All eyes turned to her when she entered. She knew they would. She resembled the actress Gloria Swanson in the movie Beyond the Rocks, with Rudolph Valentino. Sleek and elegant.
Her intention wasn’t to make Owen jealous or even to attract other men. She wanted to prove something to herself. Pandora might not have Lillian’s father’s money or Lucy Vanderbilt’s pedigree, but she had her own intelligence and talent, her own beauty and charm. Tonight, that had to be enough.
She glanced around the room to see whom she wanted to talk to. Harley Enright stood next to the punch bowl. He looked very handsome in a single-breasted black topcoat with shiny faille cuffs. His bib-front dress shirt was smooth and stiff, the buttons made of black onyx.
Pandora walked over and joined him.
“Pandora, how nice to see you!” Harley greeted her warmly. “Would you like a cup of fruit punch? I made it from my own recipe. Gin and shredded pineapple with orange juice and a squeeze of lemon.”
Pandora accepted the cup of punch. It was delicious, sweet but with a touch of tartness.
“Is that the sort of thing they teach you at Princeton?” she asked, smiling. “I thought college boys were supposed to learn economics and finance.”
Harley’s face clouded over, and Pandora wondered if she’d said something wrong. But he quickly smiled.
“Learning to be a bartender is more important than any classroom lecture.” His tone had the same light manner. “Every Princetonian is guaranteed to be able to fix a gin Rickey and a southside by graduation.”
“I almost feel sorry for you,” Pandora said with a laugh. “Between football games and the eating clubs, it’s a wonder anyone goes to class.”
“Some people don’t, especially athletes.” Harley nodded. “The professors give them As anyway. The theater set don’t get the same privileges. I pored over my economics textbook every night and still got a C; my father was very disappointed.”
That’s why Harley’s face had clouded over. His father was unhappy with his grades.
“He can’t blame you as long as you studied,” she countered.
“It’s different when your father owns a bank and expects you to take the office next to his after graduation.”
“Is that what you want?” Pandora wondered.
“I’d make a terrible banker.” Harley sighed. “I’m not quick with numbers, and I’m worse at sports. My father believes most business deals happen on the tennis court or at one of his clubs. I thought he’d be happy when I joined the Triangle Club at Princeton, but I even got that wrong. Most of the athletes like Archie and Owen belong to the Tower Club and the Ivy Club. The Triangle Club is for theater people.”
“What’s wrong with theater people?” Pandora inquired.
Harley finished his cup of punch. He poured another and continued talking.
“According to my father, they take investors’ money and fritter it away as if it’s confetti on the stock market floor. He has more respect for the janitors than the actors. He says at least they’re doing something useful.” He looked up from his drink. “I’m grateful to the janitors, of course, but it’s not the same. The stage is the most thrilling place in the world.”
“Do you want to be an actor?” she asked curiously.
Pandora didn’t know any actors. She had only been to the theater in New York once, with Virginia and Archie last year.
“God, no. I only practiced with Preston because he needed someone to read lines.” Harley shook his head. “I want to be a director and producer. There’s nothing like putting on a show: Watching the audience take their seats expecting nothing more than a couple of hours of entertainment. Then, when the play is good, the lights go on and there’s a hush over the space. You can tell by their faces that they’ve been transformed.”
Harley seemed about to add something else. But he stopped talking and finished his drink instead.
“I know what you mean,” Pandora said to fill the silence.
As they stood there taking in the crowd, she allowed herself to imagine designing gowns for the women at the party. They’d come to her boutique in Hyde Park or to her private atelier in Manhattan. She’d provide a little sitting area in front of the dressing room so customers could rest and drink tea when they got tired. Once a month, Pandora would hold a fashion show that was invitation only. The women wouldn’t need to travel to Paris anymore. Pandora Carmichael’s dresses were the only ones they would wear.
But she had tried to sell her dresses by word of mouth, and she had failed. She felt the pain deep in her chest. Harley was very good looking, and he seemed interested in her. She recognized something similar in him. A drive to achieve his goals despite the obstacles standing in his way. A new thought settled over her, as soft and luxurious as the sable cape Maude Van Luyen wore to the opera. Perhaps she would see Harley again.
“There’s nothing like doing the thing you’re passionate about,” Pandora agreed, letting the image dissolve.
Harley set down his cup next to the punch bowl.
“I don’t have a dinner partner yet. Would you join me?”
“I’d love to.”
He nodded as if something else, something more important, had been decided between them.
“My mother has the best taste,” he commented. “She’s never wrong.”
“What do you mean?” Pandora inquired.
“She told me that she met you in the library. She said you were by far the most interesting girl at the party,” he reflected. “She forgot to add something. You’re also the loveliest.”
Pandora was seated at one end of the dinner table next to Harley. Milton Enright sat on her other side at the head of the table, and Adele, resplendent in a white straight tabard-style dress and diamond tiara, sat across from her.
Lillian couldn’t stop glaring at Pandora. She was obviously jealous.
Besides the fact that Pandora was in the bosom of the Enright family, Harley was arguably the most handsome man in the room. His blond hair looked almost white under the chandeliers, and his eyes were the same green as the emeralds on his cuff links.
“Adele tells me your father is Willie Carmichael,” Milton said to Pandora after the soup was served. “We saw him play at Wimbledon years ago; it was the highlight of our trip.”
Milton Enright was an older version of Harley, but with salt-and-pepper hair. He was the kind of man that commanded any room. Pandora could imagine him closing business deals at the bar in the Metropolitan Club, his name on a plaque as one of the founding members.
“I’ve always been envious of athletes’ talent, but I admire them at the same time. Athletes have to work hard for their success,” he continued. “Lou Gehrig prides himself on never missing a baseball practice since he was at Columbia.”
Pandora noticed Harley wince. He looked down at his plate and concentrated on his soup.
“My father is the Van Luyens’ tennis instructor now,” Pandora said to Milton. “He still practices every day. He’s getting older and he wants to keep up with his students.”
“Nothing wrong with being a tennis instructor,” Milton replied. “My grandparents emigrated to America from Ireland when my father was three. They couldn’t afford to send him to school, so he got a paper route. He taught himself to read by reading the newspaper every night. He started the bank with money from his paper route.