Jackie and Me(75)

was, as Jackie well knew, prepared to do everything within

her to power to block it—without giving the impression of

doing anything.

It was delicate as balancing acts go, but Mrs. Auchincloss

had been practicing her whole life, and although she was—

no, because she was only a little further off the boat than the Kennedys, she was all the more at pains to discourage fellow climbers. It’s why she invited her guests to lunch at Bailey’s Beach Club, an establishment that, on normal days—and how remote those days seem to me now—would have barred

Kennedys and indeed all Roman Catholics at the door. Jack

himself was nearly turned away for wearing shorts and a

rumpled Oxford, and it took all of Mrs. Auchincloss’s persuasion to get him a place at the table.

“Standards,” she explained with a light shrug.

The oysters Rockefeller and lobster Newburg and crab

imperial were ordered, and Mrs. Auchincloss, calmly but

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tenaciously, plied herself against the Kennedy she thought

might soonest give way.

“Dear Mrs. Kennedy,” she began. “I’m so sorry we

couldn’t have you up earlier. Our calendar’s been absurdly

swamped, and I just couldn’t find anyone to say no to. There was bridge with Paul and Bunny Mellon, there was champagne with the Vanderbilts . . .”

On and on it went. Name dropping, we might now call it,

but in Mrs. Auchincloss’s world, it was simply diary. If, by chance, she had crossed paths with dear friends and neigh-bors, why pretend it didn’t happen at the Breakers or the Southampton Bathing Corporation? If somebody had said

the funniest thing the last time he was at this very club, why act as if it weren’t Pierre du Pont?

“Oh, dear,” she said at last. “Listen to me prattle. Mrs.

Kennedy, won’t you tell me how things are in your neck of

the world? So very charming, your Hyannisport. How I love

driving through.”

It was the moment to which she’d been building all along.

Rose Kennedy was about to sing, and the entire listening world was about to hear.

Now, through the years, I’ve heard many unkind words

used to describe Mrs. Kennedy’s voice: caw, croak, screech, cackle. I myself have been less struck by its timbre than its perseverance. Pull the string and the string pulling itself.

“Oh, boy, those are some scrumptious-looking oysters,

but I hope nobody thinks I’m going to eat ’em! No sirree, I’ve got to starve myself to the bone if I’m going to fit in my gown come September. It’s Balmain, of course, I saw it last

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spring, and I said to myself, I said, I don’t know if any of my children are getting married any time soon, but just in case.”

“How prescient of you.”

“‘Be prepared’ is my motto. Like the Boy Scouts. Oh, and

speaking of prepared, when we were flying over here, I got to thinking about the music for the ceremony. Being a classi-cally trained pianist, I’ve a great many ideas. For organ, you can’t top Mrs. Maloney . . .”

“Ah.”

“. . . and there’s an Irish tenor from Boston who sings the most beautiful ‘Ave Maria’ you ever heard. It’s Schubert or else it’s Gounod. You’ll weep.”

“I’m sure I shall.”

“Now, for the reception, I think Meyer Davis’s orchestra

would be grand, don’t you? Nobody gets ’em up on their

feet like he does. Naturally, he’s booked years in advance, but we’ve got an in with a certain gentleman named Morton Downey, if that rings any bells. And Jiminy Christmas, I don’t even know where to start on the guest list! Our phone’s been ringing off the hook. ‘Please, Mrs. Kennedy, can I get an invite?’ Times like these I forget how many Fitzgeralds came over on the boat.”

“Nobody was counting, perhaps.”

“And a good thing! What I tell these freeloaders is

you’ve got to stand in line, don’t you, behind all one hundred U.S. senators and their wives and every member of the Massachusetts Democratic party who ever existed. Just cuz

you voted four times in one day in the dear old North End

doesn’t give you privileges, do you hear?”

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Mrs. Auchincloss let her eyes shudder to an ecstatic close.

She was no longer listening to the words but the music, and she knew her daughter was listening, too, and, more important, understanding that, if this marriage were to go forward, these would be the woodland notes filling her ears.

“Now, as to flowers, I hope you won’t accuse me of dis—

gracing my name, but I say no to roses! It’s too late in the year, and the hothouse sort are perfectly déclassé, don’t you agree? Mums would be the obvious choice, but I still have a soft spot for carnations, I don’t care who knows it, and I think it would be terrific fun if we could arrange them all to spell something.”

“Spell something . . .”

“Well, sure!”

“I’m beside myself with suspense to know what.”