Pandora realized she was hungry. She hadn’t eaten anything since the taxi stopped in the square.
“It sounds delicious,” Pandora said. “We traveled all day; I’m hungry.”
“I should have sent someone to pick you up in Nice,” Suzanne apologized. “You can help yourself to anything in the kitchen.”
“I was already asked to help prepare dinner,” Pandora said with a smile. “I breaded the veal.”
“That must have been Maurice,” Suzanne offered. “He’s an excellent chef. He trained at the Cordon Bleu school in Paris, but he doesn’t want anyone to know.”
“Why not?” Pandora wondered.
“He’s afraid he’ll have to turn it into a proper job, and he doesn’t like to be tied down.” Suzanne’s tone became gentle. “I want to talk about you. Your father wrote and told me about Harley. I hope you don’t mind that he told me.”
Tears stung Pandora’s eyes, and she glanced down at her wedding ring. She hadn’t taken it off.
“Of course not.” She shook her head. “Everyone knows; it was in all the newspapers.”
“I can’t tell you how sorry I am. To lose your husband and Esme’s father is unthinkable. You’re too young and lovely to be a widow.” Suzanne squeezed her hand. “The Riviera is the best place to heal; it’s been healing people for ages. One can’t walk on the beach or visit the casino in Monte Carlo or go shopping in Nice without being grateful to be alive.”
Pandora felt her emotions well up like the rain in the gutter after a storm. She had promised herself she would be strong for Esme. There was nothing she could do about the past.
“I’m not ready for those sorts of things,” Pandora replied. “I’m happy to just stay here and read and play with Esme.”
“I know a little of what you’re feeling.” Suzanne tugged at her bandeau. “I lived in Paris until I was eleven. Then my younger brother, Marcel, became ill, and my parents moved us to the South of France. My brother died, and my father started taking me to the tennis club. From the moment I picked up a tennis racquet, I was happy,” Suzanne finished. “Life has a way of surprising you.”
“It’s not just Harley,” Pandora reflected, “though of course that’s most of it. I was also about to open my own boutique. I don’t know when I’ll have the strength to do it again.”
“You will,” Suzanne assured her. “When the war began, Wimbledon and the French Open were canceled. All the young men were away fighting the Germans. After the war ended, I realized in a way it had been a blessing. I spent those four years practicing, and I met your father. Before him, I was a good player, and he made me great.”
“I’m being a terrible guest,” Pandora said guiltily. “I haven’t thanked you. You’re so good to take us in; I’m very grateful.”
“I adore having company. When the villa is empty, it reveals all its flaws: the floors are slanted and the windows don’t close and the plumbing is ancient,” Suzanne responded. “When it’s full, I only notice that the dining room is big enough to seat twelve people, and there are orange trees, so we can eat oranges. I do get preoccupied, though,” Suzanne warned her. “Wimbledon is in July, so the whole month of June you won’t see me except at dinner.”
Pandora couldn’t imagine staying until June. She would miss Summerhill and everyone at home too much.
“We’ll be gone before June,” Pandora assured her.
“You might think that now; wait until you’ve watched the sun set over the Mediterranean. Or until you’ve driven down the coast and gathered shells,” Suzanne said with a knowing smile. “You’ll want to stay on the French Riviera forever.”
Before dinner, Pandora had taken a bath. Suzanne was right, the plumbing was ancient. The water took ages to heat up, and then it dripped out of the tap.
She didn’t care what Maurice said, she was going to dress formally for dinner. Her daytime tea dresses weren’t appropriate, and she believed in dressing up at night. It was only good manners.
She chose the white gown with butterfly sleeves that she wore for the Winthrops’ Fourth of July party almost three years ago. How young and naive she had been! Everything about that weekend had thrilled her: the butler that welcomed them into the Winthrops’ house; the grand salon with its frescoed walls and furniture upholstered in velvet that was almost pink and almost white, just like Virginia’s lipstick; Virginia insisting that Pandora wear her diamond-and-sapphire necklace; and Pandora gazing in the mirror and feeling like a princess.
She took a brush to her hair and pulled it through. She was only twenty-three, what would she do with her future? Would she ever fall in love and get married again, and would there be more children? It wasn’t the time to think about it. Everyone was downstairs; she didn’t want to keep them waiting.
She had expected the evening to start with cocktails. But when she appeared, the guests were already seated at the dining room table. Suzanne sat at the head of the table, and Maurice sat in the middle. There were two other couples at the table and an older man dressed in navy pants and a shirt with a round collar and French cuffs. He had a lizard-skin watch strapped to his wrist, and he wore gold cuff links.
“Pandora, you must think it’s terribly rude that we’re already seated, but everyone is hungry,” Suzanne said in apology. “Sit next to Maurice.”
Maurice looked even more handsome than he had earlier that afternoon. He wore a lounge jacket over a white shirt that made his skin seem even darker. There was a sheen to his cheeks, and he had slicked back his light brown hair.
“I must introduce you to everyone,” Suzanne said. “Armand and Marie are from Paris.” She nodded at the older man and woman sitting opposite Maurice.
The other couple, Lionel and Jane, were British and in their thirties. Luckily for Pandora, they spoke little French, so the whole table spoke in English.
“And this is Jean Patou,” Suzanne finished, pointing to the older man wearing the lizard-skin watch.
Pandora’s mouth dropped open. Jean Patou was one of her idols. He was one of the most famous French fashion designers. After the war, he opened an atelier in Paris frequented by European royalty. His clothes were known for their modern aesthetic. He’d just invented a line of men’s neckties using the same fabrics as his women’s collection, instead of the traditional black or white.
“Jean designs my tennis dresses,” Suzanne explained. “I’m so lucky; I wouldn’t win a match without him.”
“I’m the lucky one. Suzanne is la Divine; every woman in Europe wants to dress like her,” Jean proclaimed in English. “The tennis attire women are forced to wear is absurd. How are they supposed to hit a ball wearing a dress that’s so long they’ll trip? Tennis is similar to ballet. Ballerinas don’t take the stage in corsets; they wear costumes that let them move.”
That explained Suzanne’s outfit this afternoon. The sleeveless blouse and knee-length skirt.
“Are you traveling with your husband?” the British man, Lionel, asked. He had thinning blond hair and a sharp chin.