“Come.” He took her hand. “Now we move to the bed.”
He undressed her first, unbuttoning her blouse and stopping to caress her breasts. Her nipples were hard against his fingers, and she found herself thrusting them forward, desperate for him to take them in his mouth. He kissed each breast separately and then unhooked her skirt.
She sat on the bed, watching him take off his shirt. His chest was a deep, dark tan, the color of almonds. Dark hair grew over his stomach. His thighs, when he took off his pants, reminded her of a drawing she once saw of Michelangelo’s David.
“Lie down,” he said, pushing away the pillows. “Stay perfectly still.”
Pandora did as he instructed. She waited for him to climb on top of her the way Harley had, but instead he lay beside her. With one hand, he stroked her thighs, with the other, he made small circles around her breasts. Every time the pleasure grew too great and she squirmed away, he whispered in her ear and begged her not to move.
The waves started again, and her body arched toward his. This time, he rolled on top of her. Her legs parted, and then he was inside her, and everything she had experienced before was forgotten. Her body rose with Maurice’s. Together they climbed and dipped, until they were both shaking and covered with sweat, and collapsed on the bed.
Pandora returned to her room at midnight. She sat at her dressing table, watching the silver light of the moon reflecting on the swimming pool. She had never felt like this before. Bright and alive and aware of all her senses.
Chapter Nineteen
February 1930, Hyde Park, New York
Pandora stood on the deck of the Île de France and watched the New York skyline come into view. It was the last day on the ship from Le Havre. In a little while, they would dock in New York Harbor.
Esme would turn two in a week; it had been a year since they left New York. Pandora felt guilty that she hadn’t returned home sooner.
And she felt even guiltier about Archie. Archie was still in London. Pandora had finally written to him and suggested he visit her in Paris. But he never replied. She still wrestled with whether she should have told Archie that he had a daughter before he left for England.
It had all been so new and fragile. Harley was still alive, and she was determined to make her marriage work. Archie was newly engaged to Lucy. All she would have done was cause heartache and pain for everyone. Things were different now, though. Esme was a precocious toddler, and one day she’d grow up to be a beautiful young woman. Esme would gain so much from a relationship with Archie, and Archie would adore her. It would be up to Archie whether he told Lucy, but at least he would have a choice.
Pandora had become preoccupied with telling him the truth when she was living in Paris. She even considered showing up at his address in London, but she feared he would be furious and send her away. She couldn’t bear the thought of Archie being angry with her.
Once, she imagined she saw Archie in Paris. She was having coffee with Maurice and noticed someone who looked like Archie through the café window. But it couldn’t have been Archie. It was just another man with Archie’s strong physique and floppy blond hair.
Every day she told herself she’d write to him again and tell him she urgently needed to talk to him. It couldn’t wait until they both returned to America. But he hadn’t responded to her first letter, and she lost her nerve.
She didn’t know what to expect at home. She hadn’t taken much notice of the ups and downs of the stock market last autumn. The letters from Adele, who had returned to Hyde Park from San Francisco, and from her father and Virginia were upbeat and optimistic.
It was only the day after the stock market crashed, when an American client burst into tears in Jean Patou’s atelier because she had received a telegram saying her husband had lost everything and shot himself, that Pandora started reading the American newspapers.
As late as last September, the stock market was still on a dizzying high. It was in mid-October that the banks began to falter. Milton and the other influential bankers in New York tried to stop the panic. But nothing worked. The market plunged, and Black Tuesday ended everything.
After that, Pandora read everything she could about the market. Production slowed in factories, and four million Americans were out of work. Bread lines and soup kitchens formed in the major cities. Banks foreclosed on houses, leaving people homeless everywhere, and farmers couldn’t afford to harvest their crops.
Pandora tried to find out how bad things were for the Van Luyens, and for Milton and Adele, but the letters she received were vague. Virginia’s last letter only said that Virginia’s father had a small heart attack and refused to take the castor oil prescribed by his doctor. Adele mentioned she was glad to be back in Hyde Park because, without client dinners to attend, Milton often forgot to eat and was becoming terribly thin.
Pandora guessed that even in their social circles, things were worse than Virginia and Adele let on. Before October, Jean Patou’s atelier had been filled with American mothers and daughters ordering steamer trunks full of dresses. Pandora couldn’t count the number of times a woman sporting a chic new haircut and a large diamond ring would confide that she was glad her husband wouldn’t see the charges until she arrived home. In the months before she left, the saleswomen scratched a minimum of orders, and the atelier stayed in business by selling Jean’s line of perfumes. Women who couldn’t afford silk evening gowns could still feel beautiful by rubbing Amour Amour on their wrists.
Pandora pulled her coat tighter against the cold. The navy coat with gold buttons had been a parting gift from Jean, along with two dresses from his latest collection. Pandora would miss Jean so much. She would miss everything about Paris. She hadn’t even minded the dreary weather in December and January. She found something soothing about the rain when she was warm and busy in the atelier, and there was always the promise of spring. Spring in Paris meant pink cherry blossoms on the Champs-Élysées and daffodils in Palais Royal Gardens. It meant long walks along the Seine and leisurely meals at neighborhood cafés.
When Pandora and Sally and Esme first arrived in Paris, Pandora used her monthly allowance from Milton to rent an apartment near the Luxembourg Garden. She could walk to work, and on weekends, she took Esme to ride the carousel or see a puppet show.
Esme was now a self-assured two-year-old who spoke French and English and never stopped moving. Pandora bought a little dog to tire Esme out. The toy poodle, Picasso, had become a much-loved addition to the household and traveled with them to New York.
Pandora had learned so much working in the atelier. She learned about yarn and fabrics and cut. Jean taught her how to haggle with vendors, how having Debussy play on the phonograph encouraged customers to order more expensive dresses. During her free time, Pandora worked on her designs. She had a suitcase full of sportswear to show dress shops in Hyde Park: sleeveless blouses with Peter Pan collars and matching pleated skirts worn just below the knees, dresses made out of jersey, knit cardigans for cool summer nights.
She would miss Maurice. Maurice had visited Paris at least once a month. He brought steaks and bottles of wine. They enjoyed romantic dinners and then retired to her bedroom. Pandora almost didn’t recognize herself in bed with Maurice. She often led their lovemaking. Afterward when they were both spent and exhausted, Maurice would ask what she was smiling about. Pandora would kiss him and reply that she was glad Esme’s bedroom was on the other side of the apartment.