Mrs. Kennedy and Me: An Intimate Memoir

4

Glen Ora

Saturday, February 4, 1961

President Kennedy and family enter White House for first time together

In a repeat of the snowstorm that immobilized Washington, D.C., for the Inauguration, a massive weather system had engulfed the East Coast from New York to Virginia the day before we were scheduled to return to Washington with Caroline and John. Eight inches of snow had fallen, but by the afternoon of Saturday, February 4, the runways in Washington had been cleared and pilot Howard Baird assured me we could depart Palm Beach as scheduled. Two-month-old John slept soundly, while Caroline was understandably excited to be reunited with her parents and to see her new home.

As the Caroline descended into the nation’s capital, the crisp blue sky contrasted with the white snow that blanketed everything below. On the ground, a slough of reporters and photographers had joined President and Mrs. Kennedy at National Airport to greet their children. Mrs. Kennedy eagerly took baby John, who was bundled in a white blanket, from Maud Shaw’s arms, as President Kennedy scooped up Caroline, smothering her with kisses.

It had stopped snowing, but the strong wind sent the banks of snow drifting in every direction. Mrs. Kennedy pulled John close to her to shield his face from the biting cold, and I quickly moved into a position to try to block the wind from hitting them.

“Welcome back, Mr. Hill,” she said, as we strode toward the limousine.

“Thank you, Mrs. Kennedy. It’s good to be back.”

She looked up at me with a glimmer in her eye and said, “Really? I was just thinking you’d probably rather be back in the warm weather and sunshine in Palm Beach!”

I laughed and said, “Well, I have to admit, I did get used to the weather down there. It sure beats this.”

Agent Jeffries was waiting with the back door open and as soon as Mrs. Kennedy was settled, I joined the contingent of Secret Service agents in the follow-up car, and we sped away to 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.

When we arrived at the White House, there was a big surprise waiting for Caroline. The head gardener had built a life-size snowman that stood at the edge of the driveway, its arms stretched out as if in a welcoming embrace to the new young members of the household. Caroline was delighted with her new “friend,” who was adorned with coal buttons, a carrot nose, a Panama hat, and a bow tie made of red ribbons. She jumped out of the car and gingerly walked up to the smiling snowman that was more than twice her size, and as she reached out to touch him, White House photographer Abbie Rowe captured the precious scene.

After a brief meeting with Agent Jeffries about the schedule for the upcoming week, I drove the six miles to my two-bedroom apartment in Alexandria, Virginia, for my own reunion with my wife and son. This was the longest I’d been away from home, and the transition was not easy. My wife’s perspective was that I had been on vacation in Palm Beach for two months, while she had been handling everything—paying the bills, maintaining the house, taking care of our very active four-year-old son—completely on her own. I knew it was rough on her, as it was on all the agents’ wives, and I did my best to empathize, but also explain that this was just part of the job. Unfortunately my suntanned face and arms didn’t help my case. I tried to reassure her that now that the Kennedys had moved into the White House, we would get into a routine, and presumably, I would be home more. What I didn’t realize was that Mrs. Kennedy was already planning to be away from Washington as much as possible. And where Mrs. Kennedy went, I went.

Six days later, I was en route to Middleburg, Virginia.

MIDDLEBURG IS ONLY about forty-two miles from Washington, and typically an easy drive, but the consistently bad weather had left the country roads nearly impassable because of the six- to eight-foot banks of snow along the plowed roadways. Thus it was decided that Mrs. Kennedy’s first trip to Glen Ora should be by helicopter. As Agent Jeffries was the lead agent on Mrs. Kennedy’s detail, he rode in the chopper with Mrs. Kennedy and Caroline, while I drove a Secret Service Mercury to be there waiting when they arrived.

The entrance to Glen Ora was marked by two simple stone pillars on either side of the driveway that looked like they’d been there since the Revolutionary War. The left pillar had a stone block engraved R. F. TARTIERE and the right, GLEN ORA FARM. You couldn’t see the house or any other buildings from the main road, and if it weren’t for the brand-new guard shack that had been erected at the entrance, you wouldn’t take a second glance at the place.

The three-quarter-mile dirt driveway had been cleared for our arrival, but like the rest of the roads, the snow was piled so high on both sides that the approach to the residence felt like you were driving through a tunnel.

The unpretentious eighteenth-century stucco and brick main house was painted a golden yellow with creamy white shutters and trim, and had numerous chimneys sticking out of the gray slate roof. Even though the residence contained six bedrooms, five bathrooms, a kitchen, dining room, and library, it wasn’t overly large, and was, in my opinion, not nearly as luxurious as the residence at Camp David.

Glen Ora residence, Middleburg, Virginia

The White House Army Signal Agency (WHASA) provided the communication for the Secret Service as well as for the president. They brought in a trailer and placed it near the stables where we had established our Secret Service Command Post. Inside the trailer, they set up a telephone switchboard that had the capability of connecting to any telephone in the world. It also provided secure typewritten messaging and radio communication. Although our person-to-person communication was limited due to the size and weight of equipment available in those days, our car-to-car and car-to-base radio communication was excellent. All provided by WHASA.

Another issue was how to handle the press. The isolation and quaintness of Middleburg that Mrs. Kennedy found so appealing was not at all desirable to the White House press corps. The only lodging near Glen Ora was the Red Fox Inn, a historic tavern that dates back to 1728, and it had a limited number of rooms available, which meant that the reporters were forced to share twin-bedded rooms—something they weren’t used to and weren’t happy about. WHASA worked with the local telephone company to install additional telephone lines at the inn, while Western Union provided the necessary lines for the reporters to file their stories. But beyond the limited communications and lodging, for the young and social press corps, Middleburg was just plain boring. It was small, rural, and quiet. Nightlife was nonexistent. Outside of monitoring the infrequent comings and goings of the Kennedys and their visitors, there was nothing to do, and nowhere else to go. The press hated Middleburg.

The rooms at the Red Fox Inn ran fourteen dollars per night, which was way too expensive for the Secret Service agents, so we commuted. Every day Mrs. Kennedy was in Middleburg, I drove back and forth on U.S. Route 50 between my home in Arlington and Glen Ora. The fifty-mile drive simply added to the length of my workday. Up bright and early for the one-hour drive. Home late—well after dinnertime—tired and hungry. The lightly graveled dirt roads became a quagmire of mud and slush, freezing as hard as stone at night, and during the daytime, sloppy and soft, as the sun melted the snow, leaving huge puddles of water in every low spot in the terrain. Helicopter was the preferred means of transportation, but only the president, first family, and high-ranking government officials or official guests qualified. Those of us who drove just did the best we could not to get stuck. Because I was the second man on the detail I worked weekends, while Jeffries took Saturdays and Sundays off. This meant that I spent a lot of time in Middleburg, along with the children’s agents, Bob Foster and Lynn Meredith.

Both Bob Foster and Lynn Meredith were great guys—and the three of us got along famously. We were all three about the same age, married, and had young children. Foster was a proud and staunchly loyal Ohio State graduate who had a wonderful sense of humor. Lynn Meredith was an accomplished pianist who had an endless repertoire of upbeat songs that ranged from ragtime to jazz to anything modern. Anytime there was a piano around, he would sit down and have everybody singing in no time. John was still an infant at this time, but Caroline adored both Mr. Meredith and Mr. Foster.

All the reporters knew who I was by this time, and that I was assigned to Mrs. Kennedy, so whenever I went into the little town of Middleburg, word would get around and suddenly I’d be surrounded: “Clint, where is Mrs. Kennedy?” “Does she have any plans to leave the estate?” “What on earth does she do all day?”

I tried to be as friendly and respectful as I could without providing any of the information they were seeking. In fact, Mrs. Kennedy was usually doing what she loved—spending time with her children and riding, and always trying to keep out of the public eye.

When I had done my research on Mrs. Kennedy I learned that she was an accomplished horseback rider. She had ridden in competitions since early childhood, and now that she had rented this place in the Virginia hunt country, it was clear that she planned to ride more frequently for sport and relaxation. This was a bit of a problem for the Secret Service because we were responsible for protecting her—and nobody on the White House Detail was as skilled a rider as the first lady.

She boarded her horse, a bay gelding named Bit of Irish, at the nearby farm of her good friends Eve and Paul Fout. The Fouts would bring the horse by trailer to Glen Ora so she could ride him as she pleased when she was in residence there. The Fouts were also members of the Orange County Hunt Club, which had extended an invitation for Mrs. Kennedy to join.

When I first heard her talk about “riding the hunt” I envisioned a group of friends trotting on their horses across the rolling hills of the fenced estates, stopping for tea and crumpets after an hour or so. There was talk at Secret Service headquarters of sending me and a couple of other agents to riding school so that we could adequately protect Mrs. Kennedy on these outings. It soon became clear, however, that that was not a feasible option.

Fox hunting in Virginia, it turned out, was a serious sport. It was well organized, highly structured, and very expensive. The participants were all excellent riders, seriously chasing an elusive fox across the countryside, jumping over hedges and fences, surrounded by a pack of well-trained foxhounds that barked and yelped all along the way, making a tremendous racket. I had never seen or heard anything like it.

The hunt clubs were organized like a well-run business, with the master of the hunt at the top of the organizational chart. The master of the hunt organized the sporting activities of the club, maintained the kennels for the dogs—always referred to as “hounds”—and was responsible for accounting for the money raised by the club. Next came the kennelman, who looked after the hounds and helped with the kennel, and the huntsman, who was responsible for directing the hounds. Assisting the huntsman were the whippers-in. These riders carried long whips and had the job of keeping the pack together to prevent straying or “rioting”—the term used when the foxhounds chased something other than the fox. Finally, there were the followers, who rode at the back of the group.

Special attention was paid to the type of equipment one used, and proper attire was mandatory. The official hunt season in Virginia is between October and March, and during this time the huntsman, masters, former masters, and whippers-in wear scarlet-colored coats. They are sometime called pinks. The rest of the riders wear black or dark blue jackets, with the ladies’ jackets distinguished by colored collars. Tight-fitting britches and knee-high leather boots are worn to prevent getting caught up in the branches; brown or black leather gloves are worn to protect the hands; a helmet to protect the head; and a tie, which can double as a bandage in case of injury. During the off season, “rat catcher,” or informal, attire is allowed. That means a tweed jacket, natural or tan britches, shirt with colored tie or shirt with collar and stock pin, and a tattersall vest.

I couldn’t imagine myself in one of these getups, and after seeing Mrs. Kennedy ride I sure as hell knew I couldn’t keep up with her. This was a brand-new problem for the Secret Service. Mrs. Kennedy realized this as well, and it seemed to amuse her.

“Mr. Hill, there is some concern that there will be Secret Service agents riding along with the hunt, and this presents a variety of problems. First, there are time-honored rules and traditions that go along with the sport—and no one is allowed to ride, who is not a member. I don’t want any exceptions to be made for me, simply because I’m the wife of the president.”

“Yes, Mrs. Kennedy, the issue of your protection while riding is something we are trying to address.”

“I know you have experience riding, Mr. Hill,” she said, as she tried to suppress a smile, “and I’m certain you would find a way to keep up with us, but I’m not so sure that any of those other agents would have a chance.”

I couldn’t help but laugh. I could tell that she had something up her sleeve. “Do you have any suggestions as to how we might handle this?”

“Actually I do think I have a solution to the problem. Eve and Paul Fout are both highly experienced and I trust them completely. Perhaps you could assign them the role of being my ‘guardians’ during the hunts. They could ride on either side of me, thus blocking me from view of anyone who might try to sneak up on us.”

It wasn’t an altogether bad idea. “Let me discuss it with my supervisors, Mrs. Kennedy, and perhaps we can give it a try. We certainly want you to be able to do the things you want to do, without imposition.”

In the end, it was decided that the Secret Service policy would be not to ride with Mrs. Kennedy but rather to surveil her from a vehicle, utilizing the existing network of roads and trails to attempt to keep up with the horde of riders as they participated in the “hunt.” If Eve and Paul Fout were willing to also ride on either side of Mrs. Kennedy, that was fine, but nobody expected them to take protective measures should a problem arise. Proximity was going to be a major problem and just keeping up with the pack was going to be a challenge. This was far from an ideal situation, and I knew I had my work cut out for me.

The decision had been made mostly because of the cost issue. The purchase or rental of horses, and you had to have more than one, was only the beginning expense. There was the housing, feeding, and other maintenance costs. The cost of equipment, including proper attire. The expense and problem of transporting the horses to the various locations from which Mrs. Kennedy would ride. It would have required training not only for me, but several other agents as backup. Then there was the possibility of an accident and injury to the agent. All of these things weighed into the decision to go with vehicular surveillance when Mrs. Kennedy went riding. I was somewhat disappointed that I wouldn’t get to participate in what was certainly a thrilling and adventurous sport, but it was the most sensible option.

The perimeter security at Glen Ora was provided by Secret Service agents brought in on temporary assignments from field offices all over the country, and so when they were off-duty they didn’t have the option of returning home. A few of them searched the area for sleeping rooms they could afford, and became acquainted with Bill and Jane Waddell, a wonderful couple who owned a large home on the western edge of Middleburg. The property was right on Route 50 with a large yard, and the house was set back a considerable distance from the highway. The long driveway provided ample room to accommodate the vehicles agents drove to and from Glen Ora. They had a number of extra bedrooms and agreed to rent them to the agents at an acceptable rate. Those of us who were in Middleburg on an almost continuous basis—the drivers for the president, the agents assigned to the children, and me—decided it was better to stay at the Waddell’s than to endure the daily trips to and from the Washington metropolitan area to Glen Ora. This also provided us with the rapid-response capability required in the event that became necessary. Most of the agents had to share rooms, but I was fortunate to have a room to myself.

President Kennedy was not nearly as enamored with Middleburg as Mrs. Kennedy was, so his visits were usually a quick in and out. He would fly in by helicopter on a Saturday afternoon and leave on Sunday after attending Mass at the Middleburg Community Center. Saturday evenings would be casual dinner parties—usually with the Fouts or other friends who had arrived with the president. Mrs. Kennedy would tend to stay in Middleburg until Monday or Tuesday, depending on her obligations in Washington.

I could understand why she preferred the quiet of Middleburg, and the privacy it offered. For even though she did not encourage or invite publicity, the public was insatiable when it came to news about Mrs. Kennedy or John or Caroline. And, unfortunately, the more she resisted the spotlight, the more ravenous the press and the public became. Members of the media would rarely come out to Middleburg unless the president was in town, so when Mrs. Kennedy was there by herself, she could lead somewhat of a normal life. I was fortunate to be able to share these times with her.

Mrs. Kennedy’s focus those first few months as first lady was to restore and refurbish the White House public rooms to their eighteenth-century splendor. Over the years, the White House had been modernized and there were few antiques or authentic furnishings in the mansion. Mrs. Kennedy found this almost beyond belief.

“The White House belongs to all Americans,” she told me at one point. “It should be the finest house in the country—something that people will be proud of—a living museum of our nation’s history. Don’t you agree, Mr. Hill?”

Admittedly, I’d never given it much thought, but Mrs. Kennedy was so intent on this project, almost to the point of being obsessed with it. I also knew, from J. B. West, that the entire fifty-thousand-dollar appropriation given to incoming presidents for redecorating the White House had already been used up on the family quarters.

“I think it’s a wonderful idea, Mrs. Kennedy. The problem is, getting the money to do what you want to do. The Secret Service can barely buy a new car without Congress signing off on it.”

“Yes, the president has told me the same thing. But . . .” She turned to me with a glint in her eye. “I have an idea. I’m going to form a committee.”

“Well, Washington loves committees,” I said with a laugh. “You’ll be in good company.”

It turned out to be a brilliant idea. Mrs. Kennedy developed the Fine Arts Committee for the White House, which was basically a fund-raising committee to purchase antiques and period furnishings as permanent gifts to the White House. She convinced Henry du Pont—a wealthy collector and qualified authority of American antiques who had turned his estate in Wilmington, Delaware, into a museum known as Winterthur—to be chairman of the committee. Du Pont’s involvement added prestige and credibility to the project, as well as inroads to the connected people who would be interested in donating gifts and money to the cause of beautifying and restoring the White House.

Mrs. Kennedy soon learned many items that had been used in the White House at one time or another were kept in storage at Fort Washington. We would walk through disorganized rooms where furniture and boxes were stacked and shoved randomly together. Mrs. Kennedy would suddenly stop at what appeared to me to be a pile of dusty junk and point to a table stacked with boxes.

“Look at the beautiful carved legs on that table,” she’d say with whispery excitement. We’d get the item pulled out so she could have a better look and it would turn out to be a table used during President James Monroe’s administration or John Quincy Adams’s. She had an eye for detail and instinctively knew what would look perfect in every space of the White House rooms.

In mid-March, Mrs. Kennedy informed me she would be going to New York City.

“I’m going to spend several days in New York City with my sister Lee before she flies back to London,” she said. “And,” she added, “I’ll be meeting with some antiques dealers—for the White House restoration.”

Wonderful. Shopping for antiques. I was quite sure the guys on the President’s Detail would never set foot inside an antiques shop. At least she didn’t mention fashion shows or the ballet.

“Great. I love New York,” I said.

“Oh, have you spent much time in New York, Mr. Hill?” she asked.

In fact, the last time I had been in New York City was as part of the advance team for President Eisenhower when he went to New York to help Vice President Richard Nixon in his campaign to defeat John F. Kennedy just before the election in 1960, but I wasn’t about to tell her that.

“Oh yes, I’ve been to New York City a number of times,” I replied. “Where will you stay?”

“I’ll stay at our apartment at the Carlyle Hotel.”

Their apartment at the Carlyle Hotel? Who has their own apartment at a hotel? I had never heard of such a thing.

I was glad to get this information well ahead of time so that we could alert the New York City Field Office of Mrs. Kennedy’s pending visit. Protecting her on the streets of New York was going to require much more assistance than in Middleburg or Palm Beach. As soon as I had the opportunity, I notified Agent Jeffries of Mrs. Kennedy’s plans.

Whenever the president or Mrs. Kennedy traveled to New York, we would rely on the New York Field Office (NYFO) for their expertise in navigating the area. Whether it was to restaurants, a Broadway show, museums, or shopping on Fifth Avenue, they knew the right people to contact in advance of Mrs. Kennedy’s arrival. The NYFO was one of the largest Secret Service offices in the country and they would provide us with extra manpower, and would handle the perimeter security at the Carlyle Hotel.

On Monday, March 19, Mrs. Kennedy, her sister, Lee, Agent Jeffries, and I flew on the Caroline from Washington to LaGuardia Airport, where we were met by agents from the NYFO.

The Secret Service had an agreement with the Ford Motor Company, and they had provided a Lincoln Town Car to transport the first lady, as well as a station wagon for us to use as a follow-up car.

So we headed off to the Carlyle with Agent Jeffries in the front passenger seat and Mrs. Kennedy and her sister in the back of the Lincoln, while I drove behind them in the follow-up car. The previous times I had been to New York with President Eisenhower, it had been a highly publicized visit, which required a police escort. Because Mrs. Kennedy preferred to keep her trips private, most of the time we never told anybody where we were going or what we were doing. From the perspective of the Secret Service, this was the preferred way to handle a trip. The fewer people who knew your intended destination or route, the better. A police escort would have just drawn attention to us, so we kept the motorcade to as few vehicles as possible. Of course, Mrs. Kennedy’s luggage was always a concern and there usually had to be an additional car and handler just for her bags. She did not travel lightly.

I had never been to the Carlyle before, and as I realized we were getting close, I noticed this beautiful structure that seemed to rise up from the city, overlooking Central Park, unobstructed by any other tall buildings. Built in the Art Deco style, the hotel has a distinct look, most notably marked by the octagonal green tiled roof that is topped with what looks like a giant gilded thimble. As we pulled up to the stunning hotel that rose forty stories high, I thought back to my youth in North Dakota wheat country where the highest structures were grain elevators standing four or five stories tall, and I thought, That sure would hold a lot of wheat.

Agents from the New York office had secured the area in anticipation of our arrival. The general manager of the hotel, Mr. Samuel Lewis, was there to greet Mrs. Kennedy and escort her to the Kennedys’ apartment on the thirty-fourth floor.

“Welcome back, Mrs. Kennedy,” said Mr. Lewis as he bowed his head slightly.

“Thank you, Mr. Lewis,” Mrs. Kennedy said with a smile. “It feels like I’m coming home.”

“We hope you do think of this as home, Mrs. Kennedy. And so nice to see you, too, Princess Radziwill,” he added as Lee got out of the car.

The hotel’s lobby had the feel of the entryway to a magnificent home. The floor was black-and-white marble in a striking rectangular pattern that looked like a carpet of black glass surrounded by a white-and-gold border. Beautiful flower arrangements, in the simple style Mrs. Kennedy liked to have at the White House, were on every table. And as we walked in, uniformed employees were standing by to render whatever assistance we required, nodding a polite, “Welcome back, Mrs. Kennedy,” as she walked by.

Directly to the thirty-fourth floor we went, nonstop. The NYFO agents had secured the apartment prior to our arrival and, as the doors opened, a New York Secret Service agent was standing there.

The apartment occupied the thirty-fourth and thirty-fifth floors, and I must say, I was really impressed. I had been in presidential suites in other hotels in New York City and all around the world, but the magnitude and majesty of this apartment residence was almost overwhelming. The spacious apartment had two terraces with fabulous views of Central Park, Manhattan, and New Jersey. The lower floor contained a living room, dining room, kitchen, and study, while upstairs there were two bedrooms with separate baths, and a glassed-in solarium. The Carlyle staff had taken great care to customize the apartment with borrowed eighteenth-century French antiques and original paintings by Pissarro, Murillo, and Degas.

We got Mrs. Kennedy and Lee settled into the apartment and then Jeffries and I went to our shared room on a lower floor. Not as glorious or splendid as the Kennedy apartment, but it was still the Carlyle. We were being well taken care of by the management. Our twelve-dollar per diem allowance would not go very far if we had to pay full price at this luxurious hotel, but fortunately they cut us a great deal. Still, we had to pay for meals, laundry, and dry cleaning out of those twelve dollars. There was no way we could afford to eat at the Carlyle, so we scouted around and found a diner not far away, where we could get a meat loaf dinner for a couple of bucks.

We took Mrs. Kennedy to art and antiques shops as she searched for acquisitions for the White House restoration project, and it wasn’t long before word got around that she was in town. People would follow her as she walked down the street, and clamor to get into the shops with her and Lee. She would offer a curt smile in an effort to be gracious, but I could sense how much she hated the attention and the inability to just go about her business.

The second morning of our visit, Jeffries notified me of Mrs. Kennedy’s schedule for the day. More shopping, some deliveries by Oleg Cassini for her spring wardrobe, followed by an evening at the New York City Ballet at City Center on Fifty-fifth Street. The day had finally come, just as I’d expected when I was first given the assignment on the First Lady’s Detail—fashion shows and the ballet.

Needless to say, I’d never attended a ballet before, so I really had no idea what to expect. Mrs. Kennedy was accompanied by the ambassador to the United Nations, Adlai Stevenson, and somehow the press and the public had got wind that she was going to be in attendance. By the time the performance ended, a huge crowd had gathered on the sidewalk in front of the theater, so Jeffries and I arranged to sneak her out through the rear door of City Center, on Fifty-sixth Street.

I stayed close to her as we walked to the car. She was in a wonderful mood and I could tell she had thoroughly enjoyed the performance.

“What did you think, Mr. Hill? Wasn’t it a wonderful ballet?”

I paused for a moment, before replying. I had nothing to compare it to, but it hadn’t been as awful as I’d expected it to be.

“I really enjoyed the music, Mrs. Kennedy. And I was surprised at the athleticism of the dancers.”

“Oh, Mr. Hill,” she said with a laugh. Whenever she said that, I could tell she could see right through me.

The rest of the week was filled with trying to get Mrs. Kennedy around New York with as few people knowing our comings and goings as possible. She really seemed to enjoy and feel comfortable in the city, and I wanted to make sure she continued to have the ability to go where she wanted, and be as spontaneous as she wanted, without having to worry about her personal safety and privacy.

For me, staying at the Carlyle was the highlight of the trip. I could see why she and the president loved the hotel so much. The staff was exceptional, the service impeccable. Nothing was too big or too small for them to accommodate. I never imagined that three years later, I would again be living at the Carlyle, but in a state of emotional despair that would all but erase these fond memories.

IT WASN’T LONG before the press started questioning Mrs. Kennedy’s frequent absences from the White House, and specifically her use of government helicopters to fly back and forth between the White House and Middleburg when the president wasn’t with her. To avoid the controversy, it soon became our routine to drive Mrs. Kennedy in the Chrysler limousine that had previously been used by Mrs. Eisenhower. Two Army sergeants assigned to the White House garage had been selected to drive under the supervision of the Secret Service, and they rotated the position of Mrs. Kennedy’s driver. I would sit in the front passenger seat so that I had a good view of our surroundings, yet close enough to shield Mrs. Kennedy in case of emergency.

One weekend we were headed out to Middleburg and I was sitting in the front passenger seat, with Mrs. Kennedy in back, as usual. In those days, I was rarely without a cigarette in my hand, and on those drives, I typically smoked on the way, with the window cracked just enough to let the smoke out of the car, but not enough to allow the wind to rush back on Mrs. Kennedy. We were about halfway to Middleburg, far enough outside of Washington that there were hardly any other cars on the road, when Mrs. Kennedy suddenly leaned forward and said softly, “Mr. Hill, would you please ask the driver to pull over?”

I turned around to look at her and saw that she had a sly smile on her face. I had no idea what she wanted, but I asked Irv Watkins, who happened to be driving at the time, to please pull over as soon as there was a safe place to do so.

“Is everything all right, Mrs. Kennedy?” I asked as I put out my cigarette in the car’s ashtray. I suddenly realized that perhaps she didn’t like me smoking in the car, although she had never said anything before.

“Yes, everything’s fine,” she answered.

Watkins found a spot where there was a clear area on the side of the two-lane road and carefully brought the car to a stop. I turned around to see what she intended to do, and she leaned forward again and whispered, “Mr. Hill, will you please come in the backseat with me?”

I presumed she wanted to tell me something in confidence and didn’t want the driver to overhear. So I got out, opened the back door, and slid in to the backseat next to her.

As soon as I was situated, Mrs. Kennedy said to the driver, “Okay, carry on,” and we proceeded on our way.

“What is it, Mrs. Kennedy?”

She had a look on her face like an impish child.

“Could I have one of your cigarettes, Mr. Hill?”

That’s what this was about? I hadn’t ever seen her smoke before, so I was somewhat surprised by her request.

I laughed and said, “Certainly.”

I reached for the pack of L&M’s in my jacket pocket and pulled out a cigarette. I offered it to her, but instead of taking it from my hand, she said, “Will you please light it for me?”

I put the cigarette in my mouth and pulled the lighter out of my pants pocket. I flicked the lighter and as the flame touched the end of the cigarette, I sucked in, and then handed the lit cigarette to Mrs. Kennedy.

She held the cigarette between her index and third finger, put the cigarette to her lips, and took a long inhale. I realized she was no stranger to smoking.

“Thank you, Mr. Hill,” she said coyly.

The driver continued on the road to Middleburg, and Mrs. Kennedy and I sat in the backseat and talked about everything from how the children, Caroline and John, were doing, to how the Secret Service agents were getting along with members of the staff, as we enjoyed our cigarettes. She was like a giddy teenager who was getting away with something, and I was her cohort in crime. This soon became our regular routine whenever we were in the car together.

It was the first of many such secrets we would keep with each other.