“Miss Bouvier.”
“Congressman.”
“We’ve met before?”
I feel the air tighten. “Yes.”
“Remind me.”
“On the Marylander, maybe?”
“You were heading back to school. Vassar, was it?”
I feel a quiet thrill. He knows, and this is a bit of a game. “Yes, Vassar.”
“I remember, you were reading.”
“Jackie’s a tremendous reader,” Charley says. He and Martha have appeared and we’re the four points of a diamond—Charley, Martha, Kennedy, me.
“And now she’s leaving us for Europe,” Martha says. “She’s won the Prix de Paris.”
“Actually, no,” I say. “Those are separate. I’m going to Europe for the summer with my sister, Lee. The Prix de Paris hasn’t yet been announced.”
“What do you get if you win?” Kennedy says. I can tell by how he asks: He likes to win.
“A job at Vogue,” I say. “I’d start in the fall, six months in New York, then six in Paris.”
“She’s being humble,” says Charley. “They’ve practically offered it to you, Jackie.”
I feel heat in my face and force a smile, the best I’m able to manage right then.
“I’m afraid I dealt my chances a blow in one of the essays. They asked for a self-description, and I might have been too honest.”
“What on earth did you say?” Martha asks.
I smile at Jack. “I explained that one of my worst faults is that I get very enthusiastic over something at first, then tire of it halfway through.”
An awkward silence, then Kennedy laughs—a free, bold laugh. Poor Martha, poor Charley—they are good and earnest and kind. Standing there like a pair of hard-boiled eggs with perfect smiles drawn on their round faces, and Jack Kennedy is just looking at me, his eyes still laughing. One hand fiddles at the pocket of his baggy sports coat.
“How many essays did you say you wrote for this thing?” he says.
“I didn’t say. But there were eight. Short.”
“That’s a few more than a few. Eight essays to win a prize you’re not sure you want?”
“It’s like foxhunting,” I say. “You don’t really want to kill the fox, but it’s satisfying to know you can bring down what you’re after.”
He laughs again.
“You like France?” he says. “On the train, I remember, you were reading a book on French art.” He pronounces it with a heavy Boston accent. Aht.
“Malraux,” I say. “I’m quite smitten with André Malraux.”
“Why?”
“His first job was in the antiquarian book trade. He wrote the article that brought Faulkner to the Nobel committee. He won the Prix Goncourt, then spent the prize money scouring Arabia for the lost city of the Queen of Sheba.”
“A French Lawrence.”