It was my grand reentry into society, and it had been a strategic choice. Herb, now living in Florida, had long loved the ballet—and its dancers; that we all knew. But I had supported it as well, and I appreciated the beauty of the performances, the art of the sets and the dances. And knowing that Herb was gone, that there’d be no chance of any awkward run-in, I had figured it was a good time to show up with my head high. I wore my hair swept back, laced with sapphires, and Napoleon’s blue diamond around my neck to match my gown of shimmering satin. I chose creamy white gloves that reached to my elbows and Cartier earrings with diamonds the size of grapes. And a calm, self-assured smile to complete the look.
I heard the murmurs as I swept into the theater and made my way to my personal box, but I greeted those around me with warmth and ease. “How was your summer, Mrs. Post?”
I turned toward the voice and looked into the pretty face of a woman I knew, a wife to a congressman. Betty Ford was her name. “It was lovely, Betty, thank you. And yours?”
“Fine. Gerald and I were in Virginia with the children.” She smiled, and then said, “It’s good to have you back, Mrs. Post.”
I looked around the spacious hall, at the brightly dressed ladies and their tuxedoed gentlemen. The lush curtains poised to lift at any moment over a stage for which I had helped to pay. The string and wind musicians tuning up in the pit below. “Betty, it’s good to be back,” I declared, giving her my most convivial smile. And it was.
Chapter 51
Mar-a-Lago, Palm Beach, Florida
1968
“Mrs. Post, the president and first lady are here to see you.”
“Thank you, Frank. You can show them in.” I smoothed the ripples of my slate-blue skirt and rose, my spine going straight, my heart speeding to a gallop.
“Mrs. Post, it’s wonderful to see you again.” The president reached forward for a handshake.
His manner was friendly, his words colored by his famous Texas twang, but Lady Bird positively gushed as she looked around the space—her eyes absorbing the soaring vaulted ceilings ribbed with Venetian arches. The chandelier in burnished gold leaf. The friezes and Italian frescoes coloring the walls, vases overspilling with my garden’s fresh-cut petals. The mahogany and silk armchairs arranged around marble-topped end-tables. To breathe in was to smell balmy air, flowers, and seawater. To listen was to hear the faint lapping of nearby waves, the chipper warbles of the tropical birds that flitted throughout my lush gardens and cloistered walkways. “Oh, Mrs. Post, how wonderful to be here. Every time I step into one of your homes, it’s like I’ve stepped into some beautiful Neverland.”
“Well, thank you, Mr. President, Mrs. Johnson, for coming all this way. I realize that you’ve got one or two other things on your plate.”
The president heaved an audible sigh, a rueful smile creasing his face, and I saw the care of his office etched in his features, even as he tried to sit in my paradise and appear relaxed. Lady Bird, too, showed the faintest of cracks in the veneer of her usual poise and polish—the way she folded and then unfolded her gloved hands, the way her eyes darted about the room but failed to fix on any one spot for too long. I felt for the pair of them, even if I did not agree with them on everything.
“I’ll cut right to it,” I said. “I’m a planner. I always have been. And I realize that I’m getting older and I won’t be here forever. And so I’d like to offer this place.” I raised my hands, sweeping the grand room with my gesture. “I’d like to offer it to our government. Free of charge. To see it used as a Winter White House.”
Both the president and first lady stared at me, unmoving in their shared and stunned silence. I went on: “We started with nothing, the Posts. And we’ve come to inhabit homes as nice as this one through hard work, yes, but also the opportunity that America offered to us. My daddy believed that and so do I. I’m dating myself here, but I was born not too long after the Civil War, when our nation was almost ripped in half. I’ve lived through the First World War—of course, to us it was simply the Great War, because we never imagined anyone would be foolish enough to start another one like it. But then I lived through the Great Depression and, sure enough, another World War. And so, to see what’s happening these days…to see our country once more trying to rip itself apart. People burning our flag on the streets outside the White House. Spitting on soldiers returning from Vietnam. Shooting our leaders like King and Kennedy—well, you know all about that. You know better than anyone.” Johnson nodded, his face grim. He’d risen to the presidency only after Kennedy had been assassinated.