“I’m looking for Maurice,” the woman answered.
Pandora had hardly seen Maurice lately. In her first week at the villa, they had spent a lot of time together. He taught her to make bouillabaisse, and one afternoon they went swimming in the ocean. Afterward, Maurice spread out two towels and they lay on the hot sand. Then he went away for two weeks. Suzanne told her that he went to Montpellier to visit his grandmother.
Without Maurice to cook, the other guests ate at restaurants. Pandora usually had an early dinner with Sally and Esme in the kitchen.
He had returned a few days ago, but he was out on his bicycle. “Maurice isn’t here, he took the bicycle somewhere,” Pandora said. She opened the door wider. “You’re welcome to wait.”
The woman peered inside as if deciding whether it would be comfortable.
“I’ll do some shopping and come back later.” She shrugged. She pulled a gold cigarette case from her purse. “Perhaps you could give this to him; he left it at my flat.”
Pandora watched her walk to a small red car. She wore a white sailor suit with a royal-blue jacket, and her skirt swayed when she walked. She reached into the passenger seat and put on a wide-brimmed hat.
Pandora closed the door and turned around.
“Who was at the door?” Suzanne appeared beside her.
“A woman for Maurice.” She held up the cigarette case. “She wanted to return this.”
“Ahh,” Suzanne said knowingly. “It must have been Nanette.”
“Who’s Nanette?” Pandora wondered.
“Maurice and Nanette are engaged, or were engaged, I can’t keep track.” Suzanne carried her cup of coffee into the living room. “They’re one of those couples that are so passionate, they either make each other dizzyingly happy or start throwing things. Nanette refused to get married unless Maurice found a job. Before he had time to agree, she ran off to Paris and became a model. Nanette is one of the reasons Maurice came to the Riviera.”
Pandora didn’t know why meeting Nanette bothered her. She had no interest in Maurice or any man. Still, she had enjoyed his company. She had even read Madame Bovary. At first it shocked her—Emma Bovary neglected her husband and child to have an affair that ended in tragedy—but the writing was so elegant, and the sensuous passages left her somehow breathless.
“I’m glad I never got married,” Suzanne said from her spot curled up on the sofa. “I’d rather play tennis and have affairs instead.”
It was Sunday, the day Suzanne took off from tennis. She didn’t even get dressed on Sundays. She spent the whole day in a robe, drinking coffee and eating handfuls of raisins and nuts to give her energy.
“Have you thought more about opening a boutique?” Suzanne asked. “You could open one here in Beaulieu-sur-Mer. So many tourists are looking for dresses.”
It was a good idea, but Pandora’s heart wasn’t in it. For the first time since she could remember, when she opened her notebook, the ideas for dresses didn’t come. Every time she tried to draw, she pictured the dresses that had burned in the fire. At first, she told herself it was too soon, she needed rest. But she was beginning to panic. What if inspiration never came to her again?
“We can’t stay here forever; at some point we have to go home,” Pandora said. She didn’t want to admit her fear to Suzanne that she had lost her creative drive. If she did, then it would feel more real.
“I don’t want you to leave, but I can tell that you need to do something,” Suzanne said thoughtfully. “You remind me of when I was about your age. I lost my spark for tennis. I was tired of practicing; I was even tired of winning. I wanted to take time off,” she confided. “My tennis instructor looked at me sternly and said that before I knew it, I would be thirty, and it would be too late. If I wanted to be a tennis champion, I couldn’t stop playing. You’re young and intelligent. Decide what you want, then go out and get it.”
Later that day, Pandora stepped out of the men’s shop on boulevard Marinoni and turned onto the square. At times like this, when the shops and cafés were filled with visitors enjoying the sunshine, she wished more than anything that Harley were beside her.
Harley would have loved Beaulieu-sur-Mer as much as she did. Her favorite place was the Hôtel Bristol. It was painted yellow with a white portico flanked by marble angels. Circular windows overlooked the bay, and a curved balcony had tables and chairs for visitors to sit and admire the view.
Pandora imagined exploring the village with Harley. They would have visited Église du Sacré-Coeur with its brick clock tower and stone facade, while Sally took Esme to play with other children in Parc Beaulieu. Afterward they would have all met for afternoon tea at the Hôtel Métropole. In the evenings, they would have left Esme with Sally and joined other couples for cocktails and lobster caught fresh the same day. It would have been so beautiful, and they would have been happy.
“Pandora.” A male voice interrupted her thoughts. “Come join us.”
The man stood up and waved. It was Maurice, at a table at an outdoor café with Nanette.
Pandora crossed the square and joined them.
“Are you sure?” she asked. “I don’t want to interrupt your lunch.”
“You’re not interrupting, and we’re only having coffee,” Maurice replied companionably. He turned to Nanette. “Pandora is a guest at Suzanne’s villa.”
“We already met.” Nanette nodded. She held a cigarette, and a pearl cigarette case lay open in front of her. “I gave Pandora your cigarette case.” She looked pointedly at Maurice. “I was sure you wouldn’t want to be without it.”
Maurice motioned for Pandora to sit down.
“Nanette is a fit model for a couturier in Paris,” Maurice said.
“It can be boring to have pins stuck in you all day.” Nanette took a drag of her cigarette. “But it pays well, and I can borrow dresses whenever I like.”
“You see, America isn’t the only place where women are becoming independent.” Maurice lit a cigarette and inhaled sharply. “Soon, women won’t need men at all.”
Nanette chose to ignore him. She turned to Pandora instead.
“Is your husband traveling with you?” she asked.
Pandora shook her head.
“I’m a widow. I’m with my daughter and nanny,” she said vaguely.
“Pandora has a talent for fashion design.” Maurice pointed to her handbag. “She keeps a notebook of her sketches.”
Pandora had shown Maurice the sketchbook the first week she spent at the villa. But since she arrived she hadn’t been able to draw any new dresses. Instead, she had filled the sketchbook with drawings of Esme at the beach and Suzanne playing tennis.
“Can I see?” Nanette leaned forward.
Pandora handed her the notebook, and Nanette flipped through the pages.
“These are wonderful,” Nanette commented. “I saw Suzanne play at Wimbledon in 1925. It was unbearably hot; I almost fainted.” She turned to the next sketch. “If only the spectators were allowed to dress the same as the players. British women dress for Wimbledon as if they’re going to the theater. In stockings and gloves and felt caps. It’s the same at the French Open. I’ll never watch tennis again.”