The Life She Wanted: A Novel(3)
Virginia took Pandora’s arm and guided her to the staircase.
“That’s because you were busy wondering how to poke her eyes out.” Virginia grinned. “Forget about Lillian, go and change into your tennis clothes. Once you get onto the tennis court, he’ll forget all about Lillian Clarkson and her daddy’s millions.”
Pandora was about to protest that she wasn’t going to use tennis to win Owen; instead, she’d charm him with her wit and intelligence. But she changed her mind. Pandora didn’t have the advantages of Lillian or the other girls. She’d use anything she could to make sure no one stole him away.
The tennis match had started well enough.
Pandora and Owen won the first three games, and Pandora basked in Owen’s praise. Then he played poorly three games in a row and blamed Pandora for distracting him. Pandora was so upset she was tempted to claim a headache and run upstairs. But at that moment, Lillian Clarkson appeared, and Pandora wasn’t about to leave Lillian alone with Owen.
Pandora gritted her teeth through the next two sets, and they ended up winning the match on the strength of her serves. Owen apologized for his behavior, and Pandora convinced herself she didn’t mind. She liked competitive men, and it meant Owen had ambition and drive.
Just as Owen suggested they take a dip in the swimming pool, Lillian brought out a pitcher of orange juice and a bottle of champagne. She told a story about visiting the champagne growers in France the previous summer, and the others told similar vignettes about vineyards in Tuscany and Spain. Even Virginia told a short anecdote about visiting London last July. Pandora had never traveled outside the state of New York; she had nothing to add to the conversation. She drank one glass of champagne, and her imaginary headache became a pounding in her temples that forced her to excuse herself and escape to her room.
The guest room was as magnificent as the public rooms downstairs, and Pandora couldn’t believe she was going to sleep there. The walls were painted sky blue and decorated with a gold leaf motif. A gold-framed mirror took up one wall, and two armchairs faced each other in front of the marble fireplace.
An hour before dinner and dancing would start, Pandora lay on the bed in her guest room, a damp washcloth pressed to her forehead. She had been dreaming about this night for weeks: Owen claiming her and introducing her to the other guests, dancing the first dance together, the stars twinkling down as if they were giving them their blessing. Now she couldn’t muster up the enthusiasm to take a bath and get dressed.
There was a knock followed by Virginia flinging open the door. “There you are.” Virginia flopped into an armchair.
She wore a white pleated skirt and a yellow blouse with Mary Janes and white socks, her dark hair tucked under a straw hat.
“You can’t let Lillian Clarkson upset you because she’s been to Europe. She certainly didn’t soak up any culture. She didn’t mention a single painting at the Louvre.” Virginia took off her hat.
“At least Lillian has been to Europe.” Pandora sat up. “She has something interesting to talk about.”
“Your father was in the semifinals at Wimbledon,” Virginia reminded her. “There’s nothing more interesting than that.” She waved at the books Pandora had placed on the bedside table. “And you’ve read every book on fashion design. Lillian probably hasn’t picked up a book since her nanny read her the Pollyanna books as a child.”
“I was practically a baby when my father played Wimbledon; I don’t know much about it.” Pandora sighed. “And men don’t care about women’s fashion.” She removed the washcloth from her forehead. “All these months, I thought Owen and I were growing close. That by the end of the weekend he might . . .” She couldn’t even admit to her closest friend that she hoped Owen would propose—she might jinx it. “Declare his feelings for me,” she said instead. “Now I’m afraid he only likes me for my serve.”
“You mustn’t believe that.” Virginia squeezed her hand. “Think of when you first fell in love with Owen. You wouldn’t have fallen for him if there hadn’t been something special between you.”
Pandora let her mind wander to the summer four years ago when she was sixteen. It was the first week of June, and the Van Luyens were hosting a picnic.
Pandora’s mother left when she was ten, and Pandora and her father, Willie, lived in a cottage on the grounds of Riverview. Pandora really never got over her mother’s leaving. It colored everything she did. But she was fairly happy living at Riverview. Willie became the Van Luyens’ private tennis instructor, and after school and during the summers, Pandora helped Esther, the cook. The afternoon she met Owen, she had chopped the potatoes for the potato salad and cut the watermelon into wedges.
She had planned to go back to her room to read the copy of Vogue that Virginia had loaned her. It had an article about one of her idols, the French fashion designer Jean Patou. Instead, she found herself gazing out the window at the young people gathered on the lawn. They were playing croquet, and someone had set up a badminton net.
The back door opened, and Owen entered. He seemed to be around Archie’s age, a year older than Pandora. He looked debonair in striped suspenders and a panama hat.
“Pandora,” he said in greeting. “I was sent in to get lemonade and more of that potato salad.”