“Mrs. Post! Just when I thought it couldn’t get any better.”
“Thank you for coming, Betty.” I accepted her hearty hug. “It’s lovely to see you.”
“Oh, but my eyes are about ready to spring out of their sockets,” she gushed. And then, leaning close, she added, “I hear those French doors gave you a bit of trouble.” Her lips curled upward in a questioning grin.
“Yes,” I said, nodding toward the glass doors that gave way from my library out over my back gardens and, beyond that, acres of woods pierced by the rising spire of the Washington Monument. “But I wasn’t going to pass on a chance to have that view.” Both my architects and my contractors had grimaced when I’d told them of my plan to carve out new doors that would show the Monument from inside my home, but they’d seen, after several arguments, that I was not going to give in.
“My dear Mrs. Post, had you not been able to move the glass doors to get the view you wanted, you would have just relocated the Monument itself, isn’t that right?” Betty Beale said, admiring the scene as she stood at my side.
We both laughed at this; I owed this woman my warmth. Just that week, ahead of my grand party, she’d published a lengthy article calling me “Marjorie the Magnificent.” Lauding not only my expertise as “America’s Most Fabulous Hostess,” but also, more important, my work in both business and philanthropy. “My dear, I must thank you for the lovely write-up,” I said, my voice low and meaningful.
Betty put her hand on mine. “It was easy to do.”
As I looked at this woman, once so opposed to my entry into Washington society, so critical of my decisions, I realized that I now considered her a genuine friend—like so many others in this place. Perhaps I did not need to feel like a failure, even if all of my marriages had been labeled thusly.
As a white-gloved footman approached and Betty accepted a flute of chilled champagne from him, she turned to me, raising her glass and saying, “I won’t ever hear there’s no such thing as magic. You’ve waved your wand, Mrs. Post, and I’ve stepped into a world of it.”
I thanked my footman but declined the champagne, answering my friend: “Not so much magic as time. And money. But I’m home at last. This is finally my home. And I can tell you this much: I ain’t moving again.”
Just then, a stirring toward the bright front entryway, and both Betty and I turned. “Now what?” she asked, her eyes narrowing with her reporter’s intensity. “They are quite dazzling, aren’t they?” A young pair had entered, both tall and slim, the good-looking young man with a thicket of honey-brown hair and a self-assured smile. Even more striking was the statuesque, big-eyed brunette on his arm.
I knew their names immediately. “Ah yes, that’s Rose Kennedy’s boy. Jack is his name. And his wife is Jacqueline. They call her Jackie.”
“Ah, that’s right.” Had Betty been holding a pencil, her hand would have been scratching away; I could see from her keen expression that she was instead filing it all into that incomparable mind of hers. “She’s a Bouvier, isn’t she?”
“Yes,” I said. “And I know his parents from Palm Beach. I’ve known Jack since he was a youngster. Excuse me, Betty, but I think I’ll go say hello.”
I sailed toward them, arms extended, and reached for Jack to give him an embrace in greeting. And then I welcomed his shy, dark-haired wife, who looked regal in a sheath gown of lilac silk, cream-colored gloves wrapped around her thin forearms, tasteful pearls at her neck and wrists. “Jackie, thanks so much for coming to Hillwood,” I said. “Glad this young man finally has someone to keep an eye on him.”
“Mrs. Post, it’s such an honor to meet you,” Jackie Kennedy replied, her lips forming a coy smile, her words breathy, as if she were confiding some secret. “Everybody likens Jack and me to some fairy-tale romance, but my, this is a place for fairy tales if I’ve ever seen one.”
As the servants announced the start of dinner, we all made our way to the tables, set alfresco on the patio, the music of Copland and Sousa mingling with laughter and the tinkling of china and crystal. Once the sun went down, we enjoyed the fireworks bursting across our capital, the backdrop of the nearby monuments illuminated beneath our velvety summer sky.
“Happy Fourth!” my guests hollered, clapping. “Happy Independence Day.” I joined in the cheers. It was the night to celebrate America’s independence, and my own as well.