adele’s light brown hair, and the girl had pretty blond curls and round cheeks. The youngest boy looked awkward and gangly, like a puppy that hadn’t grown into its paws.

“Are these your children?” Pandora asked.

Adele moved to the desk.

“The oldest is Alistair. He never stopped exploring when he was a child, he got in all sorts of trouble. When he was four, he climbed into his sister’s dollhouse and got stuck. When he was eleven, he decided to take the car for a drive. He thought driving would be as simple as turning on the engine.” She laughed. She pointed to the boy next to him. “That’s Frank. He was born sixteen months after Alistair. He could never sit still long enough to finish his homework. But he was wonderful at sports.”

Adele turned away from the photograph. She walked to the window.

“Alistair and Frank were killed in the war. Alistair died at the Battle of Cantigny and Frank was killed four months later in the Somme Offensive,” she said slowly. “When they were young, I never thought any harm would come to them. Milton was so proud when they shipped off, shiny as new coins in their khakis and smart caps. Somehow, I knew differently. I suppose it was mother’s intuition. All those months of praying to keep them safe didn’t help.”

Pandora’s father had been badly injured in the war. Willie spent months recuperating at a hospital in the South of France. His wounded shoulder still bothered him, and the arthritis only made it worse. But at least he’d made it home.

“I’m so sorry for your loss,” Pandora said.

Adele moved back to the photograph.

“The girl is Annie. She’s five years older than Harley, and she always behaved like a mother to him. She loved to bathe Harley when he was a baby, and she insisted on feeding him. Our poor maid was always washing food stains from her clothes. Annie, her husband, George, and their two children live in San Francisco. I miss her, I hardly see them.

“The youngest is Harley. He’s at Princeton with Archie and Owen. He was the kindest child, always bringing in stray dogs and giving fruit from our trees to neighbors. The cook would go to make an apple pie, and all the apples would be gone from the pantry.” She touched the photo. “He’s still the same. He goes with me to deliver food at the shelters in New York.”

“It must have been great fun when they were children.” Pandora reflected on her own childhood. “I never had brothers and sisters. Someday, I want my own family.”