Spy in a Little Black Dress

XXV



Washington, D.C., May 1952


Caroline Lee Bouvier’s aim was so accurate that Jackie caught her wedding bouquet without even having to reach for it. As her sister’s maid of honor, Jackie received Lee’s bouquet like a prized talisman and earnestly hoped that it would bring her good luck in love.

During the ceremony at Georgetown’s Holy Trinity Church, Jackie’s heart swelled with happiness as she watched her sister exchange marriage vows with Michael Canfield in a fairy-tale wedding. Lee looked radiant in her lovely ivory organza bridal gown and rose-point lace veil, and the tall blond groom, thankfully sober for the occasion, cut an elegant figure in his white tuxedo. Yes, Jackie was genuinely happy for the glowing bride but, at the same time, couldn’t help feeling a gnawing insecurity about her own unmarried state…

Jackie woke up with a start. It took her a few moments to realize that the wedding she had visualized so precisely was only a dream. But the mixed emotions it has stirred in her were all too real. After all, Lee was her kid sister, almost four years younger, and was engaged to be married to Michael Canfield next year while Jackie, having broken her engagement to John Husted, had no real marital prospects in sight.

Being a CIA agent hadn’t left much time for dating. First, there was all that training at Camp Peary, and then, as soon as Jackie had returned from New Orleans, she’d been dispatched to Havana. She hadn’t expected to meet the man of her dreams there, but along came breathlessly handsome, adorably shy, and passionately idealistic Emiliano, and once again, as she had in Paris, Jackie fell in love. But like her romance with Jacques, the one with Emiliano was doomed to be short-lived. That sad state of affairs seemed to be an occupational hazard for a single woman CIA agent sent to glamorous foreign locales where exciting male colleagues awaited her.

Now Jackie was back home at Merrywood with that familiar ache in her heart, and her fear of ending up the spinster headmistress at Miss Porter’s, her old finishing school, nagged with a vengeance. But instead of being able to look for a beau, Jackie would have to focus on courting Jack Kennedy, not as a possible suitor, but strictly to complete the unfinished business of her assignment: to woo him to befriend the CIA.

A whole year had passed since Jackie had to break her first date with Jack to go off to New Orleans, but Charlie Bartlett had assured her that Jack was eager to see her again. “He’s just so busy campaigning for the Senate that he scarcely has time for anything else,” Charlie had said. He had time for a fling with a showgirl in Havana, Jackie thought, but she kept that observation to herself.

Jackie mulled over possible ploys she could use to get to see Jack again. She could simply call him up and ask him to Sunday dinner at Merrywood, but that seemed too forward. She could drum up some social event like a charity ball and ask him to be her escort, but again, she thought that was sticking her neck out too far. It had to be an invitation that didn’t have any romantic connotations, something practical that would serve his purposes as a senatorial candidate, but what would that be? Of course, Jackie thought as the idea hit her. She would ask to interview him for her column as the Times-Herald’s Inquiring Camera Girl. She would assure him that it would be a positive piece and good publicity for his campaign. How could he refuse?


Wearing a chic Coco Chanel suit and midheel Gucci pumps that added no more height than necessary, Jackie strode down the marble lobby of the Cannon House Office Building and took the elevator to the third floor. When she came to Jack’s office near the end of the long hall, she paused outside the mahogany door, stared at the words JOHN FITZGERALD KENNEDY, MEMBER OF CONGRESS engraved on the brass nameplate, and gathered her nerve.

Inside, she was expecting to see a receptionist at the desk in the waiting room, but no one was there. It was noontime, and Jackie assumed that the receptionist had gone out for lunch, so she walked into an inner office, thinking that the secretary would escort her in to see Jack. But the secretary, whose name, Jackie had learned, was Mary Barelli Gallagher, wasn’t there either. Actually, having impersonated Mary in her frantic phone call at the Europa, Jackie was relieved not to have to face the real Mary in person.

Jack’s office door was closed, so Jackie coughed loudly to make her presence known. Within minutes, the door opened and a young woman emerged, her hair disheveled, her lipstick smeared, and her clothes in disarray.

The woman blinked at Jackie, ran a hand through her hair, tucked her blouse back into her skirt, and quickly sat down behind the desk. “Sorry to keep you waiting,” she said with a guilty smile. “Congressman Kennedy’s secretary and receptionist are on their lunch breaks, and I’m filling in. May I help you?”

Jackie smiled back and tried to keep the wry amusement out of her voice. “I’m Jacqueline Bouvier from the Times-Herald. I have an appointment to interview Congressman Kennedy for my column.”

The girl glanced at a notepad on the desk. “Oh yes, Miss Bouvier,” she said, nodding. She picked up the phone, announced Jackie, waited a moment, and then pointed to the door to Jack’s office. “Go right in. He’s expecting you.”

Jack rose from behind his desk when he saw Jackie and flashed a big, shiny grin at her. He looked thinner than she had remembered and held a hand on his back as if it pained him. Apparently, the back problem that Charlie Bartlett had told her about was a chronic one, but it did nothing to dim Jack’s aura of incandescent charisma that had enthralled everyone at the dinner party the night she first met him. That allure was still in full force, and he was still dazzlingly handsome.

“So nice to see you again, Jackie,” he said warmly. “You look lovely. Have a seat.”

He waited for Jackie to settle into an armchair facing his desk before he sat back down again in his managerial-looking leather chair. “Why don’t we pick up where we left off?” he asked, his slate blue eyes sparkling with insouciance. “Armed with a degree in French literature from George Washington University, you had just come back from a trip to Paris and had some time to kill before taking a job you’d been offered as the Times-Herald’s Inquiring Camera Girl. Did I get that right?”

Jackie was amazed at his retentive memory. It seemed like a magic trick. “Yes, I’ve been working at the newspaper since the first of the year. I’m learning a lot, and it’s great fun. The veteran photographers on the paper have been teaching me the tricks of the trade. Joe Heilberger even stretched out on the floor on his back to illustrate six feet and told me to take all pictures from that distance.”

“That was good of him,” Jack said, smiling. He gave her an inquisitive look. “But where’s your camera?”

Jackie laughed. “I didn’t bring it because I thought I’d sketch you instead. I’d like to do something a little more original than just take another photograph to add to the hundreds of you already out there.” In truth, she was afraid that lugging an ungainly four-pound camera to his office would have spoiled the sophisticated impression she wanted to make. Knowing how important appearances were in Washington, she’d spent the whole morning in the beauty salon getting her hair cut and tinted and her fingernails polished red to cover their atrocious green color caused by exposure to developing fluid in the darkroom.

“Oh, are you an artist?” Jack asked.

“I studied art history at the Sorbonne, and I’ve been sketching for years.”

“The Sorbonne? That’s impressive.” Jack glanced at the folio Jackie had brought with her. “Have you brought some samples of your column with you?”

“I have,” Jackie said as she took some clippings out of her folio and handed them to him.

“Very insightful,” Jack said, scanning the columns. “It’s a clever concept. You ask people who have been in the news some revealing question that shows their human side and helps the public identify with them, is that it?”

“Yes, exactly. The idea is to give the readers a more personal, down-to-earth view of celebrities than they normally get,” Jackie said, quickly adding, “But it’s never done to embarrass the subjects in any way.”

“Ah, then I won’t have to plead the Fifth,” Jack said, smiling. “And do you pick your own subjects or does the newspaper assign them to you?”

That was a tricky question. The truth was that Jackie could make the column about anyone or anything she wanted, but if she revealed that to Jack, he might jump to the conclusion that she had some ulterior motive in selecting him for an interview. She decided to give him a plausible answer that would flatter his ego and wouldn’t arouse suspicions of any kind.

“The newspaper gives me a lot of leeway,” she said, “but when all of Washington is buzzing about someone, as people are about you, I’m expected to do a column about that person, but give it a different twist.”

“A different twist?” he asked with raised eyebrows. “I don’t know, Jacqueline; that sounds ominous, but I’m game.” He folded his arms across his midriff, bracing himself. “Okay then, what is the question you have for me?”

Jackie hesitated, hoping that he wouldn’t think it was silly, and then blurted, “With what person, living or dead, would you most like to be shipwrecked on an island?” She had dreamed that one up in fond remembrance of her idyllic interlude with Emiliano on Saetía.

Jack threw his head back and chortled out loud. “That’s easy. Henry Cabot Lodge. So I could hit him over the head with a coconut, swim back to shore, and win the election by default.”

Jackie laughed too, but she wished Jack would turn more serious. She didn’t want to waste her precious appointment with him bantering.

But he leaned back in his chair with an amused look on his face and seemed in no hurry to get on with the interview. “And what person would you most like to be shipwrecked on an island with, Miss Inquiring Photographer Without a Camera?” he asked in a teasing tone.

“Sergei Diaghilev,” Jackie replied without hesitation. She could tell from Jack’s cocked eyebrow that her answer had surprised him. She wondered if he even knew who Diaghilev was. “I’m a lover of the ballet and the opera, and if I were shipwrecked on an island with Diaghilev,” she went on to explain, “I could learn how to discover talents like Pavlova and Nijinsky and launch a company like the Ballets Russes. I would ask that great Russian impresario to tell me how to stage operas and orchestral works by the up-and-coming geniuses of our time the way he did with Rimsky-Korsakov and Tchaikovsky in his day. That’s a secret fantasy of mine.”

Jack’s mouth dropped open. “That’s quite an ambition for a young lady fresh out of college,” he said, staring at Jackie wide-eyed. “Judging by your job with the Times-Herald, I would have thought that you wanted to be a reporter.”

“Oh, I love writing too, and I don’t want to brag, but I’m told that I have some talent for it,” Jackie said in a self-effacing tone. “Actually, I’d be happy to have a career in any of the arts.” Oh God, a career in the arts; that sounds so pretentious. She shook her head, smiled at Jack, and said in a whispery, girlish voice, “But I’m supposed to be interviewing you, not talking about myself. You’re the one everyone wants to know about. You’re running for the Senate, and I’m just running around like a chicken without a head.”

“A brainy, beautiful, well-bred chicken,” Jack said, laughing. “Even the White House executive chef wouldn’t have the foggiest idea what to do with you.”

Jackie fidgeted in her chair, anxious to get back to the interview and then try to swing the conversation around to more weighty matters, like Jack’s feelings about the CIA.

But Jack surprised her. He leaned toward her, pursed his lips, and said, “I was just thinking, Jacqueline, that we never did get to go dancing at the Shoreham, did we? If you like, we can have a night out and do the interview after that.” His eyes twinkled at her in a teasing way that she found as cute as a dimple. “You’re looking pretty healthy to me, so I don’t suppose you’ll be catching a virus by Saturday, will you? I’d hate for you to disappoint me again.”

Jackie cringed. That’s right, Jack, rub it in. He had to bring up her lame excuse for breaking their date, didn’t he? “No, I absolutely will not be catching any viruses, even if I have to be quarantined all week,” Jackie said with a red face, “and I would love to go dancing at the Shoreham Saturday night.”

“Good, that’s what I wanted to hear.” Jack rose from his chair and held out both his hands to her. “You’re a fascinating woman, Jacqueline,” he said, sounding as if he meant it. “I have a feeling that after I get to know you better, the person I might want to be shipwrecked with on an island is you.”