Spy in a Little Black Dress - By Maxine Kenneth Page 0,10
tied up in Congress all day.”
What a shrewd judge of character Allen Dulles is, Jackie thought, as she remembered her CIA boss assuring her that she’d hear from Jack again. But the very next day at nine in the morning? From what she’d seen, an indifferent nonchalance was the secret of Jack Kennedy’s success as a roué. So Dulles had been right when he predicted that John Husted’s appearance out of the blue would ignite a competitive spark in Jack.
“No, you’re not calling too early,” Jackie reassured him. “In fact, I was just getting ready to take my horse Sagebrush out for a morning ride. The grounds at Merrywood are gorgeous this time of year with everything in bloom.”
“Not as gorgeous as the lady on horseback will be, I venture to say.”
He wakes up flirting, Jackie thought, but all she said was, “You’re very kind.”
“Well, I understand that you’re quite the horsewoman,” Jack said, “but as a Democrat, I’m afraid the donkey is more my speed. Some of my political enemies might say that’s because I’m such an ass myself.”
“I hardly think that’s true,” Jackie responded with a chuckle. Jack’s self-deprecating humor was a refreshing change from all the braggadocio that she heard at Merrywood, where her stepfather’s circle of Washington’s power brokers frequently gathered to hold forth on their latest accomplishments like talking billboards.
“Actually, I’m allergic to horses, strange as that might seem,” Jack said, “so I have a different idea. How would you like to go dancing in the Blue Room at the Shoreham Saturday night?”
“Oh, Jack, I’d love to,” Jackie said, forgetting not to sound overeager, as her father had warned her against when a gentleman caller asked her out for a date. But she was genuinely pleased. The Blue Room was the city’s swankiest nightclub, drawing stars as big as Judy Garland, and the Shoreham was the most famous hotel in Washington. Senators, congressmen, and diplomats lived there; presidential inaugural balls took place there; and President Truman often came there for his regular poker game. Perle Mesta, Washington’s “Hostess with the Mostest,” held social gatherings at the Shoreham, and Jackie herself had gone to many a society dance, school prom, debutante’s coming-out party, and wedding in its regal ballroom. Jack Kennedy had picked the perfect place for their first night on the town.
It was now a beautiful Friday morning in late spring, cool for that time of year, and Jacqueline Lee Bouvier was enjoying the weather by taking a stroll through the streets of Georgetown. She was glad to have the time off from her training at the Farm. Her mind was stuffed to bursting with all of the information she had learned in Escape and Evasion, Flaps and Seals, and Codes and Ciphers, and her body was stiff from daily bouts of calisthenics and running the obstacle course. With all this behind her for the week, she was looking forward to a civilized lunch with Charlie Bartlett, who had promised to fill her in on the elusive Mr. Kennedy.
Hearing a man nearby speak into an open phone booth with a distinct Boston accent, Jackie turned, thinking it might actually be Jack Kennedy. But when she got a look at the man, she was disappointed to see that the Boston accent belonged to someone else. That Jack Kennedy, she thought, giving the devil his due—so dangerously attractive, he could get under a girl’s skin. But she knew it was her job to get under his skin, and she was hoping that Charlie Bartlett would provide her with the insights she needed to do just that.
She loved walking down Wisconsin Avenue in the heart of Georgetown, with its quaint shops and wonderful restaurants, including her favorite, Au Pied de Cochon, which resembled nothing less than a Paris bistro that just so happened to be plunked down in a Washington, D.C., neighborhood. Next to the restaurant was another one of her favorite Georgetown locations, an antiquarian bookstore that was filled with hidden literary treasures. Early for her luncheon date with Charlie, Jackie decided to stop in there for a leisurely browse through the stacks.
The tinkling bell over the doorway announced her arrival to the shop’s owner, a tweedy man with owlish glasses and a neatly trimmed Vandyke, who stood behind a counter, removing archaic books from a wooden crate.
“Hello, Miss Bouvier,” he said. “What can I do for you today? I just got a very rare first edition of The Old Curiosity Shop. It’s in excellent condition.”