What should she do? Who could she confide in? Definitely not Lee, who would make excuses for her brother-in-law; definitely not her mother. There was only one person she could turn to. He hadn’t been able to visit her in the hospital, but she would meet him for lunch in New York just as soon as the doctors told her she was well enough to travel.
BLACK JACK BOUVIER examined the photo for several minutes. They were sitting at a quiet corner table in an Italian restaurant in east Midtown, a bottle of plum-colored Chianti encased in a raffia basket between them.
“He’s clearly having an affair with her, isn’t he?” Jackie demanded.
Black Jack tilted his head to one side. “A vacation fling rather than an affair. She looks that sort of girl.”
“How could he do that to me? To our baby?” Tears began to well, and once she let go there was no stopping them. Her daddy passed her a crumpled white handkerchief with the ease of a man who often dealt with crying women.
“You need to separate this out, honey. Jack didn’t know you were going to lose the baby when he slept with this woman. They’re different issues. It’s sad your baby died but it’s not his fault. You married him knowing he was a ladies’ man.” The tears were rolling silently down her cheeks, and he reached across to stroke her forearm.
She dabbed her eyes. “I knew he was dating other girls before we got married, but I thought he would stop once we were engaged. Was that naive?”
She watched his reaction, aware that Black Jack used to have lady friends back when he was still married to her mother. She remembered him bringing a pretty brunette to watch her ride in a gymkhana one Saturday. She was only about nine, but she saw a knowing look between them, watched her daddy’s hand brush the lady’s knee, and in a flash gained insight into a whole new grown-up world of understanding. She should have known her father would defend Jack. They were cut from the same cloth.
The difference was that she’d never felt jealous of Black Jack’s girlfriends. They made a fuss over her and Lee, letting them eat ice cream and popcorn, and never chastising them the way their mother did. As for her father, she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that she was his favorite, so she had no reason to feel insecure. He loved Lee too; just not as much.
“Some men have particularly strong sexual needs,” he answered. “One woman will never be enough.”
“Daddy!” She blushed and covered her wet cheeks with her hands.
“It’s not a betrayal of you. It’s just something Jack has to do, a physical act like cleaning his teeth or shaving. He doesn’t love you one bit less because of it. And I bet they’re all brief encounters; he’s not going to risk keeping a mistress.”
The thought hadn’t even occurred to Jackie. Good God, she hoped he wouldn’t do that.
“Do you really want a divorce, though?” Black Jack continued. “Think of the heartache caused by your mom and me divorcing.”
Her parents’ divorce had been a long time coming: First her daddy had moved to a different apartment and she and Lee were told it had something to do with his work. The girls preferred it that way, because they didn’t have to huddle in bed at night listening to their parents screaming at each other anymore. Her mother, who had always been quick to lash out with a slap, became even stricter without Black Jack there to restrain her. Good manners were paramount. You had to be on your best behavior when Janet was around.
Jackie was a teenager when her mother announced that she was getting remarried, to the Standard Oil heir Hugh Auchincloss. Hughdie, as he was known to those closest to him, was much wealthier than Black Jack, with estates in Virginia and Rhode Island as well as a Park Avenue apartment. Their standard of living leapt to a whole new level of affluence, with dozens of staff members in each house, their own stables, attendance at top schools, and generous clothing allowances. Jackie and Lee both adored clothes, and now when they pored over Vogue and Harper’s Bazaar or traipsed around stores together they could afford to buy their favorite outfits. They had endless discussions about the new collections, the season’s hemlines and colors, and their passion for all things French. The marriage meant they saw less of their daddy, though, because he still lived in New York. By then, Jackie was old enough to know that he drank too much, and she worried about him. She never stopped worrying about him.
“Divorce would kill Jack’s career,” Black Jack said over their chicken cacciatore, then took a slurp of wine. “It’s difficult enough getting elected as a Catholic because Protestants will be biased against him—but if he’s a divorced Catholic he won’t even get the Catholic vote.”
“He should have thought of that sooner,” Jackie replied, peering into her compact mirror and wiping away mascara smudges. She didn’t want a divorce. She wanted Jack. But she wanted more of him. She wanted them to be able to talk about the baby they had lost. She would have liked for him to be with her when she was told Arabella had died. And she wished he wouldn’t cheat on her. Was that too much to ask?
“Rise above it and keep your dignity,” Black Jack counseled, tilting his head toward the photograph. “Make sure he treats you with the respect due to a wife. No fornicating in your home, or parading other women under your nose. Draw the line at that. But stay married, honey. That’s my best advice.”
On the train back to Washington, Jackie wondered if other wives put up with this. In novels or plays, cheating husbands always got their comeuppance, but perhaps it wasn’t the same in real life. Why had she picked a man like Jack? Was it partly because he reminded her of her flawed but adorable daddy?
Looking back, the only period in their marriage during which she could say for sure he’d been faithful was after he’d had back surgery in 1954 and was laid up for a few months. She’d been a good wife then as now: arranging visitors to entertain him, reading magazine articles to him, feeding him his favorite foods, devising ways to make love without straining his stitches.
But after he recovered he became preoccupied again. He popped home from the office to shower and change his clothes before dashing off to more meetings. Were they really “meetings,” or was that a euphemism? Did he have a mistress right on their doorstep in Washington?
She had a choice to make: she could do as her daddy suggested and rise above it; she could turn detective and confront him whenever she caught him; or she could ask for a divorce. Even if she didn’t go through with it, she knew the suggestion would shake him up. His political future relied on a stable marriage.
She knew what her mother would say: “Don’t wash your dirty linen in public.” But Jack owed her for this. He’d have to buck up his ideas big time if he wanted to hang on to her.
Chapter 5
Milan, Italy
December 1957
The week before Christmas, the telephone rang at Maria’s Milan townhouse, and when she answered she heard Aristotle’s voice on the line. Battista must have given him the private number.
“The forecast is for calm seas so we’re planning a New Year’s Eve party on the Christina. I wondered if you and Battista might come. I could send a plane to pick you up.”
She laughed at the ostentation; not many party invitations included such an extravagant offer! “I’m afraid I can’t. I’m singing in Rome on the second, to an audience that includes the Italian president. I mustn’t let them down.”