“My husband died recently. I’m traveling with my one-year-old daughter, Esme,” Pandora replied, picking up her wine glass.
Maurice turned to Pandora with a somber expression.
“I’m very sorry; one never knows what the day will bring. The important thing is to enjoy oneself,” Maurice remarked. “I’d rather my tombstone say that I got the most out of life than that I worked in an office copying letters or adding figures in long columns.”
“Don’t listen to Maurice,” Suzanne said to Pandora. “Even in France, most of us enjoy our work. Only Maurice prefers to spend his days reading novels by the pool and playing in the kitchen.”
Pandora didn’t say anything. She had never met a man who didn’t have some kind of profession.
The conversation turned in a different direction, and Maurice brought out a thick soup made with peas and carrots from Suzanne’s garden. It was followed by the veal, and for dessert they had beignets from a patisserie in the village, dusted with sugar and accompanied by blueberries.
After dinner, everyone moved to the living room for brandy and games. Maurice asked her to help with the dishes. Pandora was tempted to refuse. She didn’t like some of the things he had said about Americans. But no one else offered, and she couldn’t let him do all the work.
“Why did you ask me to help?” Pandora demanded, when they both stood in the kitchen. Maurice had taken off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. “You obviously don’t like Americans.”
Maurice tied the apron around his waist. He wiped his hands on his pants.
“On the contrary, I’ve met some fascinating Americans. Ernest Hemingway and I once spent hours at a café, talking about his time as an ambulance driver in Italy during the war. And I’ve always enjoyed seeing F. Scott Fitzgerald at parties. He lived in Antibes for two years. He’s going to write a book about all of us on the French Riviera.
“Let me tell you a story,” he continued. “My father is a famous surgeon in Paris. I was sent to medical school and expected to follow in his footsteps. One night I was studying my medical books, and I had terrible pain that turned out to be an ulcer. My stomach was on fire; I could barely swallow.
“My grandmother gave me a prescription: throw out the medical books and join her in the kitchen instead. Ever since I was a child, I loved helping her cook. It didn’t matter what it was; beef bourguignon, duck confit, a chocolate gâteau. I abandoned medical school, and the ulcer disappeared.” He paused. “I sense something similar in you. You’re trying to do what’s expected of you, but you really want something else.”
The hair on the back of Pandora’s neck bristled. How dare Maurice make assumptions. They had just met; he knew nothing about her. Even if what he said was true, she couldn’t let him see it.
“Before my husband died, we were happy,” she said sharply, trying to believe it herself. “We had each other, a beautiful home, and a child. My daughter, Esme, is the best thing that ever happened to me.”
“You’re too beautiful and spirited to devote yourself to raising a child.” His eyes were probing. “You’re a young woman in a butterfly-sleeve dress who is actually a butterfly waiting to spread her wings.”
Pandora stepped away, taken aback. Maurice acted as if he knew her, yet they had just met.
“You’re in the South of France now,” he said, turning on the faucet. “All you have to do is breathe in the ocean air, and the rest will take care of itself.”
It was almost midnight when Pandora retired to her room. After she helped Maurice in the kitchen, she joined the others in the living room for charades. Eventually everyone went to bed except Suzanne. Pandora could hear her splashing in the pool. She wondered how Suzanne stayed warm. The night air was chilly with a cold breeze.
As she sat at the dressing table, a knock sounded at the door. She peered into the hallway, but found only a book propped against the door.
It was a copy of Madame Bovary in English with a note tucked inside the cover.
To ma petite butterfly,
The first step in your education.
Chapter Seventeen
April 1929, Beaulieu-sur-Mer, France
At the end of April, Pandora had been in the South of France for a month. The weather was unseasonably warm, and Esme and Sally spent most of their time at the beach. Esme blossomed more every day. She came back to the villa each afternoon, her round cheeks with a golden hue, white sand stuck to her feet.
She loved building sandcastles, and she and Sally spent hours searching for shells. She even picked up a smattering of French. Her small vocabulary included “la plage” for beach and “une glacée” for the ice cream she and Sally ate in the village square. Pandora took Esme to the barn to feed Suzanne’s goat. They picked flowers together, and a few times Pandora borrowed Suzanne’s car and they had picnics in the hills above Nice.
After a few weeks, letters arrived from Milton and Adele and Virginia. Milton only sent a check with a short note, but Adele sent three tightly written pages. She was in San Francisco with Annie and her family. Annie was pregnant with her third child, so Adele felt useful. But she missed Pandora and Esme and longed for the time when they would all be back in Hyde Park.
Adele hardly mentioned Harley’s death. Pandora understood; it was still too raw. Pandora wondered if Adele had known about Harley before they got married. Even if she had told Pandora, it wouldn’t have changed anything. Pandora had loved Harley. They believed their arrangement would work.
Virginia’s letter was brimming with news about Riverview Press. Millie was working out wonderfully; Virginia couldn’t imagine how she had survived without her. The New Yorker had reviewed their latest book, and Virginia was planning her first author tour. Pandora also received a loving letter from her father. Willie missed her terribly, but he knew from personal experience that there was no better place to heal than the French Riviera.
Archie wrote to her from London. Lucy was still in St. Louis with her father; the wedding would take place as soon as he recovered. Archie offered to visit Pandora, but she declined. She wasn’t ready to see him. What if she slipped and told Archie that Esme was his daughter? Esme reminded her a little of Archie. They had the same very blond hair. She couldn’t risk revealing her secret when it could hurt so many people.
Pandora planned to go shopping in the village. She wanted to buy gifts to send to Riverview: a French tea towel for Esther and a smart shirt for her father. She would also send presents to San Francisco: bars of wonderfully scented French soaps for Adele and a lace gown for the new baby.
There was a knock at the front door and Pandora ran down the stairs. The sun streamed into the living room, making patterns on the wood floor. Suzanne was still upstairs, and Maurice had taken the bicycle. The two other couples were on a day trip to Avignon, and Jean Patou had left for his own villa in Cap Ferrat to work on his new collection.
A woman in her late twenties stood on the doorstep. She was breathtakingly beautiful in the way only a French woman could be. Her hair was bluntly cut at the nape of her neck, and she had large aquamarine eyes. Her mouth formed a dark red pout, and she had a heart-shaped mole on her cheek.
“Can I help you?” Pandora asked in English.