Spy in a Little Black Dress

XXVI



When she walked into the Blue Room on the arm of Jack Kennedy, Jackie could feel all eyes turning in their direction. She had made sure to wear something stunning—a low-cut, form-fitting black chiffon by Oleg Cassini, a French-born American designer who was gaining fame dressing stars on Broadway and in motion pictures—but Jackie was sure that it was Jack Kennedy who was drawing all the stares. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see people nudging each other and nodding in their direction, as if to say, “Isn’t he that dashing young congressman and war hero from Massachusetts?” Even if they didn’t recognize Jack from his picture in newspapers and magazines, they were probably drawn to him, Jackie thought, by the same irresistible magnetism that she had witnessed at the Bartletts’ party.

As soon as they were seated at their table and had ordered their drinks, Jackie sensed that they would not be alone for long as she saw a short, stocky man in his early sixties approaching them.

“Hey there, Jack, nice to see you,” the man said, giving Jack a friendly tap on the shoulder. “Taking some time off from campaigning in Massachusetts, are you?” He rolled the fat cigar around in his mouth as he gave Jackie an appreciative look. “And you too, Jacqueline. You’re looking lovely tonight.”

“Thank you, Arthur,” Jackie said, smiling sweetly at Arthur Krock, the chief Washington correspondent for the New York Times. He was familiar to Jackie as an esteemed member of her stepfather’s social circle and a constant guest at Merrywood. Charlie Barlett had told Jackie that he owed his career to Krock and that Krock was a close friend not only of Hugh Auchincloss, but of Joe Kennedy too.

“Arthur and Joe Kennedy talk on the phone every day,” Charlie had told her, “and your name has come up lately.”

“My name? Why?” Jackie had asked in surprise.

“According to Arthur, Joe thinks a wife and a family will improve Jack’s chances of getting elected to the Senate and eventually making it into the White House,” Charlie had explained. “When Arthur described you as beautiful, brainy, classy, and Catholic, Joe said, ‘Sounds like she was sent from central casting.’ ”

Jackie had been flattered by Arthur Krock’s high opinion of her, but right now, she wished that he would leave her alone with Jack Kennedy so that she could begin to lay the groundwork for accomplishing her mission for Allen Dulles.

But Krock showed no sign of wanting to leave; nor did his wife Martha, an exquisitely dressed woman standing beside him. “Hello, you two. What a handsome couple you make,” Martha said, slurring her speech and looking flushed and slightly inebriated. She gave Jackie and Jack a crooked smile. “Do I have an item here for my society column?”

Jackie was an avid reader of Martha’s “These Charming People” column in the Washington Times-Herald, but going public so soon about dating Jack might put too much pressure on him or risk blowing her cover. She didn’t know how to respond.

Jack rescued her. “This is our first date, so there’s not much to say,” he told Martha, adding with an impish grin, “But if I’m lucky enough to get a second one with Miss Bouvier, you’ll be the first to hear about it.”

Martha glanced at the bar and spotted someone she knew. “Oh, there’s Stu Symington. If you’ll excuse me, I must say hello.”

And off she tottered, possibly in search of an item for her column or more likely to get another drink. Jackie was hoping that Arthur Krock would follow her, but instead he drew up a chair from another table and began an animated conversation with Jack, leaving Jackie to nurse her drink and stare helplessly around the room.

Every now and then she caught snatches of what Krock and Jack were talking about—“MacArthur overstepped and was just asking for Truman to dismiss him…” “Eisenhower is a shoo-in if the right wing doesn’t block him…” “Kefauver is the one your father thinks the Democrats will nominate…” “Stevenson has a big following, but he’s an egghead…”

Jackie would have been much happier if they were discussing the Picasso exhibit at the National Gallery of Art or George Balanchine’s Theme and Variations with artists of the Royal Ballet at the Uline Arena or Frederick Pottle’s Boswell’s London Journal on the New York Times best-seller list—all subjects of interest to her and about which she had something to say. But politics numbed her brain like a sedative, and she could not fathom how Charlie Bartlett and Joe Kennedy thought that she might be the perfect wife for a round-the-clock politician like Jack Kennedy.

Finally, when she was afraid that Jack and Arthur Krock had completely forgotten that she was there, Jackie excused herself and went to the ladies’ room. As she passed the Tommy Dorsey orchestra, a favorite at the Blue Room ever since the band had introduced Frank Sinatra to the world, Jackie admired how spiffy the musicians looked. They were all dressed in full tuxedoes with white jackets, black pants, dress shirts with cuff links, and black bow ties. Tommy Dorsey, known as “The Sentimental Gentleman of Swing,” had just launched into “Stardust,” and the seductively smooth tones of his trombone made Jackie hope that Jack would ask her to dance when she returned to their table.

But on her way back, she was shocked to see that Jack was already on the dance floor, cheek to cheek with—oh no, was this a bad dream?—the ubiquitous Loretta “Hickey” Sumers! Jackie thought that she had seen the last of Loretta clinging to Jack at the Bartletts’ party a year ago before he managed to break free of her clutches. The woman was as persistent as a stuck car horn.

Jackie wasn’t sure what possessed her other than sheer frustration mixed with a streak of feline rivalry, but she marched right up to Jack, tapped him on the shoulder, and asked, “May I have this dance?”

When Loretta looked to see who was cutting in, Jackie flashed a false smile at her that was meant to convey thinly veiled displeasure. “Hi, Loretta, nice to see you again,” she said coolly, “but if you don’t mind, I’d like my date back now.”

“Of course, Jackie,” Loretta trilled. She gave Jack a peck on the cheek. “Thanks for the dance, Jack. Bye now, you two. Have a great evening.”

As Loretta disappeared into the crowd, Jack turned to Jackie with an apologetic look on his face. “She came up to me when I was with Arthur Krock and whisked me onto the dance floor. At least Arthur took the hint and left.” Jack’s eyes crinkled in a mischievous smile. “I was about to send for the National Guard to have him removed.”

Jackie couldn’t help laughing. It seemed impossible to stay angry at Jack for long.

When the orchestra began to play “All or Nothing at All,” Jackie’s favorite Sinatra record, she slipped into Jack’s arms and began dancing with him. She was surprised to find that for a man who had impressed her as unusually graceful when she first met him, Jack was not a good dancer. But by using subtle cues, Jackie was able to impart her sense of rhythm to him, and soon he was moving in time to the beat and humming in tune with the mellifluous sound of Tommy Dorsey’s trombone.

Jackie closed her eyes dreamily, and a flurry of excitement rippled through her when Jack pressed his face close to hers and whispered in her ear, “You’re a wonderful dancer, Jackie. I like the way you feel in my arms.” He had probably used that line with countless women before her, Jackie thought, but the effect it had on her was remarkably potent nonetheless. She was sorry that the song had to end.

When they went back to their table, the waiter was already approaching with their supper orders—an open-face steak sandwich for Jack and seafood crêpes for Jackie. He set the dishes down and poured them each a fresh glass of wine.

“Dig in,” Jack said, but their meal was constantly interrupted by a procession of people stopping by to say hello to Jack: a campaign worker from Massachusetts, a business associate of his father’s, friends from Palm Beach, another congressman, and on and on.

When the waiter came to clear away their plates and asked if they wanted anything else, Jackie quipped, “Some privacy would be nice.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” Jack said, laughing. He motioned to the waiter to bring the check, then leaned toward Jackie. “I’d love for us to have a chance to talk and do that interview I promised you. Why don’t we go back to my place for a nightcap?”

Uh-oh, I can just imagine the “nightcap” that you have in mind. Jackie thought that it would be prudent to decline. On the other hand, it was probably her only chance to garner Jack’s support for the CIA before he became so busy with his senatorial campaign that she never saw him again. She pursed her lips, debating what she should say.

Jack smiled at her reassuringly. “I promise you, Jackie, I’ll be on my best behavior. I haven’t paid you the kind of attention that you deserve. You’re an intriguing woman, and I want to get to know more about you. Just some quiet conversation. There’s no harm in that, is there?”

No, and Jackie would see to it that it ended there. After all, if she had been able to escape being eaten alive by crocodiles in Havana—with Gabriela’s help, but still—and repeatedly defied death, couldn’t she rely on her bag of tricks to keep her out of Jack Kennedy’s bed?

“Okay, a nightcap and some conversation with just the two of us sounds fine,” she said.

The three-story brick house that Jack was renting on Thirty-First Street in Georgetown was close by the Bartletts’ home and looked almost exactly the same from the outside. Inside, the décor was fussier than the Bartletts’ but still homey.

“How about some Grand Marnier?” Jack asked.

“That would be lovely,” Jackie said. “Actually, it’s a favorite of mine, Francophile that I am.”

“You and my mother,” Jack said, bringing their drinks over and sitting down next to Jackie, but at a respectable distance, on the Chippendale sofa. Jackie almost giggled at how out of place Jack looked among the pink, magenta, and white cabbage roses of the sofa’s fabric, but she quietly sipped her drink as Jack went on, “Ever since I can remember, my mother was flying off to Paris two or three times a year for some haute couture fashion show.”

I hope she wasn’t at the House of Dior show last May, Jackie thought, remembering how she had created a ruckus so she could escape from an assassin by pretending that some snooty count stole her diamond bracelet. “Well, at least she has good taste,” Jackie said.

“And so do you,” Jack said, looking at her with frank admiration. “That’s a beautiful dress you have on. Is it by a French designer?”

“He’s French-born, but he lives here now. I do have a Givenchy and a Dior dress that I brought back from Paris, though.” Jackie took a sip of her Grand Marnier, savored the tart orange taste, and plunged into the more substantive topic on her mind. “I love Paris so much that I was tempted to accept a six-month position there that Vogue magazine offered me, but my stepfather’s friend, Allen Dulles, talked me out of it. Do you know Mr. Dulles?”

“I do know him,” Jack said. “He did a brilliant job in the war gathering anti-Nazi intelligence that led to the surrender of German troops in Italy. After the war, he helped create the National Security Act of 1947 that set up the U.S. Central Intelligence Agency—you know, the CIA. In 1948, he and two other people appointed by President Truman gave the president some excellent recommendations to reform the CIA, and now Allen Dulles is deputy director of the agency.”

As he had at the Bartletts’ dinner party, Jack once again displayed a near encyclopedic knowledge of people that Jackie found impressive. She took another sip of her drink and asked offhandedly, “So you think highly of Mr. Dulles, then?”

“I don’t know him that well personally, but he’s a master at setting up intelligence networks. With Allen Dulles at the helm, I have no doubt that the CIA will play an indispensable role in stopping the spread of Soviet Communism in Eastern Europe and other Communist movements worldwide.” Jack smiled and shook his head. “I’m afraid I’m starting to sound like Arthur Krock. All I need is a cigar in my mouth. I’m not boring you, am I?”

Are you kidding? You’ve told me exactly what I wanted to hear. “No, not at all,” Jackie said. “This spy stuff is actually very interesting. In fact, I think I might try to interview Allen Dulles for my Times-Herald column, maybe ask him who his favorite author of spy novels is.”

“I like that idea,” Jack said. “A kind of busman’s-holiday angle.”

“Yes, but first I have to find out who Jack Kennedy would most like to be shipwrecked on an island with other than me,” Jackie said, smiling. “Have you thought about that?”

Jack nodded. “Knowing my political aspirations, most people would probably expect me to pick one of our country’s Founding Fathers, like George Washington or Thomas Jefferson, but I’d probably choose an author. I’ve always admired writers enormously. My very favorite book is Pilgrim’s Way, the autobiography of the Scottish novelist John Buchan. I loved his tribute to friends of his who died young: ‘They march on into life with a boyish grace, and their high noon keeps all the freshness of the morning.’ ”

“That’s beautiful,” Jackie said, moved that Jack was willing to display this serious, sensitive side of himself on their first date. “Writing is a passion of mine too, and I’m grateful to have this newspaper job to get a chance to develop my craft. I’m hoping it will lead to bigger things.”

Jack nodded. “You know, my younger sister Kathleen—we always called her ‘Kick’—was a reporter for the Times-Herald.”

“Really? What a coincidence.”

Jack studied her. “No, maybe it’s not such a coincidence. You remind me of Kick. She was beautiful and high-spirited like you. She had that same spark, that flair that set her apart from other girls. She was my favorite sister. I always had the time of my life when I was with her, and she died so young—at twenty-eight—in an airplane crash in France. It was heartbreaking.” A remorseful note crept into his voice. “My father was the only member of the Kennedy family at her funeral. My mother talked the rest of us out of going because my sister had married out of the Catholic Church.” Jackie could see the pain clouding his eyes as he said, “I’ll never forgive myself for that.”

He looked so sad that Jackie put down her wineglass and stroked his cheek, not knowing what to say to comfort him. Their eyes locked, and before she knew it, he was kissing her full on the mouth. It was a deep, penetrating kiss that made Jackie’s head spin and her whole body go slack. For a moment, she was back in Havana, kissing Emiliano for the first time. But then she stopped thinking about Havana, stopped thinking about anything, as Jack put his arms around her and drew her close.

Click… click… click. Jackie heard the sound of a key turning in a lock. She looked at the front door and was aghast when it opened and she saw a woman standing in the entryway, staring at them.

Jackie pushed Jack away and jumped up from the sofa, furious. The nerve of Jack Kennedy! He invited her back to his place just to talk, and then worked on her sympathies to soften her up for a lot more—and all the time he was living with another woman. How could he have been this low?

Jack rose from the sofa, wiped the lipstick off his face with the back of his hand, and said to the woman, “Hi. I wasn’t expecting you until tomorrow.”

Jackie glowered at him, steaming. Did Jack really think that he would get her to sleep with him tonight and push her out the door the next morning before his live-in lady friend got there? He doesn’t know Jacqueline Lee Bouvier. I’d have been out of here after that first kiss.

The tall, thin, thirtyish woman, with an angular face, a full head of auburn hair, and imperious gray-blue eyes said to Jack in a Boston Brahman accent, “I would have called you from the train station, but I didn’t get a chance.” She looked at Jackie as if she was seeing clear through her. “Jack, why don’t you introduce me to your friend?”

Nodding at Jackie, Jack said to the woman, “This is Jacqueline Bouvier.” And to Jackie, with a nod toward the woman, he said, “Jackie, I’d like you to meet my sister Eunice. We’re renting this place together.”

His sister! Oh, for heaven’s sake, Jackie thought. I should have known—the hair, the eyes, the accent. Jackie smiled at Eunice, trying to forget that she had just been discovered smooching with this woman’s brother, and said, “So nice to meet you, Eunice.” She glanced at the door. “Actually, it’s getting rather late, and I need to be going.”

The look of dismay on Jack’s face was almost comical as Jackie said, “Good night, Congressman, and thank you for a lovely evening.” She said the “congressman” for his sister’s sake, trying to restore a semblance of propriety, and made it to the door without so much as a backward glance.

Jack didn’t have a car in Washington, but the ride that he had arranged for the evening was waiting outside for Jackie. On the drive back to Merrywood, cushioned in the soft, leather backseat, she shut her eyes, pictured that kiss with Jack, and relived the deep, visceral thrill that it had evoked in her.

She wondered when—or if—he’d be kissing her like that again. But no matter what the future brought, one thing was certain. She would always savor the memory of that kiss like a keepsake. The attraction she felt for Jack was deeper than physical. She sensed that they were indeed the kindred spirits she thought they might be. They were both a study in contrasts. Hidden beneath his gregarious exterior, he had the same spirit of independence and stubborn streak of individuality that she concealed under her debutante manners. And they each wrestled with the same tension between a desire to be the center of attention and a need to distance themselves from others. She toyed with the idea that it could be liberating for both of them if they ever became really close. Drawn to the unconventional, they would feel free to express parts of themselves that conformity to their parents’ and society’s expectations had made them keep under wraps. It was something to think about.

Tomorrow, though, her first order of business would be to report to Allen Dulles and tell him that she had fully accomplished her mission. Good work, Jacqueline, she could hear him saying when he heard that she had solved the mystery of the missing treasure map, determined the seriousness of the threat posed by Fidel Castro’s anti-imperialist zeal, and verified Jack Kennedy’s high regard for the CIA.

Oh yes, and there was something else she needed to do. She wouldn’t let another day go by without returning an antiquated book ironically titled A Recent History of Cuba to the Washington and Lee University library. It was only ninety years overdue.