Pandora slipped it into her purse and stood up. She had to maintain her dignity.
“Thank you, that’s very kind.”
“Don’t thank me yet. The hours are long and the pay is low.” She glanced at Pandora’s lace-up pumps that had once been Virginia’s. “You might want to get more comfortable shoes. Good luck, Miss Carmichael. I hope it all works out.”
Pandora walked out into the street. The feeling of rejection washed over her. She couldn’t work in a factory—the salary wouldn’t cover her rent for a room in New York, and if she commuted, all the money she earned would go to train fare to Hyde Park, and there would be no time to work on her designs.
She had been so sure she’d get the job, now she didn’t know what she’d do. No matter how many places she applied, she’d get the same response. She supposed she could work as a cook or a maid, but she’d have the same difficulties that she’d have working in a factory, long hours, low pay, and no time to pursue her dreams.
She wondered if this was what her mother faced before she worked in the department store. But Laura hadn’t needed to work, she preferred being in the department store with other women rather than taking care of Pandora at home. Yet in a way, their situations were similar. Laura wasn’t good enough to have the life she wanted, and neither was Pandora.
The doors that Pandora thought had opened to her during the Winthrops’ house party were still as firmly closed as the lids on Esther’s cookie jars.
There was a coffee shop on the corner, and she longed for a cold drink or an ice cream. But she couldn’t afford it. She tossed the folded-up newspaper advertisement in the garbage and waited for Daniel to pick her up. She had no idea what to do. Her father wasn’t speaking to her, she had no job, no funds, and even secretarial school was out of reach now.
That afternoon, Pandora sat at the table in the Van Luyens’ kitchen and read the invitation again.
ADELE AND MILTON ENRIGHT REQUEST THE PLEASURE OF PANDORA CARMICHAEL’S COMPANY AT THEIR ANNUAL SUMMER PARTY, JULY 23RD–JULY 25TH, 1926, BLYTHDALE, HYDE PARK.
The beautifully embossed invitation had arrived that morning. Even the envelope was lovely, thick parchment sealed with red wax. But she wished she had never received the invitation, that Owen had never mentioned it to his mother. Now she had to go; it would be impolite to refuse.
She ran her fingers over the lettering. How could she spend another weekend listening to Lillian debating whether her bouquet should have roses or lilies of the valley? And she’d have to see Owen. The thought of having to engage him in conversation made her heart contract as if someone had cut off her circulation.
The door to the Van Luyens’ kitchen opened, and Virginia entered wearing a drop-waisted floral dress and T-strap sandals. She had a headband wrapped around her dark, wavy hair, and she carried a brown paper bag.
“You’re clever, sitting here in the nice, cool kitchen,” Virginia said to Pandora. She set the bag on the table. “I’ve been shopping, and it’s so hot. I’m desperate for something cold to drink.”
The kitchen, with its light-colored stone floors and slab-marble counters, was the coolest room at Riverview. Double-sash windows let in the breeze from the river, and copper pots and pans hung from the ceiling.
Virginia poured a glass of water and took the items out of the bag. Two slim books and three chocolate bars.
“Why did you buy poetry by Christina Rossetti and Elizabeth Barrett Browning?” Pandora picked up a book. “And there’s plenty of chocolate in the pantry.”
“These are Baby Ruth bars.” Virginia opened one and handed half to Pandora. “They’re new at the grocery stores, and they’re already the most popular candy bar in America.”
Pandora bit into one. It was delicious, loaded with peanuts and caramel and nougat.
“And the poetry?” Pandora asked.
“It’s for Wolfgang. He’s read all the male poets, Ralph Waldo Emerson and Longfellow and Walt Whitman,” Virginia said. “He isn’t familiar with any female poets. It got me thinking.” She ran her fingers over the cover. “Men control the publishing houses and literary magazines; it’s so difficult for female authors to get noticed. I want to host my own salons in New York. Anyone can come and listen, but it will feature female authors and poets. Similar to what Gertrude Stein is doing at her salons in Paris.”
“Your mother would never allow it,” Pandora reminded her.
“I won’t tell her. I’ll use money from my trust to rent a space, and I’m taking classes at Barnard. When my mother is staying at the townhouse in New York, I’ll say I’m going to study with a friend in the evenings.” She looked at Pandora. “Wolfgang thinks it’s a wonderful idea. We’re going to talk about it this weekend.”
“You’re going to Byrdcliffe again?” Pandora’s brow creased.
Last Saturday, Virginia had borrowed Archie’s car for the whole day. She’d begged Pandora to go along with her little white lie, saying that she was going to New York to buy shoes for Felicity Dinsmore’s wedding. Everything would have worked out, except that Virginia wasn’t back by evening, and Archie had a date.
Archie hadn’t minded. His date was with Lucy Vanderbilt, and he had only agreed to it to make his mother happy. He was content to send his regrets and spend the evening listening to his favorite radio programs and playing Louis Armstrong records on the phonograph.
But Lucy was very disappointed, and her aunt, Louise Vanderbilt, was furious. Lucy had been staying with Louise and her husband, Frederick, for the summer, and Louise thought Archie would make the perfect suitor for Lucy.
Archie brought Lucy two dozen roses the next day to apologize, and Virginia promised Archie she would never return his car late again.
“Where would you find a space you can afford, and what kind of people would come to the readings?” Pandora asked.
Virginia ate her candy bar. She suppressed a smile.
“You’re afraid it will be somewhere sordid; uptown in Harlem or down in Greenwich Village,” she said. “But Harlem is one of the most exciting places to be. A few weeks ago, I saw Zora Neale Hurston walking down the sidewalk with the poet Langston Hughes. I’d just finished reading Zora’s short story ‘Spunk’ in The New Negro anthology.”
“What were you doing in Harlem?” Pandora asked uncomfortably.
Pandora had never been to Harlem, but she had read about it in the newspaper. It wasn’t the kind of place that young women in Virginia’s social circle went.
“The whole point is to be around new voices in the arts,” Virginia continued on. “I’m not going to discover them at the Dinsmores’ afternoon teas, where the most risqué conversation is about whether to spend a week in the fall in Palm Beach or wait until winter.”
Pandora reflected on how different she and Virginia were. Virginia was like a bird, continually fluttering her wings to escape its cage. Pandora was the opposite; she loved everything about Hyde Park. The stately mansions perched on the riverbank, the apple orchards and country lanes. Fall, when the weather grew cooler and the sun-dappled trees formed arches over the pavement. She even loved Main Street, with its dress shops and library, and the pharmacy where the owner had known her since she was a child and allowed her to buy things on credit.