Spy in a Little Black Dress - By Maxine Kenneth Page 0,7
do the introductions.”
A quick glance around the room told Jackie that Martha had invited the usual crowd of young, up-and-coming socialite couples who frequented the Clambake Club in Newport and wintered in Palm Beach. The only one who stood out was a beautiful, slim young woman who apparently had come to the party alone.
“And this is Loretta Sumers. She’s an accessories editor at Glamour magazine and an old Long Island schoolmate of mine,” Martha said, introducing Jackie.
“So nice to meet you, Loretta,” Jackie said with a tight smile. Uh-oh, I know who you are. You’re the extra woman who’s here in case Jack Kennedy doesn’t think that I’m his cup of tea. She couldn’t help wondering, cattily, if Glamour paid for Loretta to get those fashionable blond highlights in her light brown hair and where Jackie could get hers streaked the same way.
Martha prattled away about how Loretta’s family had such fun socializing with the Kennedys every winter in Palm Beach. Jackie listened politely, but when she heard that Loretta’s nickname was Hickey, she almost laughed out loud. Then, imagining how Loretta might have come by that moniker and fearing that she would be competing for Jack Kennedy’s attention, Jackie fell victim to a sharp stab of self-doubt.
At that moment, the door burst open, and John Fitzgerald Kennedy made his entrance.
He still looks so young, Jackie thought, more like a teenager than a three-term congressman about to be thirty-four in a couple of weeks. He couldn’t have weighed more than 150 pounds and had to be at least six feet tall, so he looked as if he was still growing. His haystack of reddish brown hair, toothy smile, and twinkling periwinkle eyes added to the boyish impression. So did the careless way he dressed. Someone will have to do something about his clothes, Jackie mused, eyeing the shapeless, too-big sports jacket and unpressed, too-short trousers dangling gracelessly around his ankles. But his overall effect was that of a genial force of nature—a magnetic field of charisma that drew everyone to him irresistibly and captivated them with his charm.
Jack immediately began working the room, inquiring how this person’s sailboat did in Nantucket’s Figawi race and how that person’s trip to Acapulco had gone and when another person’s cousin who was serving in the Korean War was coming home. Jackie was amazed at the almost encyclopedic knowledge Jack had about each guest. Even more impressive was his satiric sense of humor and hilarious impersonations of people in the news (everyone from President Truman to a Mafia gangster), which had them all laughing.
Finally, Martha extricated Jackie from her perch on a love seat in a corner, where she’d been observing the scene like a bird-watcher, and brought her over to the life-of-the-party congressman.
“Jack, I’d like you to meet Jacqueline Bouvier,” Martha said, tapping him on the shoulder.
“The lovely Jacqueline Bouvier,” he said, looking at Jackie with interest and flashing his intoxicating smile. “Pleased to meet you, Jacqueline.”
“The pleasure is mine,” Jackie said, batting her eyelids at him demurely and returning his smile. “Actually, we’ve met before.”
“We have?”
His look of surprise told Jackie that by this time, she had probably disappeared into a faceless crowd of college girls, secretaries, models, actresses, and other assorted females Jack had flirted with instinctively.
“Yes, it was on a train…”
Suddenly, Loretta Sumers was tugging on Jack’s sleeve. “Oh, Jack, there’s something I need to speak with you about,” she said, adding as she glanced at Jackie, “Do you mind?” Without waiting for an answer, Loretta led Jack away. He looked back at Jackie and shrugged, unable to get out from the insistent Hickey’s talon-like grasp.
Jackie retreated to her refuge on the love seat, feeling defeated by a score of Loretta, 1; Jackie, 0.
But within moments, Jack was back. With athletic grace, he slipped into the empty seat beside Jackie. “So tell me something about yourself, Jacqueline,” he said. Displaying the inquisitiveness that he was known for, he started asking her questions. Where did she go to school? What was her degree in? Had she done any traveling lately? Did she have a job?
Jackie answered all his questions without revealing anything about herself that she didn’t want him to know—she had a degree in French literature from George Washington University; yes, she’d just returned from Paris (on a pleasure trip, not a CIA assignment); and she would soon be starting work as the Inquiring Camera Girl for the Times-Herald.
This last piece of information seemed to pique Jack’s interest. “Really? The