The windows at the far end of the bar were frosted glass, and cozy lamps glowed on the walls, so it was hard to judge the time. She was astonished when she read Aristotle’s watch upside down and saw that it was almost seven. Diners were beginning to arrive for the evening meal, and she spotted their host slipping some folded lire to the maître d’ with a sleight of hand as smooth as any magician’s. She guessed he was bribing him to let them keep their table.
Weariness engulfed her in a sudden wave. “I’m afraid I must go soon,” she said, feeling guilty that she hadn’t sung a note all day. It was important that she practice daily.
“I have a final question for you,” Aristotle said, waving away Battista’s clumsy offer to contribute to the bill. “You are at the very top of the tree. I wonder what ambitions you have for the future. Are there any dreams you have yet to fulfill?”
I want a baby, Maria thought to herself. The desire was overwhelming. But that was too personal to mention in present company.
“My dream was always to become a company member at La Scala. For me, it is the greatest opera house in the world. Now I’m there, I suppose I want to sing with the best musicians and best directors for as long as I possibly can.” She paused. “And then I will retire quietly to a lovely part of the world and be a housewife.” She laughed as if she didn’t quite take her words seriously. In truth, it was hard to picture the future.
“Even your laugh is beautiful,” Aristotle replied, his tone heartfelt. He caught her eye and looked hard, as if trying to peer into her soul.
Chapter 3
Newport, Rhode Island
Summer 1956
Jackie Kennedy rocked on the porch, one hand on her swollen belly, the other clutching a glass of icy lemonade, which dripped condensation onto her cotton frock. A cigarette burned in an ashtray, its smoke spiraling upward, and a book lay open beside it. The heat was flint dry and oppressive, with only the faintest whisper of a breeze, but she preferred to be outside, where the air was marginally fresher.
She thought of Jack on a yacht on the Mediterranean. He would be brown as an urchin, hopping around the deck in his shorts with a beer in hand, or splashing about in the turquoise water. There was a hard knot of anger inside her. How could he fly across an ocean to vacation with friends when she was heavily pregnant—especially when she’d suffered a miscarriage the previous year? She’d been distraught, and it made her anxious about this pregnancy.
The man she had married was selfish. Entitled. But so charming, so exciting, that she could forgive him his worst transgressions: forgetting birthdays and anniversaries, sending her home early from their honeymoon because he had meetings to attend, even the occasional hint of perfume in his hair and lipstick on his collar from the women who were always fawning over him. Even that.
They were both independent souls who had spent a lot of time apart during their three-year marriage. Washington gossips kept predicting imminent divorce, but in many ways their lifestyle suited them. Jackie liked to go riding and fox hunting at her stepfather’s Virginia estate, to fly to London for some shopping with her clothes-mad younger sister, Lee, or to hop on a train to New York for an early lunch with her hard-living daddy, Black Jack Bouvier, before he got too pickled.
Jack Kennedy’s life revolved around politics; it was the oxygen he inhaled, the sustenance he craved. Currently a Democratic senator from Massachusetts, he was one of the party’s most glittering young talents, with a reputation for his strong stance on civil rights, as well as international peacekeeping and halting the Communist threat. Within the Kennedy family, they were talking about a presidential run in 1960—an idea that Jackie privately found far-fetched, but she admired his ambition all the same.
If only she felt as if he needed her more, she would be content. Of course, she knew he admired her intelligence, her style and class, but his life continued much as it had in his bachelor days. As a politician, he had needed a presentable Roman Catholic wife, and it seemed she had ticked the right boxes. Now she hoped to provide another political essential: a couple of healthy kids.
She frowned. When had she last felt the baby move? Perhaps the poor creature was as drained by the heat as she was. She shifted her position on the rocking chair, nudging her belly with the palm of her hand, but there was no movement, not even the flutter of a tiny foot kicking under her skin. Slowly, clutching her lower back with one hand and pressing on the armrest with the other, she eased herself to her feet and waddled around the porch. Nothing. She jumped up and down, then ran her hands over her belly again. Still nothing. Alarm took hold.
“Nelly!” she called. “Can you come out here?”
Nelly, the housekeeper, was a mother three times over and the soul of calm. She felt Jackie’s belly and asked her to jump a few more times.
“Little ’un’s having a good old nap,” she said, her tone even and careful. “But why don’t I call Dr. Brady all the same?”
JACKIE LAY IN a hospital bed, surrounded by doctors and nurses, paralyzed with fear. Her mother, Janet Auchincloss, sat ramrod straight by her bedside as the physician ran a stethoscope over her belly. What was wrong? She couldn’t lose this child; not after eight and a half months. A miscarriage in the first trimester had been tough enough, but the doctors had assured her it wasn’t uncommon. This was different; she already felt she knew this child, after sensing it move and react inside her.
She watched the medical staff’s expressions, the way they glanced at one another, sending signals with their eyes that she wasn’t meant to intercept. Her mother had taught her it was unladylike to show her feelings, but it was hard not to. One nurse took her hand and Jackie gripped hard, grateful for the human contact. Sympathy was not her mother’s forte. Arranging a ball, yes. Managing the staff at her husband’s estates, yes. Sympathy, never.
“Can I call your husband?” someone asked. “He should be here.”
Yes, he should. Jackie narrowed her eyes.
“He’s away on business,” Janet told them. “Whatever it is, you can tell us.”
It was then they confirmed in words what Jackie had already guessed. Her baby was no longer alive. Sometime between her checkup a week ago and this morning, its little heart had stopped beating and no one knew why. Jackie focused on a cheap clock on the opposite wall, watching the second hand tick. It seemed impossibly loud. She began counting the beats, finding it helped her choke back the emotion that threatened to overwhelm her.
“What happens next?” Janet asked in a practical tone. You’d never have guessed her grandchild had just been pronounced dead.
The doctor checked some papers on a clipboard. “Mrs. Kennedy was booked to have a Caesarean, so we’ll bring it forward. We could operate this afternoon.”
Jackie turned her gaze to the window, where blinding sun was glinting through the leaves of a red-oak tree. What would Jack say? He’d flown off on vacation expecting to return in time for the birth of his first child; instead he would return to a funeral. She had let him down. He would be crushed. Kennedys didn’t do failure.
“That sounds like the best plan,” Janet said, without consulting Jackie.
“Can you call Bobby?” she asked, turning to her mother. “He’ll know how to get in touch with Jack.”