THE SECOND MARRIAGE
Gill Paul

Copyright

Published by AVON

A Division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in the United States as Jackie and Maria by William Morrow, HarperCollinsPublishers 2020

This ebook edition published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2020

Copyright © Gill Paul 2020

Cover design © Claire Ward, HarperCollinsPublishers 2020

Cover illustration © Cristian Todea/Arcangel Images (woman),

Jean-Claude Deutsch/Paris Match Archive/Getty Images (yacht),

Shutterstock.com (all other images)

Gill Paul asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This book is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity, and are used fictitiously. All other characters, and all incidents and dialogue, are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008366254

Ebook Edition © September 2020 ISBN: 9780008366261

Version: 2020-07-28

Praise for The Second Marriage:

‘Glamorous and highly seductive, this compelling story explores the lives of two complex, powerful women complete with all their talents and flaws. I loved it.’

Dinah Jefferies, author of The Tuscan Contessa

‘Heart-breaking. Brilliant. Powerful. I guarantee that this fascinating love-triangle story will have you enthralled.’

Kate Furnivall, author of The Guardian of Lies

‘I can’t rave highly enough about this book – brilliantly researched, compellingly told and completely fascinating. I just loved it.’

Tracy Rees, author of Amy Snow

‘A compelling and fascinating story. I enjoyed it immensely.’

Rosanna Ley, author of The Lemon Tree Hotel

‘An utter treat from beginning to end – I’m sure that readers far and wide will fall under its spell.’

Jenny Ashcroft, author of Beneath a Burning Sky

‘A truly compelling story […] This is the best of historical fiction – leaving you wanting more.’

Liz Trenow, author of The Forgotten Seamstress

‘Evokes the world of the jet-set, rich and famous of the 1960s so well I felt I was living it all alongside them.’

Kathleen McGurl, author of The Daughters of Red Hill Hall

‘Addictive and so well-researched. I read it in a day.’

Kate Riordan, author of The Girl in the Photograph

‘This dishy and delectable novel is sure to please readers with its famous cast of characters, its taut pacing, and a truly absorbing story.’

Heather Webb, co-author of Meet Me in Monaco

‘Surprising and devastating […] This is perfect historical fiction.’

Hazel Gaynor, co-author of Meet Me in Monaco

‘Beautiful, tender and humane storytelling.’

Kate Thompson, author of Secrets of the Homefront Girls

‘Such fascinating women and such wonderful storytelling. A fantastic read.’

Joanna Courtney, author of The Chosen Queen

‘A fabulous book.’

Eve Chase, author of Black Rabbit Hall

‘A stunning novel about two beautiful, famous women in love with one of the world’s wealthiest and most powerful men. Gill Paul’s depth of research is exceptional. I simply adored it!’

Renée Rosen, author of Park Avenue Summer

‘An intoxicating mix of glamour, scandal and fascinating insight into the lives of two of the twentieth century’s most iconic women – and the man they both loved.’

Tammy Cohen, author of Stop at Nothing

‘Simply stunning. I lived and breathed it for days, and I really can’t stop thinking about these two women now. This will be HUGE!’

Louise Beech, author of Call Me Star Girl

‘A deep dive into glitz, glamour and heartbreak. Gill Paul’s emotionally turbulent, amazing novels never disappoint.’

Karen Harper, author of The Queen’s Secret

‘A delectable novel about the lives and romantic rivalry of two female icons—such a juicy page-turner!’

Kris Waldherr, author of The Lost History of Dreams

‘Gill Paul brings to vivid life two iconic women of the twentieth century and their intertwined destinies. Sumptuous and spellbinding.’

Louisa Treger, author of The Lodger

Dedication

For Barbara Douka, who gave me the idea for this novel

Epigraph

Of all creatures that can feel and think, we women are the worst treated things alive.

—EURIPIDES, MEDEA, 431 B.C.

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Praise for The Second Marriage

Dedication

Epigraph

Act I

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Act II

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Act III

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Act IV

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Act V

Chapter 71

Chapter 72

Chapter 73

Chapter 74

Chapter 75

Chapter 76

Chapter 77

Chapter 78

Keep Reading …

Acknowledgments

Historical Afterword

About the Author

Also by Gill Paul

About the Publisher

Act I

Chapter 1

Hotel Danieli; Venice, Italy September 3, 1957

“Come with me.” Maria felt her elbow being tugged by the party’s hostess, so insistently that she almost toppled sideways. “I want to introduce you to your fellow Greeks: Aristotle and Tina Onassis. Here they are.” Arm outswept, the hostess announced, “This is Maria Callas.”

Years later, Maria would look back on the seeming ordinariness of the moment. When you meet someone who is going to turn your world upside down and shake it up so violently that nothing will ever be the same again, there should be a warning sign, she thought. In Greek mythology there would be a thunderclap, an earthquake, an eclipse of the sun. Here there was no such thing. Just the murmur of polite conversation, a string quartet playing Schubert, and the clink of champagne glasses under crystal chandeliers.

Of course Maria had heard of Onassis before. Depending upon which paper you read, he was either the world’s richest man and a charming host on his yacht, the Christina, or a crook and a pirate of the high seas. She was surprised to find that he was shorter than her, because in photographs he had the aura of a tall man, but straightaway she liked the amusement she detected in his eyes, the way he held her hand firmly and bent to touch it with his lips.

“I’m honored to meet the world’s greatest soprano,” he said, his first-ever words to her.

“One of the greatest perhaps …” Hyperbole always embarrassed her.

“You must be the only person in this room who plays down her achievements,” he said, with a tip of his head toward the assembled company. There were actors and socialites, some royals, and a sprinkling of politicians, but few from the world of opera, Maria’s usual milieu. The Duke and Duchess of Windsor were holding court, wearing crowns as if to mock the one he gave up when he abdicated the British throne; Princess Grace of Monaco wandered around with a sweet smile pinned to her face despite the conspicuous absence of Prince Rainier less than a year into their marriage; and Elizabeth Taylor was flirting at the bar with a swarthy man who was definitely not her husband.

Maria laughed. “I was assured these were ‘Europe’s finest,’” she said, mimicking the Midwest accent of their hostess, a gossip columnist who relished bringing celebrities together.

“Of course, one should always believe the word of journalists,” Aristotle retorted with a grin, and Maria warmed to him.

“Are you Maria’s father?” she heard Tina Onassis asking her husband, Battista, who had been hovering behind her. People often thought that because of the thirty-year age difference between them.

“Suo marito,” he replied with a hint of exasperation. He didn’t speak much English, only Italian, so Tina switched to that language to chat with him, while Aristotle continued addressing Maria in Greek.

“I’m ashamed to say I’ve never heard you sing. I’m not a fan of opera. It always sounds to me like a pair of Italian chefs screaming risotto recipes at each other.”

Maria laughed. “I don’t think I’ve heard that one. Can you remember what it’s called?”

“No idea,” he admitted with a grin. “But when Tina took me to an opera in Athens I dozed off in the box. At least they had comfortable seats.”

“I think you’ll find that operas are as varied as …” She searched for an appropriate simile. “You are in shipping, are you not? As varied as shipping routes.”

He pulled a face. “But more artistic, I hope. Despite my tin ear, I would love to hear the voice that all the critics rave about.”

She gave a modest shrug. “They don’t all rave, I’m afraid. They ran out of superlatives long ago and now they come to my performances searching for things to criticize. I don’t want to make their job easy, so the pressure each time I perform is immense.”

“That old story: they build you up only to knock you down again.”

“Perhaps you have experienced something similar?” She knew that three years earlier he had been arrested in America on some technicality involving his shipping empire, and grainy photographs of him being fingerprinted had appeared in the press. It must have been humiliating.

He leaned closer, and she could smell a sweet hay scent that was probably explained by the cigar protruding from his top pocket. “There’s a world of difference between us. To get where I am took nothing more than pigheadedness. But you—you clearly have a gift from the gods.”

“I work quite hard too, Mr. Onassis.” That was an understatement. Maria memorized libretti, practiced all afternoon, and, if she didn’t have a performance in the evening, she read opera scores in bed till the early hours. Music was her life. Attending parties like these was a rarity.

“Call me Aristotle. Please.” He touched her arm, just above the elbow, where her glove stopped and bare flesh was exposed. “So, when will I come to hear you sing? You be my guide.”

She smiled. “I’ll let you know when I am singing in a concert hall with particularly comfortable seats. Maybe you should bring your own pillow.”

“It’s a deal,” he said, his hand still resting on her arm.

He was flirting, with her husband just inches away. Maria usually had no time for the directors and fellow performers who made advances, but this was innocent fun and she was enjoying herself. “How can I believe you?” she teased. “Don’t they say you should never trust a sailor?”

“My friends can trust me with their lives, my enemies can trust that I have a Greek appetite for revenge—so I suppose that makes me trustworthy.” His eyes were flecked with gold, she noticed. Shrewd eyes.

“And I? Do you think I should trust you?” she asked.

“If I make you a promise, I will always keep it,” he told her, serious now. “You can trust in that.”

Those words stuck in her head long afterward.

Chapter 2

Venice September 4, 1957

The morning after Elsa’s party, Maria awoke to find a note slipped under the door of their suite asking if she and Battista would join Aristotle and Tina Onassis for lunch in Harry’s Bar at one o’clock. She stretched and looked at the ormolu clock on the mantel: it was almost twelve. She generally preferred to ease herself into the day with a scented bath followed by a leisurely breakfast, but something about Aristotle had piqued her curiosity. She’d expected the world’s richest man to be serious and money obsessed, but instead he seemed fun.

“Battista!” she called. Her husband was reading a newspaper on a sunny balcony that overlooked the Grand Canal. “We’re going for lunch in an hour.”

Harry’s Bar was a short walk away along the waterfront and they arrived only slightly late. A maître d’ in white jacket and black bow tie led them through the restaurant, past the long, polished-wood bar to a table at the back, where the Onassises were poring over menus. Aristotle leapt to his feet.

“I’m delighted you could come,” he declared in Italian, kissing Maria’s hand, shaking Battista’s, then clapping him on the back. “Please, sit. Bellinis all round? It seems fitting, when they are named after the great opera composer.”

Tall glasses of the bar’s trademark cocktail appeared: white peach juice mixed with Prosecco, so light and aromatic, it seemed impossible it was alcoholic.

Maria sat on a banquette next to Tina Onassis, a pretty woman with bleached blond hair and dark eyebrows who on closer scrutiny seemed scarcely out of her teens; there was clearly a substantial age gap in their marriage, as in hers.

“I’m honored you could join us,” she said to Maria. “I’m one of your biggest fans. Did Aristo tell you? I first heard you singing Aida at La Scala back in 1950, and since then I’ve flown to Milan for all your premières.”

“Really?” Maria was touched. “That’s very flattering. Do you live in Athens?”

“We have homes all over the place: Athens, Paris, Nice, Monte Carlo, Montevideo …” She gave a quick eye roll, mocking the length of the list. “But Aristo is usually to be found on the Christina. He gets crotchety if he has to spend too long on dry land.”

Battista was telling Aristotle about the funds he was trying to raise to make a film of Maria singing Medea. She hoped their host didn’t feel he was being pressured to contribute.

“How long have you two been married?” she asked Tina, looking from one to the other.

“Forever!” Tina cried. “Eleven years. I was just seventeen at our wedding and Ari was forty, so I’m sure I seemed terribly childish. But then we had children and they make you grow up fast.”

She pulled one of those faces that Maria had often noticed mothers make: it was meant to be long-suffering but was really a look of pride. She would rather have joined Aristotle and Battista’s conversation about the film business but knew Tina was waiting for her to ask about the children, so she did.

“What ages are they now?”

Tina began to describe them, and Maria’s attention wandered. Everyone assumed that she hadn’t wanted children because of her devotion to her career, but it wasn’t true. She yearned for a baby, ached for one, and it simply hadn’t happened. A specialist had told her she had a malformation of the womb that would make it difficult, but not impossible, for her to get pregnant. She was thirty-three years old and all too aware that time was running out.

She blinked, realizing Tina had asked her a question.

“How did you and Battista meet?” she repeated.

Maria smiled. “He saved me from a life typing businessmen’s letters and got me where I am today.” As she told her story, Aristotle and Battista paused to listen.

IT HAD BEEN hard for Maria to get her break in opera, because her voice was too strong, too mature, for the chorus, and it had an unusual timbre. She needed directors who were prepared to risk giving her lead roles, but most were risk averse—unsurprisingly, given the astronomic cost of staging opera. She had trained in Athens, where she spent the war years living with her mother and sister, then moved to New York, where her father’s pharmacy business was based. After more than a year of disheartening auditions, she at last won a lead role, singing La Gioconda in Verona, and sailed to Italy alone at the age of twenty-three.

“It was a difficult time,” she told the Onassises. “There was resentment toward this young interloper who didn’t even speak fluent Italian yet had somehow landed the lead. The cast pushed past me backstage without saying buon giorno, and I went home alone most nights.”

She didn’t add that she was a whale of a girl in those days, over two hundred pounds of blotchy, dimpled flesh, with a nose that was too big for her face, and thick, black-rimmed glasses, without which she was near blind. Her appearance made her shy and awkward, another reason it was hard to make friends.

“I had a guardian angel, though.” She turned to Battista with a smile. “I met this man at a dinner party on my first evening in Verona and he took me under his wing. He was an opera aficionado and we bonded over our shared love of music.”

Battista took up the story: “When Maria’s contract at Verona ended, her father wanted her to return to New York and work as a secretary. To me, that would have been a criminal waste of talent. I offered to subsidize her for another six months while I introduced her to the directors I knew and tried to get her career off the ground.”

“What a clever investment!” Aristotle exclaimed. “You gained a beautiful wife and the world gained a magnificent talent.”

Battista grinned. “We had luck on our side. One evening, when we were strolling after dinner, we bumped into my friend Nino Catozzo, the director at La Fenice. A soprano had let him down at the eleventh hour. His production of Wagner’s Tristan und Isolde had been advertised, tickets sold, and suddenly he had no Isolde—so I suggested Maria for the role.”

She interrupted. “You have no idea how terrifying it was. Battista pretended I already knew the part, which is one of the most difficult in opera. I had to audition a week later, sight-reading for Tullio Serafin, the great guru who had conducted me in La Gioconda. Fortunately he thought I was capable of the role and arranged two months of intensive coaching to get me ready.”

She would never forget the blind panic of that time: the technical difficulties of the part of Isolde, the wild, passionate Irish princess; the immense pressure of stepping out onto the glittering stage where Rossini’s and Bellini’s works had premièred; the grandeur of La Fenice, with its rows of golden boxes, the ceiling mural of flying Graces, the ornate putti, the plush red-velvet seats. All of it combined to make her feel unworthy.

On opening night Tullio had given her a gift of a Madonna icon—a pretty one in jewel tones with a gilt frame. She remembered trembling as she prayed to the compassionate face of the Holy Mother that she would not let everyone down.

The prayer must have worked, because the production was an astounding success. She couldn’t see beyond the proscenium arch without her glasses but could hear that many were getting to their feet, cheering and whistling as well as clapping, and she was called back to the stage a dozen times before she could finally retreat to her dressing room. It felt like a dream.

“You should have seen the reviews.” Battista beamed. “I’ve never read anything like it. The critics were unanimous that a new star had appeared in the firmament. After that, every director in Italy wanted to work with her, and Tullio became her cheerleader.”

They had told this story before, and she smiled at him as she delivered the punch line. “Battista waited till the third night after the opening, when he was sure his investment had paid off, before asking me to marry him.”

They all laughed. In fact, Maria had been stunned by his proposal. She had so little confidence in those years that she couldn’t believe anyone would want her for anything other than her voice. How could he think of making love to a woman so large that no chairs were big enough for her? A woman with thighs the circumference of the average woman’s waist? She had been reluctant to remove her tent of a nightgown on their wedding night, but Battista seduced her slowly, awakening sensations she adored. Right from the start, she loved sex, couldn’t get enough of it. She loved him too; he was the first person ever to make her feel cherished.

Waiters interrupted them with plates of pink carpaccio, the house specialty that Aristotle insisted they try. Maria was glad he had ordered for them. She couldn’t have read the menu without her glasses, and she was too vain to wear them in public. The thinly sliced raw beef was succulent, tender, sublime. When that was gone, he ordered prawns, freshly caught in the Lagoon that morning and grilled with garlic butter. All afternoon, they drank frothy Bellinis and nibbled delicacies, while getting acquainted. Maria felt uncharacteristically light-headed, and more relaxed than she had in many a month.

The windows at the far end of the bar were frosted glass, and cozy lamps glowed on the walls, so it was hard to judge the time. She was astonished when she read Aristotle’s watch upside down and saw that it was almost seven. Diners were beginning to arrive for the evening meal, and she spotted their host slipping some folded lire to the maître d’ with a sleight of hand as smooth as any magician’s. She guessed he was bribing him to let them keep their table.

Weariness engulfed her in a sudden wave. “I’m afraid I must go soon,” she said, feeling guilty that she hadn’t sung a note all day. It was important that she practice daily.

“I have a final question for you,” Aristotle said, waving away Battista’s clumsy offer to contribute to the bill. “You are at the very top of the tree. I wonder what ambitions you have for the future. Are there any dreams you have yet to fulfill?”

I want a baby, Maria thought to herself. The desire was overwhelming. But that was too personal to mention in present company.

“My dream was always to become a company member at La Scala. For me, it is the greatest opera house in the world. Now I’m there, I suppose I want to sing with the best musicians and best directors for as long as I possibly can.” She paused. “And then I will retire quietly to a lovely part of the world and be a housewife.” She laughed as if she didn’t quite take her words seriously. In truth, it was hard to picture the future.

“Even your laugh is beautiful,” Aristotle replied, his tone heartfelt. He caught her eye and looked hard, as if trying to peer into her soul.

Chapter 3

Newport, Rhode Island Summer 1956

Jackie Kennedy rocked on the porch, one hand on her swollen belly, the other clutching a glass of icy lemonade, which dripped condensation onto her cotton frock. A cigarette burned in an ashtray, its smoke spiraling upward, and a book lay open beside it. The heat was flint dry and oppressive, with only the faintest whisper of a breeze, but she preferred to be outside, where the air was marginally fresher.

She thought of Jack on a yacht on the Mediterranean. He would be brown as an urchin, hopping around the deck in his shorts with a beer in hand, or splashing about in the turquoise water. There was a hard knot of anger inside her. How could he fly across an ocean to vacation with friends when she was heavily pregnant—especially when she’d suffered a miscarriage the previous year? She’d been distraught, and it made her anxious about this pregnancy.

The man she had married was selfish. Entitled. But so charming, so exciting, that she could forgive him his worst transgressions: forgetting birthdays and anniversaries, sending her home early from their honeymoon because he had meetings to attend, even the occasional hint of perfume in his hair and lipstick on his collar from the women who were always fawning over him. Even that.

They were both independent souls who had spent a lot of time apart during their three-year marriage. Washington gossips kept predicting imminent divorce, but in many ways their lifestyle suited them. Jackie liked to go riding and fox hunting at her stepfather’s Virginia estate, to fly to London for some shopping with her clothes-mad younger sister, Lee, or to hop on a train to New York for an early lunch with her hard-living daddy, Black Jack Bouvier, before he got too pickled.

Jack Kennedy’s life revolved around politics; it was the oxygen he inhaled, the sustenance he craved. Currently a Democratic senator from Massachusetts, he was one of the party’s most glittering young talents, with a reputation for his strong stance on civil rights, as well as international peacekeeping and halting the Communist threat. Within the Kennedy family, they were talking about a presidential run in 1960—an idea that Jackie privately found far-fetched, but she admired his ambition all the same.

If only she felt as if he needed her more, she would be content. Of course, she knew he admired her intelligence, her style and class, but his life continued much as it had in his bachelor days. As a politician, he had needed a presentable Roman Catholic wife, and it seemed she had ticked the right boxes. Now she hoped to provide another political essential: a couple of healthy kids.

She frowned. When had she last felt the baby move? Perhaps the poor creature was as drained by the heat as she was. She shifted her position on the rocking chair, nudging her belly with the palm of her hand, but there was no movement, not even the flutter of a tiny foot kicking under her skin. Slowly, clutching her lower back with one hand and pressing on the armrest with the other, she eased herself to her feet and waddled around the porch. Nothing. She jumped up and down, then ran her hands over her belly again. Still nothing. Alarm took hold.

“Nelly!” she called. “Can you come out here?”

Nelly, the housekeeper, was a mother three times over and the soul of calm. She felt Jackie’s belly and asked her to jump a few more times.

“Little ’un’s having a good old nap,” she said, her tone even and careful. “But why don’t I call Dr. Brady all the same?”

JACKIE LAY IN a hospital bed, surrounded by doctors and nurses, paralyzed with fear. Her mother, Janet Auchincloss, sat ramrod straight by her bedside as the physician ran a stethoscope over her belly. What was wrong? She couldn’t lose this child; not after eight and a half months. A miscarriage in the first trimester had been tough enough, but the doctors had assured her it wasn’t uncommon. This was different; she already felt she knew this child, after sensing it move and react inside her.

She watched the medical staff’s expressions, the way they glanced at one another, sending signals with their eyes that she wasn’t meant to intercept. Her mother had taught her it was unladylike to show her feelings, but it was hard not to. One nurse took her hand and Jackie gripped hard, grateful for the human contact. Sympathy was not her mother’s forte. Arranging a ball, yes. Managing the staff at her husband’s estates, yes. Sympathy, never.

“Can I call your husband?” someone asked. “He should be here.”

Yes, he should. Jackie narrowed her eyes.

“He’s away on business,” Janet told them. “Whatever it is, you can tell us.”

It was then they confirmed in words what Jackie had already guessed. Her baby was no longer alive. Sometime between her checkup a week ago and this morning, its little heart had stopped beating and no one knew why. Jackie focused on a cheap clock on the opposite wall, watching the second hand tick. It seemed impossibly loud. She began counting the beats, finding it helped her choke back the emotion that threatened to overwhelm her.

“What happens next?” Janet asked in a practical tone. You’d never have guessed her grandchild had just been pronounced dead.

The doctor checked some papers on a clipboard. “Mrs. Kennedy was booked to have a Caesarean, so we’ll bring it forward. We could operate this afternoon.”

Jackie turned her gaze to the window, where blinding sun was glinting through the leaves of a red-oak tree. What would Jack say? He’d flown off on vacation expecting to return in time for the birth of his first child; instead he would return to a funeral. She had let him down. He would be crushed. Kennedys didn’t do failure.

“That sounds like the best plan,” Janet said, without consulting Jackie.

“Can you call Bobby?” she asked, turning to her mother. “He’ll know how to get in touch with Jack.”

There was a radiotelephone on the yacht, but you couldn’t dial direct. The operator had to request a time slot to transmit through the nearest shore station, so it depended on their location. She recited Bobby’s number from memory, and Janet rose to make the call, as if glad to have something to do. She still hadn’t uttered a word of comfort, but Jackie knew her better than to expect it.

WHEN JACKIE CAME to after the operation in late afternoon, Janet was gone and Bobby was by her bedside. Straightaway he took her hand and said, “I’m so sorry. What a sad loss for you, and for the whole family.”

Jackie closed her eyes to stop the tears from leaking out. She didn’t want Bobby to see her cry. He was being kind, but he must think she was a failure. He already had four children, and Ethel was pregnant with their fifth. She seemed to give birth like a vending machine: pop in the sperm, and out popped a fully formed, squalling baby.

“I’ve left a message for Jack asking him to call the nurses’ station when there’s a connection,” he told her. “A nurse will come to fetch me.”

“Thank you,” Jackie whispered. She was glad he was there, taking charge.

Although more reserved than Jack, Bobby had enough of the family charm that people fell over themselves to help him. She knew the nurses would be fluttery and coy around him.

Jackie wondered what Bobby thought of her deep down. He had always been friendly, although Ethel thought her “hoity-toity.” She’d overheard her complaining about the way Jackie set a table, of all things. Seemingly Ethel didn’t think it mattered whether the knife blades were facing inward or outward and scoffed at Jackie for adjusting them. She would crow now: she was the successful wife who could produce heirs by the handful.

Jackie was still woozy from the anesthetic and drifted into a doze, but she awoke when she heard Bobby’s voice in the corridor outside. A nurse was bustling about in the room, checking her temperature, clattering instruments on a metal tray, so she missed some of the conversation, but what she heard was unmistakable.

“Jack, you have to come back … Your wife’s just had surgery. She needs you … Don’t be an idiot … Of course she’s upset, but you know Jackie—she doesn’t show it … It will be in the papers tomorrow for sure. There’s nothing I can do about that … Just think how it will look politically: ‘Wife loses baby while senator suns himself in the Med.’ Is that the headline you want to see? Well, get your ass back here …”

Jackie was stunned. She clutched her throat, finding it hard to breathe. Jack didn’t want to interrupt his vacation. That’s how much he cared about her. She shivered. Everyone had warned her before they got married that he needed his own space, and she had been willing to allow that, but she hadn’t realized till now that his heart was quite so cold.

Chapter 4

Washington, D.C. August 28, 1956

Five days after their baby died, Jack arrived in D.C. Jackie was recovering at home in Georgetown, where she lay on top of her bed with a fan blowing cool air on her legs. Her sister, Lee, had flown in from London and was bustling around, fetching drinks and tidying the bedside clutter of books and lotions, wearing an immaculate silk polka-dot dress from Jean Patou’s spring/summer collection.

Jackie regarded her critically. It had been kind of her to drop everything and rush over to play nursemaid, but who wore a brand-new designer outfit to look after an invalid, for heaven’s sake? Lee always strove to be the better dressed of the two of them, no matter what the occasion, and her competitiveness could get tedious.

“How are you, kid?” Jack asked, leaning over to kiss her, a concerned expression on his face. “Are you okay? We had a stopover in Paris and I bought you some perfume.” He put a gift-wrapped package in her lap but she didn’t touch it. How could he think of perfume at a time like this? “Hi, Lee,” he continued. “Good of you to help out.”

Lee beamed at him. “Hi, Jack. Great tan!”

“The funeral was last Saturday,” Jackie interrupted, pokerfaced, trying to snap them both into some respect for the solemnity of the occasion. “She was a girl. Your daughter. I called her Arabella.”

Jack nodded, at last serious. “I like the name.”

“Bobby made the arrangements,” she continued, her voice like a knife.

“Good man,” he remarked. “I’ll call and thank him, but first I need a sandwich. I haven’t eaten since breakfast.”

“Let me get your sandwich,” Lee insisted, heading for the door. “Ham and mustard okay?” She was dippy about Jack; nothing was too much trouble for her darling brother-in-law.

Once they were alone, Jackie waited for him to apologize for not returning sooner, to tell her how sad he was about the loss of the baby, to share the grief that was lodged inside her, hard and implacable as a bullet—but instead he began talking about some journalist he’d met on the plane. She watched him, his hair bleached from the sun, his skin as dark as walnuts, and marveled at the electricity he exuded. He had no idea what was going through her mind. None whatsoever. Maybe he never had.

He finished his story before sitting on the edge of the bed and pulling her into his arms. “It’s so sad about Arabella,” he said. “I can’t take it in yet. After all those months of waiting …”

His face pressed against her shoulder and she heard him stifle a sigh—or could it have been a sob? He did seem upset now, but he didn’t feel the loss; not like she did. Her grief was dark and solitary, and it was mixed with bitter anger at him for being overseas when their baby died and then not coming home immediately.

He broke away before long, the moment over, and she watched as his mind flipped to the next matter to be dealt with. “I’m glad Lee is here for you. It was good of her to come.” He glanced at his watch. “Do you mind if I drop by the office this afternoon? Just to pick up messages.”

Jackie was so shocked he could consider it that she was lost for words. She kept her feelings buried, but surely Jack must know how devastated she was, and how much she needed him to comfort her? Down the hall there was a beautifully decorated nursery with no baby to put in it.

“I won’t be long,” he promised, standing up. “We can have dinner together.”

The problem was that she had married a man who was an iceberg. A glacier. Deep down, did he care about anything apart from politics and power? It was hard to tell.

Once Jack had gone, Jackie eased herself out of bed, waving away the maid’s protests. He had left his suitcase on the floor and she lowered herself to sit beside it, gasping at the tug in her stitches. She didn’t know what she expected to find as she rummaged through his sandy swim shorts, casual shirts, and musty towels, but she knew there was something Jack wasn’t telling her.

And there it was: when she picked up a copy of a Saul Bellow novel, a Polaroid fluttered out. A girl with white-blond hair sitting on his lap, wearing a skimpy hot-pink bikini. She looked Scandinavian, with a high forehead, laughing eyes, and a slim figure.

Jackie’s stomach heaved. This was what he was doing when their baby died. Holding the photograph between thumb and forefinger, as if it might contaminate her, she rose, hobbled back to bed, and dropped it into her handbag.

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.”

“I could fly you to Rome on the first,” he persisted.

“Thank you,” she said, “but it doesn’t work like that. I need to prepare for big concerts. For several days before, I’ll either be rehearsing or I’ll be resting my voice.”

“What a bore!” he exclaimed. “I would be vexed if my work stopped me having fun.”

“I’ve never thought of singing as work,” she said, then paused to try and find the words to express herself without sounding too pretentious. “It’s the greatest source of joy in my life. When I’m immersed in a production, it’s so all-consuming and fulfilling, I can’t think about anything else.”

“Like sex, then?” he retorted, and she blushed, glad he couldn’t see over the telephone wire.

“I suppose there are similarities.” Maria giggled, nervously. She wasn’t used to discussing sex with anyone—not even her husband. “It’s as if something else takes over when I sing—a divine energy, a creative force, call it what you will—and it fills me from top to toe …” She stopped, feeling self-conscious. “Now you’re going to laugh at me!”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he said quietly. “It’s clear this is what you were born to do, and I’m glad it brings you such pleasure. You’re lucky.”

“I am,” she agreed. She didn’t tell him that she was insecure, superstitious about her luck deserting her if she changed any of her rituals. She always used the same warm-ups, prayed to her Madonna icon, crossed herself three times, then stepped onto the stage right foot first. Always the right. “But clearly you were born with a great talent for business. I’m sure you get pleasure from striking a new deal and watching the money roll in.”

“It’s not about money for me,” he said. “I love the game. The simple explanation is that I can’t stand to lose, so I make sure that when I set my heart on something, I always get it.”

His words hung in the air between them, seeming loaded with meaning.

Maria was the first to speak. “I’m sorry not to make your party. Perhaps another time.”

“You were going to tell me when I should come and hear you sing, remember?”

“I will.” She laughed again. There was an awkward pause; then she said, “Do give my best to Tina,” before she hung up.

Maria decided not to mention the call to Battista. He was keen to become best buddies with Onassis. He liked befriending the superrich, whereas she always felt slightly uncomfortable around them, as if they could sense she wasn’t their social equal. The rented apartment in Manhattan’s Washington Heights neighborhood where she had grown up with her Greek immigrant parents and older sister had been comfortable enough, but her mother was never satisfied with it: “I’m used to better than this,” Evangelia moaned incessantly. “I should never have married down. What was I thinking?” As a product of that “marrying down,” Maria was still conscious of her place in the class system long after her success had helped her to transcend it.

ROME WAS OVERCAST, with a damp, penetrating wind blowing up the Tiber when they arrived on December 27. Maria and Battista were staying at the Hotel Quirinale, which was connected by a passageway to the Teatro dell’Opera. This meant she could protect her vocal cords from the chill of the streets, but the auditorium was as cold as the grave when she arrived for the first rehearsal.

“Can we have some heating, please?” she demanded. “Presto!”

An assistant stage manager scurried over and promised she would look into it, then sneezed violently. Maria yanked her scarf over her face. She couldn’t risk catching cold just days before a concert.

It was Norma, Bellini’s great tragedy, a difficult part but one she loved to sing. It suited her voice, with all the technical challenges and coloratura. She usually sang in full voice at rehearsals, just for the sheer joy of feeling the muscles working in harmony to create such glorious music. The acoustics were superb, of course, and the orchestra top-notch. She lost herself in such moments. This was the reason she put up with all the pressure and criticism—because the rewards were phenomenal.

On New Year’s Eve, four days after their arrival, they joined some friends for a party in a club called Circolo degli Scacchi. Maria permitted herself one small glass of champagne for a toast at midnight, but only sipped it. They stayed for an hour before heading back to the Quirinale.

“What would you like 1958 to bring?” she asked Battista in the taxi.

“I want to get more money out of La Scala when we renegotiate your contract,” he said. “They bought you too cheaply.”

He didn’t ask what she wanted, but he knew. She’d never made a secret of it. She yearned for a baby.

AS A SINGER, Maria had to be very attuned to the state of her health. She imagined it was the same for athletes, or anyone else whose body was highly trained for performance. So when she woke on the morning of January 1, she knew her throat didn’t feel right: slightly tight, a little bit scratchy. She nudged Battista and mimed that he should fetch the steam inhaler, then wrote on the notepad she kept by the bed that he should call a throat specialist.

While she breathed steam through the mask, she listened to him make phone call after phone call and became increasingly alarmed. No one was working on New Year’s Day. She thought back to that girl who had sneezed on the first day of rehearsal, three days earlier—exactly the incubation period for a cold or influenza virus.

She could tell that one call he made was to the opera’s director: “I hope you have an understudy,” he said, “because Maria may not be able to sing tomorrow.”

There was a long pause, then Battista retorted, “Be that as it may, if a doctor tells her not to sing, she will not sing. She can’t risk damaging her vocal cords.”

Maria clutched her throat. She couldn’t bear to let them down. Please, God, no.

The specialist who came that afternoon swabbed her throat and gave her an anti-inflammatory spray. All day she avoided speaking, using her notepad to communicate, sipping water at room temperature, and having clear soup for meals. No meat, no dairy, no solids.

The following morning, as soon as she awoke, she swallowed tentatively, and felt the tightness had eased a little. Still, she rested her voice all day, and an hour before curtain the doctor pronounced her fit to perform.

She did the warm-ups cautiously, scared to push herself. “Please give me good voice tonight,” she prayed to her Madonna. The Virgin smiled back, her expression benign.

In the first scenes, the notes were true but she couldn’t get much power behind them. The muscles were not responding. During “Casta Diva,” with its leap from middle F to high C and those long sustained notes, she could feel the sound weakening and her top notes becoming unsteady. Her voice was hanging by a thread. It was agonizing, but what could she do? There was nothing for it but to press on. After one particularly wobbly phrase, someone in the audience booed, and she winced. There was a shuffling of feet. They were restless.

Then she felt the instability hitting her lower register too, and the grumbling from the audience increased. “Go back to Milan!” someone shouted. She couldn’t blame them. They’d paid a fortune for their tickets and they weren’t getting value for money.

When she staggered backstage at the intermission, she knew she couldn’t go out again. Her forehead was burning and her throat was so swollen that it had almost closed.

“You need to get her to bed,” the doctor told Battista, after taking her temperature.

The director came to argue: the show would have to be canceled and he would sue.

Battista told him that he was an idiot for not getting an understudy and led Maria through the passage to their hotel. She wanted to apologize and try to explain, but she was so ill she felt close to collapse.

The next morning she heard Battista huffing and grunting as he looked through the newspapers that had been left at the door of their suite. The headlines were damning: “A Million Lire for a Single Disastrous Act,” one said. Another had a photograph of her drinking champagne in that damned nightclub. She hadn’t noticed a photographer; it must have been taken in the commotion just after midnight. They claimed that it was her “partying” that had damaged her voice. “Scandalo!,” “Disgrazia!,” “Insulta!,” they all agreed.

The public attack was infuriating and deeply unfair. In the whole of 1957, she had given sixty-seven performances and had postponed only one—in San Francisco, also on medical advice. She had been accused of canceling a Vienna concert, but in fact contract negotiations had stalled, so it didn’t happen. Hers was a better record than any other opera singer’s, yet the press insisted on portraying her as a spoiled diva who stormed out of productions on a whim. The media had invented a scowling persona for her and were sticking to their story, so there was no sympathy when she caught a cold in Rome. No, this was Maria Callas being difficult—again. They accused her of drinking champagne and staying out until dawn, when it wasn’t true. She was selfish, ungrateful, a disgrace. It reminded her of the litany of complaints her mother used to hurl at her in childhood—“Stupid, ugly, good-for-nothing girl”—and brought back a similar feeling of worthlessness.

As she lay in bed in the Hotel Quirinale, a compress wrapped around her throat, a telegram arrived. She tore it open.

“I’m sorry to hear of your malady,” it read. “Please let me know how I can help. May I send my personal physician? A private plane to whisk you to sunnier climes? Or a hitman to assassinate disrespectful journalists? Your wish is my command. Aristo.”

Maria smiled. All three would have been welcome. But instead she would keep her head down, recuperate, then work harder than ever to get ready for the full schedule of concerts already booked for the coming year—including a run at the Met in New York City in just a month’s time.

Chapter 6

Hyannis Port, Massachusetts October 1956

“I heard Maria Callas sing at the Met last night,” Jackie said during a lull in conversation around the Kennedys’ huge oak dinner table. “She was spectacular. It gave me gooseflesh that a human being can produce such a sound.”

Jack looked up from sawing his brisket. It was tough as boot leather; Jackie had left most of her portion. If she were in charge of the menu, the meals would be much better, but the Kennedys didn’t care about fine food. “Just think of all the votes I could have bought for the price of your ticket,” he quipped.

She felt a prick of annoyance. Running their household was her domain, but Jack was forever complaining about money these days, wanting to know how much she spent on drapes, and rugs—even on towels, for heaven’s sake. She was about to answer when Rose, Jack’s mother, chimed in.

“She sounds like a piece of work. Did you read that Time article about her?”

Jackie shook her head. “Not yet.”

“It says she is a diva who always has to get her own way.” Rose spoke as if this were a criminal act, although the same could be said of any of her children.

“I imagine you have to be very exacting to perform at her level,” Jackie replied. “And I also imagine the Time journalist went in wielding a hatchet because otherwise there’s no meat to the story.”

“Henry Luce and Briton Hadden were the cofounders of Time, back in the twenties,” Jack’s father, Joe, added. “Decent men, both of them, but Briton used to drive Henry crazy when he put actors and singers on the cover. He wanted it to be a heavyweight political paper, leaning towards the Republicans. But of course journalists tend to be young men of principle so it acquired its Democratic bias.”

“Who do we know there?” Jack asked. And, just like that, the subject switched back to politics.

“Ed Thompson will be with us.” Joe began to list Time journalists who might support Jack’s career.

Jackie would have liked to argue that Maria Callas was every bit as deserving of a Time cover as a transient politician, and that her ticket had been worth every last cent she’d paid for it, but she knew from experience that discussions around that table quickly became adversarial. All the Kennedy children were competitive; no one backed down, whether they were playing tennis, swimming, or debating. And none of them shared her belief that culture was equally as important as politics in a civilized society. This evening, she didn’t have the energy to fight them.

Jack stood abruptly, scraping his chair against the floor. “I’ve got a meeting in Hyannis at seven. I’ll grab dessert when I’m back, if you hounds leave me any.”

“Who are you meeting?” Jackie asked, then bit her lip. She wished she could be the independent, sassy girl Jack had fallen for rather than a nagging wife, but sometimes the questions slipped out.

“You know—the team,” he answered vaguely. “I won’t be late.”

He gave Jackie a quick kiss on the forehead, exactly the same kiss he gave his mother a second later. Not long afterward she heard his car’s engine turning over in the drive.

When they finished dinner, Jackie was about to head up to their room, but Joe grabbed her arm. “Let’s you and me go for a stroll. It’s a fine evening.”

She donned a wool wrap against the autumn chill and tied a headscarf over her hair. The Kennedy house was right on the Cape Cod seafront and winds whipped in off Nantucket Sound. The sun had sunk below the horizon but there was still a pinkish glow on the west-facing upper windows.

“You seem unhappy,” Joe said as they walked across the lawn toward the beach. “Is my son neglecting you?”

“No more than usual.” Jackie forced a chuckle. She and Joe had had this conversation before. Prior to the wedding, he’d warned her that Jack needed plenty of freedom, and she’d been able to tell him she already knew.

“You could have had any man you wanted,” Joe said. “I know that; he knows that. You’re brilliant, beautiful, charming, and you’ve got spirit.”

“What’s with the soft soap?” she asked. “Have you got a favor to ask?”

He spoke seriously. “Just that you don’t leave him.”

Jackie didn’t answer for a long time, but walked along the shoreline, listening to the noise of breakers crashing, then ebbing, sending pebbles scuttling. “Why not?” she asked. “Because it would ruin his political career?”

“No. Because I couldn’t bear to lose you as a daughter-in-law. Now, let’s talk frankly.”

“We always do, Joe,” she said softly. It wasn’t quite true, but she knew he liked to think they were close, and it suited her to let him think that.

“You’ve moved around too much since you got married. You need a proper home in D.C., somewhere to raise your family. What if I help you get somewhere real nice?”

“Are you trying to bribe me?” She gazed at the darkening ocean. Fishing boats were heading out, their lights blinking as they rose and dipped on the waves.

“I wouldn’t call it that. I want you to be happy and I’m asking you to tell me what that would take.”

Her eyes blurred with tears, and she was glad of the dark and the wind blowing into her face, so that he wouldn’t realize it. Did any of them know what it felt like to have lost two babies when the other Kennedy wives and daughters were producing grandchildren like clockwork? To have to attend their baby showers and christenings was agony.

“He does love you,” Joe continued. “As much as he is capable of loving anyone. But he’s thoughtless. You have to be very self-sufficient to be with my son.”

“You can say that again.” She wiped her eyes quickly with the edge of her wrap.

“You should get pregnant again soon, Jackie,” he said. “I can’t help you with that, but you know I’m right.”

“You’re an interfering old goat, Joe.” She laughed to mask her embarrassment. Sexual relations with Jack had been almost nonexistent since Arabella had died. She was too angry with him. She should revive their sex life; she knew she should. It wasn’t good for a marriage to let these things slide.

They stopped when they reached the end of the beach, where a fence separated them from the rocks beyond.

“Start house hunting,” he said. “Let me know when you find one you like. Decorate it however you want. Build a nest.”

Jackie nodded. She would enjoy that. As it happened, she already had a picture of her ideal house in mind. And perhaps, if there was any cash left over, they could buy their own place in Hyannis Port and not have to stay at the family home anymore. She’d like that.

A FEW MONTHS later, a Washington paper printed a story claiming that Jackie had been thinking of leaving her senator husband but that Joe Kennedy had bribed her to stay by giving her a check for a million dollars. Where did they get these stories with their tiny kernels of truth? she wondered. It was alarming to think there could be a leak so close to home.

She called her father-in-law, assuming he would have seen the story too. “Only a million, Joe?” she teased. “Why not ten million?”

He laughed, but she could sense caution. “Worth it at any price,” he said at last.

“I’ve got some news for you.” She crossed her fingers before continuing, so she didn’t jinx it. “I don’t want everyone to know yet because it’s early days but I followed your advice. I’m pregnant.”

“That’s wonderful!” he cried, and she could hear that he was grinning. “Third time lucky, eh?”

“Third time lucky,” she agreed, but she kept her fingers crossed after they got off the phone. At long last she hoped to give Jack a child, but she couldn’t help feeling scared. She didn’t know how she would bear it if anything went wrong this time.

Chapter 7

Milan April 1958

It was as if the Rome fiasco had unleashed whole new levels of abuse on Maria’s head. Her voice was as strong as ever and all her performances were sellouts, but the papers insisted she was a diva, a tigress, a monster, and wouldn’t have it any other way. They twisted the facts. One piece reported that she had insisted on rehearsing for six hours straight when she wasn’t happy with a production; it was true, but the director had agreed with her, and the press weren’t attacking him. She admitted to being a perfectionist about her work, but she always behaved with professionalism and never lost her temper, seldom even raising her voice. Yet when photographers snapped pictures of her in airports and emerging from stage doors, editors always chose the ones that made her look as if she were snarling or scowling.

“Does the public truly believe I am this vile creature?” she asked Battista, wincing at a particularly unflattering shot.

“Ignore it,” he said, without answering the question. “Who cares? Your friends know the real you.”

He didn’t understand her need to be liked. She couldn’t stand to have anyone think badly of her. She’d had a difficult childhood, with a mother who blatantly favored her elder, prettier, daintier daughter, Jacinthy. Maria grew up feeling ugly and unlovable, with her voice the only saving grace, so the news stories were rubbing salt in decades-old wounds.

What had she done to deserve this media treatment except be successful? Was she being punished for that, as she had been in the early days of her career when other singers resented her getting solo roles?

Some of the blame lay with La Scala’s press office, who fueled the flames by inventing a rivalry between Maria and another first soprano in the company, Renata Tebaldi: “Clash of the Prima Donnas!” It made good copy, but there was little truth in it. Renata was trained in the verismo school, which focused on a strongly produced tone and dropped the coloratura, while Maria trained in bel canto and had a full armory of trills and vocal flexibility. That meant they gravitated toward different repertoires. Maria didn’t know Renata well, but they were perfectly friendly whenever they met.

All the same, the rumor that they were rivals spread like the plague among Milanese opera lovers. They were a passionate bunch, never slow to express their opinions. If a singer missed a note, they would sing it back to him or her. If a performance was disappointing, the booing and hissing began. Their actions were in complete contrast to the hushed respect of other concert halls, especially London’s, where the audience was so polite that they would never dream of interrupting a performance. Maria admired the Milanese’s love of opera but not their bad manners.

It got to the point that one section of the La Scala auditorium was occupied by Renata Tebaldi’s supporters and another by Maria’s. Whenever she stepped onstage, Renata’s followers would shout abuse, and hers would try to drown them out with cheers. The moments before she opened her mouth to sing were like an ancient Roman gladiatorial contest: “Kill her!” “No, let her live another day.”

“Why can’t I just sing, without all the politics?” she pleaded with the press office, but they shrugged in that maddening Italian fashion, as if to say, “What can we do? It’s just the way things are.”

IN THE SPRING of 1958, Maria was rehearsing two productions back-to-back: Anna Bolena and Il Pirata. That was manageable, but for some reason Ghiringhelli, the artistic director of La Scala, was being childish and petulant. One morning, when he saw her entering through the stage door, he ducked behind a piece of scenery and disappeared, knocking over some wooden castle battlements that hit the floor with a resounding clatter.

“What’s eating him?” she asked the doorman, and he shook his head in bewilderment.

Ghiringhelli sat near the back of the auditorium during rehearsal that day and rushed out at the end before Maria could ask him for feedback.

“Have I done something to upset him?” she asked a nearby tenor.

“I think it’s to do with your contract,” the tenor whispered behind his hand. “I hear he’s in a rage about your husband’s demands.”

“Oh, for goodness’ sake!” Maria exclaimed. “That’s just business. I’ll go and speak to him.”

“He’s not here,” Ghiringhelli’s secretary insisted, panic etched across her face.

Maria glanced through the frosted glass and saw a figure crouched behind a filing cabinet. He was hiding from her. Unbelievable! She considered bursting in and confronting him but thought better of it.

“Please tell Mr. Ghiringhelli that I merely wanted to ask about my opening nights,” she said, making sure her voice carried. “No one has yet told me when they will be.” It was a reasonable enough request.

“Of course,” the secretary agreed, scribbling on a notepad. “I’ll ask him to let you know.”

No word came. Two days later, Maria found out by chance, when she saw the dates printed on a poster in the vestibule.

She knew Battista could be aggressive in his negotiations with opera houses, but she never interfered. Their deal was that she focused on the singing while he handled the business side, but it was hard not to feel alarmed. For all its faults, she loved La Scala with a passion. It was the crème de la crème of opera houses, the home of Verdi and Toscanini, the place where every opera singer dreamed of triumphing yet few succeeded. When she had been invited to join the company back in 1952, it had been the proudest moment of her life. They had given her the chance to sing all the choice soprano roles, and she loved working with their top-notch musicians and highly skilled stage crew. It felt as if she had a real home at last, and a musical family to make up for the love she lacked from her birth family.

“Please don’t alienate Ghiringhelli,” she begged Battista that evening. “You know I would sing at La Scala for no fee whatsoever, simply for the honor.”

“Leave the contract to me,” he insisted. “I think I’m getting through to them at last.”

ANNA BOLENA PREMIÈRED and the reviews were glowing, although the audience was rowdier than ever. Booing and cheering at curtain was par for the course, but one night a section of the crowd was so noisy that she could scarcely hear herself sing. In the third act, at the point where the guards came to arrest her character, she snapped. She pushed the guards aside, charged to the footlights, and sang directly at the offenders, shaking her fist, eyes blazing: “Judges? … My fate is decided if my accuser is also my judge … But I will be exculpated after death …”

Her supporters went mad, their clapping and cheering filling the auditorium all the way to the gods. The orchestra had to pause for several minutes till the furor died down, and Maria stood her ground, fists clenched, glaring at the troublemakers.

It was gratifying at the time, and backstage her fellow performers congratulated her, but that’s when the trouble began to spill out into Maria and Battista’s private lives. Their address was well known—Via Buonarroti 40, in the Teatro district. One day, not long after she had confronted the audience, their driver found a dead dog on the backseat of their car; a few days later excrement was smeared on their railings, and obscene graffiti scrawled on their walls.

Maria began to fear that the hysteria was building to a crescendo and they weren’t safe in their beds. The police came and recommended that doors and windows on the ground floor be kept locked. She couldn’t walk her pet poodles anymore, couldn’t browse in local boutiques or relax outside a café with an espresso—those days were gone.

The price of fame kept getting higher. It was crazy. All she’d ever wanted to do was sing.

ARISTOTLE RANG IN the midst of that tumultuous time. He caught Maria at a vulnerable moment and she let off steam.

“It’s absurd that such beautiful music can provoke such ugly behavior,” she told him. “We have policemen patrolling the theater and I have a police escort to take me from the stage door to my car. Can you believe it?”

“I’ve been following reports in the press,” he said. “Can’t your publicist release some stories to calm the atmosphere? Perhaps a photo showing you and Renata Tebaldi having dinner together, the best of friends?”

“I don’t have a publicist,” she said. “Battista handles press inquiries.”

“You’re kidding! He does that and manages your contracts and bookings as well? It’s a lot for one person. A decent publicist could place positive stories and help to kill the negative ones. I’ve had a PR for years.”

Maria wrinkled her nose. She preferred to avoid the press. “I keep hoping it will die down. I’ll be in London in June; then we’re having a long summer break. Maybe by fall the atmosphere will be calmer. If not, the way things are going I may have to hire a bodyguard.”

“Perhaps you should do that anyway,” he said. “I don’t like to think of you at risk from some lunatic.”

She shivered. “I’m safe at Lake Garda at least. We’ve got a house in Sirmione that is my sanctuary. The locals don’t bother me. That’s where we’ll spend the summer, and I can’t wait.”

She loved the serenity of the little town on the shores of the lake, where the water was as deep as the Alps were high, the ice-cream shops had fifty different flavors, and there was an old-fashioned civility. Her dogs loved it too.

“I was hoping to persuade you to come for a cruise on the Christina,” he said. “Would I be wasting my breath?”

She hesitated. It was flattering that he was being so attentive, and it seemed harmless enough since they were both married to other people. She might have been tempted to visit his famous floating palace, where they would surely be cosseted in the utmost luxury, but she was too exhausted. “This year I need rest and solitude,” she said. “But thank you.”

There was another reason for turning down the offer. Celebrities were often photographed on his yacht, the women chic in Chanel beachwear and cat’s-eye sunglasses. It had been only four years since Maria had lost eighty pounds and slimmed down to her present shape, and she still felt like a fat girl inside. Posing alongside the world’s most glamorous women, with press photographers snapping away like sharks, was her idea of hell on earth.

Chapter 8

Milan May 1958

Maria was in the music room one evening, accompanying herself on the elegant Bechstein grand piano she’d bought with her first paycheck from La Scala, when Battista came in. “They aren’t renewing your contract,” he announced.

She was horrified. “La Scala? But why not? They have to renew!”

“It’s a mixture of money and the trouble that’s been breaking out. Plus Ghiringhelli is being a bastard.” He shrugged. It seemed he was just going to accept it, as if this were purely a business decision and her feelings didn’t come into it.

“No!” She panicked. “Go back to them. Reduce the fee. I can’t leave La Scala!” She felt as if she’d been stabbed. It would break her heart to go.

“We’ve got no choice,” he said. “There are plenty of other opera houses, decent places where you won’t be intimidated by maniacs.”

“Are you sure about that? We’ve got lawsuits with Rome, Vienna, and San Francisco.” When performances were canceled for any reason, it always ended up in the courts. She hated it, couldn’t bear conflict. “If I can’t work with the best orchestras and top conductors, I would rather retire. I’ll give up singing entirely!”

She spoke out of passion, not meaning it. She would miss singing too badly. It had been her whole life. But she also knew that when she did retire, sometime in the far-off future, she would relish the peace. Being able to go out for dinner without dodging photographers would be heaven.

Battista was in a brusque mood, still riled from his conversation with La Scala’s manager. “Don’t be ridiculous! There are dozens of top places where you can sing: London, Paris, and New York, to name but three. Besides, we can’t afford for you to retire. Don’t exaggerate and turn this into more than it is.”

It was quite a speech for him, delivered with brio. Maria rose and paced to the window, picking up a porcelain vase from the side table. He looked wary, as if worried that she might throw it at him, but instead she stroked the delicate, hand-painted flowers on the sides. It was one of her favorites.

“I’ve always told you I want to retire at the top. I don’t want to be one of those sad old has-beens trailing round dingy clubs trying to remind audiences of their glory days. I’m not there yet, but we have to plan for it.”

“For the love of God, pull yourself together,” he snapped. “I never had you down as someone who quits at the first sign of trouble, and I’m not going to let you. Do you hear me?”

He turned and left the room, pulling the door sharply behind him. She stared after him, suppressing the urge to scream.

The following day the papers would report she had been “sacked” by the greatest company on earth, and they would blame her for being a “diva.” It was humiliating and deeply hurtful. La Scala had made her the star she was and now they were whipping the red carpet from beneath her, after all she had done for them. It was a rejection that resonated on many levels, taking her all the way back, yet again, to the little girl whose mother never MARIA LAY IN bed fretting about what the future might hold. Should they leave Italy altogether and try to join the company at another opera house? It would feel like a comedown, because nowhere else was as prestigious as La Scala. The alternative was constant touring, living out of suitcases for more of the year than she did already, and that was a daunting prospect.

Battista was snoring, making a rumbling noise like a lawn mower, and she felt irritated with him. When they’d first been married, she’d relied on his support and his ability to handle her business affairs. She had felt protected. Now he kept alienating opera house managers, and it was a bone of contention that he refused to hire a publicist, as Aristotle had suggested. He claimed they couldn’t afford it. Why was he always the one who decided how her money was spent?

Months had passed since they had last had marital relations. They had become like brother and sister, bickering over trifles such as who hadn’t closed the door of their new American refrigerator. Tensions were exacerbated without the glue of passion. She often felt cross with him for no good reason.

Actually, there was a good reason. He knew she was approaching her thirty-fifth birthday at the end of that year and she was desperate for a baby, yet he never wanted to make love. She had tried everything: wearing sexy negligees and sitting on his lap, rubbing against him; sponging him in the bath in her most seductive manner; rolling over in bed to kiss him, then letting her kisses stray lower. Always he would return the embrace at first, then find a reason to push her away. “It’s too hot to make love,” he had claimed the previous night.

“But I like getting hot with you,” she whispered.

“I’m tired, darling,” he said. “Sleep well.”

She thought back to the early days of their marriage: even then, she had been the one who wanted more. She would have made love several times a day, given half a chance. Battista laughingly called her his “sexy puppy.” But back then he was still interested. Now, nothing.

Was it his age that made him less appassionato? Did he have trouble getting aroused? She rarely felt any hint of an erection. Was it because they lived and worked together around the clock, so there was no mystique? He saw her shaving her legs; did that dampen his desire? Even if he wasn’t attracted to her, could he not make the effort when he knew how much she wanted a child?

A realization hit her, with the undeniable force of truth: He doesn’t notice me anymore. I might as well not be here. She felt like crying once the words had formed in her head. She would never admit this to anyone, not even her closest friends, such as Biki, the Milanese designer, and Mary Carter, a dynamic socialite who lived in Dallas.

Stop it, Maria, she rebuked herself a moment later. He is your husband, your beloved. You are not in an opera now. This is what a real marriage is like. Pull yourself together and get on with it.

She leaned over and kissed his brow, trying to feel tenderness toward him. He didn’t stir.

Chapter 9

New York City November 1957

Jackie watched her one-hour-old daughter lying in a crib by her hospital bed, filled to the brim with wonder. The baby had been sleeping, making little snuffly noises, but suddenly she awoke with an involuntary jerk and began to mewl. A nurse appeared, picked her up, and settled her in Jackie’s arms.

The little girl had a fine sprinkling of reddish-blond hair, like thistledown. Her nails were tiny perfect ovals. The eyes were screwed tight against the harsh hospital lights, and the toothless mouth made strange shapes, as if she were trying to talk but couldn’t figure out how.

Who are you? Jackie wondered. Who will you become?

This child would never know how precious she was. Third time lucky indeed! But her arrival was also tinged with sadness because Jackie’s father, Black Jack, had not lived to meet her.

He had been diagnosed with liver cancer—the drinker’s cancer, everyone said—earlier in the year, but no one had predicted the speed of his decline. Jackie had visited him in the hospital at the end of July and had been shocked to see that the whites of his eyes were a garish yellow. At least his spirit seemed as strong as ever.

“I’ll be home in a week or so, they tell me,” he said. “Not a moment too soon. These nurses have no sense of humor.” He glared at the one within earshot, who was marking something on a chart.

“Mr. Bouvier,” she said, “we nurses have a right to go about our jobs without the patients manhandling us.”

“It was only a kiss,” he pleaded, winking at Jackie.

“Oh, Daddy!” she rebuked. “You can’t go around kissing nurses. Act your age.”

He’d seemed so much himself that afternoon she decided to fly back to Virginia, where she could relax in the relative cool of the countryside. She wasn’t riding during this pregnancy—she was taking no chances this time—but it was always soothing to spend time with the horses at her stepfather’s stables.

Then a call came on the evening of August 2 to say Black Jack had taken a turn for the worse. Jack drove her to New York first thing the next morning, her chest tight with dread. Hang on, Daddy. I can’t lose you, I just can’t, she repeated over and over in her head, fighting off the panic that threatened to take hold.

When they reached the hospital ward, the matron intercepted them. “I’m so sorry, Mr. and Mrs. Kennedy, but he’s gone. It was peaceful at the end.”

I don’t believe you, Jackie thought. Black Jack would never have gone peacefully. But the nurse who had sat with him as he passed confirmed that he had been told Jackie was on her way, whereupon he closed his eyes, seeming content, and never awoke again.

Jack put his arms around her but she didn’t want to give in to grief. Not in a hospital. There were things to do, arrangements to be made.

After collecting the few belongings he’d had with him, they went to her daddy’s tiny apartment on East Seventy-Fourth Street to await Lee, who was flying in from London. The drapes were closed and the temperature was as hot as an oven, with dust motes dancing and an irritable bluebottle buzzing. She lit a cigarette and wandered around, numb with grief, unable even to cry. Jack started exploring what was left of a man’s life: some clothes, a few sticks of furniture, a couple of shelves of books, and a stack of 78-rpm jazz records. “I didn’t know he was such a jazz hound,” he said, flicking through the sleeves.

You hardly knew him, Jackie mused. A few alcohol-fueled dinners don’t make a close friendship.

On the dresser there were several framed photos. In pride of place was one of her, aged nine or ten, holding up a gymkhana trophy. There were photos of her and Lee with their mother, then one of Jackie walking precariously atop a stone wall that was far too high. Her daddy always let her take risks, confident she would land on her feet.

The tears came suddenly as she realized she had lost the person who loved her most in the world. There had never been any question that she was her daddy’s favorite; he used to tell her as much in front of Lee. It must have been hard for her, growing up with that knowledge. Jackie was the one who did best academically; she was the athletic daughter, who won prizes and commendations; the one who resembled him most. Lee had been more beautiful as a girl, and she got to be her mother’s favorite, but Black Jack was the exciting parent, the one they both wanted to impress.

The result of his favoritism had been Lee’s fierce competitiveness, although she was four years younger than Jackie and it was natural that she would not have achieved the same milestones. During one summer vacation she practiced the piano relentlessly, staying indoors day after day, so that she would outshine Jackie at the school recital in the fall. On the night of Jackie’s coming-out party, Lee tried to upstage her by sauntering out in an off-the-shoulder, skin-tight pink gown, a tart’s gown. She was only thirteen and got a mighty telling off from their mother, but she grabbed the attention, just for that fleeting moment.

Lee was determined to be the one to marry first, so she wed her teenage sweetheart, publisher Michael Canfield, while Jackie was still trying to nudge Jack Kennedy toward the altar. Lee and Michael moved to London, where she began attending the Paris shows, befriending the designers, and boasting to Jackie of new acquisitions. She wouldn’t dream of being seen in last season’s colors or hemlines; Lee was always au courant. It sometimes felt as if she had an imaginary scorecard and was trying to prove that she was just as good as, if not better than, her sister.

When she arrived later that afternoon, Lee’s eye makeup was smudged, her hair tousled, and her cream Balmain suit creased, with what looked like a red wine stain on the lapel. Jackie wondered if she had been drinking on the plane. It wasn’t like her to be less than impeccably turned out.

They all hugged, then Lee began to sob: “I can’t believe he’s gone. What will we do? How will we manage without him?”

Jackie stroked her hair, feeling a surge of tenderness. “You’ve got me,” she said. “I’m not going anywhere.”

She had always been the stronger of the two; Lee could fall apart, but she would cope.

OVER THE NEXT few weeks, while Lee often collapsed in bouts of noisy sobbing, Jackie’s sorrow came and went from one day to the next, sparked by the tiniest things. The scent of Wildroot hair tonic. Plus fours worn with two-tone shoes. The racing reports in the newspaper. She missed that feeling of being understood without having to say a word. She and Lee had it sometimes, a legacy of their shared childhood, but with Black Jack she used to be able to communicate her opinion with an arch of the eyebrow, and be rewarded with his grin.

And now, just over three months later, Black Jack’s first granddaughter was lying in her arms. The little girl opened her eyes and looked directly at Jackie, a gaze that startled her because it seemed so knowing. She got the strangest tingling feeling that her daddy was looking back at her. The resemblance was striking.

The door burst open and Jack hurried in.

“Are you alright, honey? Is this her? Oh, my …” He gasped as their daughter turned her head in the direction of his voice, cross-eyed, unfocused now.

“Do you want to hold her?” Jackie asked.

He took a step back. “She’s so tiny. What if I drop her?”

She laughed. “You must have held your younger brothers and sisters. Come here. Like this.”

She took his hand, pulled his arm into the correct position, then passed the baby to him, sliding her own hand clear so the fuzzy head rested on his palm.

“I wish I had a camera.” She laughed. “The look of terror on your face is priceless. You saved the crew of a PT boat from shark-infested waters during the war, and you lambast Republicans in the House, yet you are petrified of a creature who weighs six and a half pounds.”

He gave a sheepish grin, and she thought she had never loved him as much as she did at that precise moment.

Chapter 10

Milan September 1958

“Who was that on the phone?” Maria called over the banister to the hallway two floors below. The dogs had been barking, so she couldn’t hear.

“Aristotle Onassis,” Battista called back. “He’s in Milan next week and wanted to invite us for dinner, but I told him we’ll be in America.”

“What a shame! That’s the third time he’s asked and we haven’t been free. He’ll think we’re giving him the brush-off.” She was annoyed she hadn’t gotten to the phone first. It would have been fun to chat with him.

“I’ve invited him to the gala concert in Paris in December.”

Maria couldn’t think that far ahead. She had so many engagements stacked up for the next three months that she felt exhausted just thinking about them: London first, then fourteen concerts in cities across the States and Canada during October and November. To her huge relief, there had been no shortage of offers to fill the gap left by the end of her contract with La Scala, including a long-term commitment to the Met in New York. She had worried that her career might be on the rocks, so it was wonderful to find herself still in demand. But she missed being part of a company, and she was sick to the back teeth of airport departure lounges and anonymous hotel rooms.

That afternoon she was busy helping her maid Bruna pack. It was difficult to plan her wardrobe in the fall because the weather could be so variable, from one extreme to another. At least they had a week in Dallas. Maria had loved Dallas ever since she had first been invited to sing there. The climate in November would be warmer than Milan, she liked the opera house, the hospitality was lavish, and she had good friends in town. One in particular. That part of the tour would be a welcome respite.

“MARIA! OVER HERE!”

Her friend Mary Carter was running across the tarmac, skirts flying, as Maria descended the steps of the plane at Dallas’s Love Field airport. No one tried to stop Mary; she was statuesque, with an air of authority and a frank, no-nonsense way of speaking that got her backstage at any concert and ushered to the best seat in every restaurant.

“Maria Segunda!” This was the nickname Mary had been given by their Dallas friends because of the similarities between the two women: both tall, both dark, both larger-than-life characters. Maria flung her arms around Mary’s waist and squeezed tight. “I’ve missed you so much!” It was true. Mary was one of the few people with whom she could be entirely herself.

Mary pulled back. “You look tired, honey. You’re coming to my place for dinner tonight. Put your feet up and let me give you a good ol’ southern welcome.”

“So long as you’re not serving grits, like last time,” Maria retorted. “Foul, slimy stuff.”

“Gotcha, loud and clear,” Mary replied. “No grits.”

Battista looked on, no idea what they were talking about. His English had not improved.

Mary’s ranch house was a proper home, with couches you sank into, an outdoor dining area surrounded by sycamore trees strung with colored lanterns, and hammocks swinging between the trunks. Maria slipped off her shoes and walked barefoot on the grass, inhaling the scents of honeysuckle and home cooking.

Mary served a heaping platter of fried chicken that they ate with greasy fingers, along with freshly baked cornbread and a bowl of collard greens. There was a pitcher of Maria’s favorite root beer for the women, while Battista and Mary’s husband, Jack, had bottles of Dixie beer.

After eating, the women went for a stroll around the garden and stopped at a pergola shrouded in bougainvillea with a bench underneath.

“How come you’re looking so pinched, gal?” Mary asked, touching her cheek. “You haven’t been dieting again, have you? There’s not a scrap of flesh on you. Sit down and tell me what’s going on in your life.”

THE WOMEN HAD met only the previous year, after a concert Maria gave in Dallas, but right from the get-go it felt as if they had known each other forever. Mary had bypassed the usual social niceties and dived straight in, asking Maria how she had achieved her famous weight loss back in 1954. The papers had reported all kinds of weird and wonderful stories, from tapeworms to spaghetti diets.

“If there’s a secret miracle, you need to share it with me,” Mary said, slapping her well-padded haunches. “I’m getting married in a couple of months and can’t fit the dress, which is a family heirloom I simply have to wear.”

Maria was disarmed by her frankness and gave an honest answer. “I’m afraid the truth is boring. I cut out all the foods that made me fat in the first place: pasta, pizza, doughnuts, and ice cream … basically, I lived on steak and salad for fourteen months.”

Mary shuddered. “Weren’t you permanently starving? I’d get so hungry, I’d eat my own arm.”

Maria thought back. “I had good reasons to lose weight: my size was limiting the roles I could play. No one was going to ask me to sing Cio-Cio-san in Madama Butterfly. Can you imagine? A two-hundred-pound Heffalump thundering across the stage, pretending to be the fifteen-year-old Japanese beauty?”

“But you must have extraordinary willpower. I start diets all the time and last a day if I’m lucky. Usually much less.”

“I do have willpower,” Maria agreed. “I just had to channel it.”

She didn’t tell Mary that a fertility expert had suggested weight loss might help her get pregnant. That was the greatest motivation of all. She had set herself a goal, visualized the sylphlike shape she wanted, and not stopped till she got there. Every week she measured her hips, thighs, waist, and bust, noting the shrinking measurements, watching a new shape emerge as her excess flesh evaporated.

“I was unhappy being big,” she continued. “I started overeating as a miserable teenager and it got out of hand. But you shouldn’t diet. Being curvy suits you. Get a wedding dress you feel comfortable in and help yourself to a big slice of wedding cake. Eat some for me!”

AS THEY SAT under the pergola, Maria wondered how to answer Mary’s question about her life. She didn’t often have time to reflect.

“It’s been a tough year,” she began. “Trouble with contracts, trouble with the press. Leaving La Scala was horrible. I’ve got a headache that never seems to go away and my doctor says it’s caused by tension, and that I also have low blood pressure. But still the commitments pile up. The Met in New York got me to agree to a whole string of concerts and it seems there’s no letup in sight.”

“Why doesn’t Battista tell the Met to go jump?”

“I’m under contract, so I’m trapped. I just need to find the energy to get through the winter.”

Mary took her hand and squeezed it firmly. “You’re taking on too much. Promise me you won’t sign any more contracts till you’ve had a good long rest!”

Maria sighed. “We had two months at Lake Garda in the summer, but they sped past and now it’s hectic again. Anyway …” She shook herself. “Enough about me! Tell me your news. How’s Dallas? How many social committees are you bossing around this fall?”

Mary had a soft light in her eyes as she answered. “I’ve cut back on the committees but I do have some news. It seems I’ve got a little one on the way …” She patted her stomach.

“You’re pregnant!” Maria tried to force her lips into a smile but couldn’t manage it. Instead, to her horror, tears welled up. She blinked hard and covered her eyes with her fingertips, but emotion got the better of her and a sob slipped out.

“What’s wrong? I didn’t mean to upset you.”

Maria struggled for control, ashamed of her outburst. “It’s magnifico. I’m happy for you, I really am.”

Mary produced a handkerchief from the pocket of her flared skirt. “I believe you … although you’ve got a funny way of showing it.” She chuckled. “The baby won’t change anything between us, you know. We’ll have help, so I can still fly across to visit.”

“It’s not that,” Maria stuttered, dabbing at her eyes. “It’s just … I wish with all my heart I could be pregnant too. I’ve wanted a baby for as long as I can remember.”

“Make Battista give you one!” Mary chided. “It’s his duty.”

“It’s not that simple,” Maria told her, and the story poured out about the specialist telling her she had a malformed uterus and her husband’s waning sexual interest. “I bet Elizabeth Taylor doesn’t have trouble getting men to perform in bed,” she finished.

“I bet that woman has a whole heap of trouble with her men,” Mary retorted. “But why didn’t you tell me you wanted a baby? I’d have been more tactful about breaking my news if I’d known.”

Maria laid her head on Mary’s shoulder and looped an arm around her waist. “I sometimes get the strangest sensation that my child is out there waiting to be born. I’m sure she’s a girl. If only I could figure out how to make her come to me.” She began to cry, softly.

Mary held her close. “It’ll be alright,” she murmured, stroking her hair. “I’m sure she’ll come. I know she will.”

MARIA THREW HERSELF into the production of La Traviata in Dallas, while at the same time rehearsing for Medea. She loved the ensemble she was working with—the director, the musicians, the other singers—and worked obsessively, trying out new textures and cadenza, figuring out ways to make dramatic use of the set, practicing till she was note perfect. She pushed other worries to the back of her mind and focused on making these her best performances yet. What was the point in treading water? She wanted to improve, and working with a great team gave her a chance to push herself, the way she used to back at La Scala.

On the afternoon of the dress rehearsal for Medea, a telegram came from the director at the Met with a schedule for her forthcoming commitments. He wanted her to alternate the roles of Lady Macbeth and Violetta in La Traviata, one after the other, with no rest between. The former was a dark, forceful role, the latter a weak, delicate one, and Maria knew that switching between the two would put a huge strain on her voice. It was the words at the end of the telegram that enraged her: “Your confirmation is required by ten tomorrow morning.”

“It’s like a declaration of war!” she told Battista. “Like the demands Italy made on Greece that forced us into the Second World War.”

“It is the Met, Maria,” he replied. “Perhaps we should agree.”

Mary Carter was attending the dress rehearsal, and she took a different line. “Stuff ’em. They can’t treat you like that. Make ’em wait.”

Maria was at the stage of rehearsals when she was living and breathing the role of Medea, the volatile wife whose husband ran off with a younger woman, stealing their children and leaving her intent on revenge. It was a tempestuous role fraught with tragedy. She couldn’t focus sufficiently to devise a way of keeping the Met happy while not compromising her voice.

“They must give me two more days to think about it,” she told Battista. “Until after we open here.”

The following afternoon another telegram arrived from New York. It read, “Since we did not hear from you by ten this morning, your contract with the Met is hereby terminated.”

Maria stared at it in disbelief. “What did you reply yesterday?” she asked Battista, breaking her rule of resting her voice on a performance day.

“I didn’t reply,” he said. “You didn’t tell me what to say.”

She clenched her fists, digging her nails into her palms. “I told you to ask for two more days.”

“I’ll consult our lawyers,” Battista said. “I’m sure they can’t do this. I’ll threaten to sue.”

Word came back that the Met were within their rights because a deadline had been missed. Suddenly Maria could feel her entire career slipping away from her. Like a landslide, it began with one or two rocks tumbling off a cliff, then the ground shifted entirely. Rome had gone, Vienna had gone, San Francisco had gone, La Scala had gone—and now the Met? It was a disaster.

But when she took the stage in Dallas a few hours later, she channeled all her fury and despair into Medea, giving a performance of such fiery brilliance that she stunned her fellow performers, left the audience enraptured, and even surprised herself.

Chapter 11

Nice, the South of France August 1958

Lee and Jackie lay sunbathing on a raft anchored a hundred yards off the beach. Both were deeply tanned and wearing two-piece swimsuits with halter necks, the height of fashion in France that year, which would have been considered racy back in the States. Jackie had on a cream swimcap covered in rubber flowers.

She raised herself on an elbow. There was a deep valley between her sister’s hipbones and she worried that Lee had gotten too thin again. As teenagers, they’d swapped tips on slimming—eating grapefruit, smoking cigarettes, running in place—but Lee took it too far sometimes. Yet another area where she was competitive with her older sister.

“I can’t face going back to tedious old London,” Lee said, without opening her eyes. “The weather changes to fall overnight, bringing gray skies and damp. I’ve never known such a damp city.”

“Have you got a case of the blahs?” Jackie asked. It was a phrase they’d used since childhood. “Or is it Michael who’s making you crabby?”

Lee and her husband hadn’t stopped bickering since they’d arrived at the villa. They couldn’t find a civil word for each other. She’d married too young, in Jackie’s opinion, without thinking through what she wanted out of a husband, and Michael wasn’t strong enough to keep her in line.

Lee sighed. “If only we had children, I think I could bear it. But after five years of trying, the doctors tell us he has a low sperm count. Just my luck.”

Jackie sat up and hugged her knees to her chest. She felt so blessed with little Caroline, now nine months old and starting to crawl. When she entered a room, she thumped the floor with her hands to announce her presence: I’m here! She had a determined personality, liking blueberries and refusing cheese, with firm favorites among her toys. Jackie marveled that they had created this unique person from scratch.

“Children don’t fix a marriage,” she said. Jack was a doting father, but that didn’t mean he was home any more often. It just meant that, when he was, he lavished attention on his daughter rather than on his wife. “What you and Michael need is money. Serious money. It makes all the difference, not having to worry.”

They were both aware of the importance of wealth from their mother’s two contrasting marriages: first to a man who’d teetered on the verge of bankruptcy, and then to a millionaire. The girls had grown up knowing they needed to marry money, because nothing but debt would come from Black Jack’s estate, while their stepdaddy, Hugh Auchincloss, would leave his Standard Oil fortune to his own children. “Money and power,” Janet Auchincloss drummed into them. “That’s what you need in a husband.”

“Shame Michael and I can’t have an allowance from the Kennedy bootlegging fortune,” Lee remarked, and Jackie shushed her with a giggle. She didn’t ask questions about where Joe Kennedy’s fortune had come from but had heard the rumors, like everyone else.

“Did I tell you I’ve met someone?” Lee ventured, opening one eye to gauge the reaction. “His name’s Stas. He’s a prince in exile, from Poland. But it’s complicated because he’s married, I’m married …” Her voice wobbled.

“Be careful,” Jackie cautioned with a frown. Lee was emotionally precipitous, always had been. “Maybe he won’t leave his wife, while you could lose your own marriage if Michael found out.”

“Michael would never leave me; he’s not the leaving type.” Lee sounded dismissive.

“Is he faithful?” Jackie asked. She and Lee didn’t often get the chance for intimate conversation, but it seemed this was a moment.

“I couldn’t care less,” Lee said, adding, “but I doubt he’d stray; he’s too boring to have a mistress.” She rolled onto her side to face Jackie. “How about Jack?”

Jackie blinked, her mind flitting through the blond assistants with pert rears and pointy breasts who were forever scurrying around Jack at conventions. “Who knows?” she replied, then added, “Infidelity isn’t the worst thing in a marriage.”

Just at that moment, they heard the splashing of someone swimming up to the raft.

“Why, Jack!” Lee cried as his head bobbed up. “What a powerful stroke you have! We were just talking about you.”

Jack hauled himself onto the raft to join them, and Jackie admired the muscles of his upper arms. He was in good shape, even though he couldn’t exercise as much as he used to because of his bad back.

“Guess where we’ve been invited tonight?” he asked Jackie.

She shook her head. “Where?”

“Aristotle Onassis’s yacht is moored in the harbor and Churchill is one of the guests on board. We’ve been invited for drinks.” He grinned, his teeth white and strong.

“Are you sure it’s wise to socialize with Onassis?” Jackie asked. “Is that business over the fraudulent ships all settled?”

“Yeah, we kissed and made up with him back in ’55. Technically a U.S. victory but he didn’t come out of it too badly.”

“Let’s go, then,” Jackie said. Churchill was one of Jack’s great heroes and she knew he would be determined to make an impression.

“Ooh, can I come?” Lee begged.

“I’ll call and ask. We’ve to be there at six-thirty sharp. I think I’ll wear black tie. See you later, girls.” He stood and executed a perfect dive into the sea.

“Black tie?” Jackie raised an eyebrow at Lee. “I bet the other men won’t even be wearing ties. But I guess it’s his call …”

JACK, JACKIE, LEE, and Michael were greeted by Onassis himself at the top of the Christina’s gangplank. As Jackie had predicted, he was wearing an open-necked shirt and casual pants. She winked at Lee.

“I’m delighted you could come,” Onassis said. “It’s an honor to meet you.”

The yacht was every bit as swanky as a five-star hotel. Their host led them along the deck to a seating area near a turquoise swimming pool with a mosaic of a minotaur at the bottom.

“It converts into a dance floor for parties,” Onassis told them with a wry grin, as if simultaneously boasting and laughing at himself for boasting.

“Is that a helipad I see?” Jack pointed.

“Yes, it’s useful when I’m in a hurry.” He circled his finger in the air.

The other guests were seated in cushioned rattan chairs, alongside rattan side tables on which to place their drinks. There were around twenty of them, and Jackie memorized the names as Onassis made the introductions. Jack blatantly snaked his way toward Churchill, pulling up a chair so he could sit by him.

“We met before,” Jackie said, when it was her turn to be introduced to the old man. “At a Buckingham Palace garden party.” She’d been invited there while on a European tour with a school friend and had joined the line to shake hands with Churchill. They’d had only a brief conversation, but it was a cherished memory. She didn’t for one moment expect him to remember, but Churchill nodded and said, “Of course. Yes.”

Jackie thought he seemed befuddled and wondered how much he’d had to drink before they arrived. She greeted Lady Churchill, then chose a chair from which she could observe the party. She loved people-watching. Onassis was circulating, making sure everyone was comfortably seated and relaying their drink of choice to the hovering waiters.

“I’ll have a vodka martini, thanks,” she requested when her turn came.

“With an olive?” he asked.

She arched an eyebrow. “Is there any other way?”

He crouched by her chair, holding on to the arm, and she noticed he shaved the backs of his hands. There was something vulpine about him: hairy chest, glinting golden-brown eyes, a flash of teeth.

“Personally, I’m a man of simple tastes: a good bottle of red, then an aged brandy or cask whiskey drunk under the stars. But I believe there are many types of martinis now, and some young women even take theirs with a cocktail onion. Scandalous behavior.” He grinned. “Tell me, did your baby daughter accompany you on this trip?”

“She did.” Jackie smiled. “But her nanny will right this moment be tucking her into her crib.”

Onassis’s pretty blond wife, Tina, joined them, asking questions about Caroline’s progress. “My own children are ten and seven,” she confided, “and I miss those early years terribly. They were unbearably cute babies.”

Onassis stood to address another guest and Jackie was left talking to Tina about children, but she watched the rest of the party out of the corner of her eye. Jack was doing his best to charm Churchill, giving him the hundred-watt smile and touching the old man’s arm.

“I’ll send you a copy of my book, Profiles in Courage,” she heard him promising, and she cringed on his behalf when Churchill clearly hadn’t heard of it, despite the fact that it had won the Pulitzer the previous year.

His wife, Clemmie, whispered something in Churchill’s ear, and he nodded and murmured, “How kind.” It was then Jackie realized he was a bit senile, and that made her sad. She was a fan of the history books he had written, as well as his stirring rhetoric during the war years, which had galvanized the public in America as well as Britain.

Lee was standing with Onassis by the ship’s railing, striking in a white silk Chanel tunic that had cost a king’s ransom. She bent toward him like a willow branch, head tilted to one side. Jackie couldn’t hear what they were discussing but knew from her sister’s posture that she was flirting. She was a born flirt. Michael was engaged in conversation with an English guest and didn’t glance up. Jackie feared for Lee. Divorces were always traumatic, and her sister was a fragile creature.

The waiters circulated with little plates of delicacies: mounds of glistening black caviar heaped on melt-in-the-mouth wafers, slivers of sweet orange melon wrapped in salty ham, miniature vol-au-vents with pink prawns balanced on top. As soon as a glass was less than a third full, a waiter silently appeared with a fresh drink. It was extraordinarily civilized. Jackie’s mother would have approved; she was a consummate hostess and had coached both her girls in social skills.

It had been daylight when they arrived, but as they walked down the gangplank an hour later it was dark, and the lights of the town twinkled in a giant smile.

Jackie teased Jack about his obvious courting of the former prime minister. “I’m not sure you made much of an impression. If anything, he looked baffled. I think he thought you were the waiter.”

Jack grinned. “You were right that I was overdressed in black tie. I never can understand dress codes.”

“Why is Churchill cruising with them?” Lee asked. “I wouldn’t have thought he and Onassis had much in common.”

It was Jack who answered: “Onassis collects celebrities. He’s had Garbo, the Grimaldis, all kinds of rich and famous on board, and Churchill is the biggest prize of all. Whoever said money can’t buy you friends was a fool.”

Jackie linked her arm with his as they walked down the quay toward Chez Palmyre, the restaurant where they had dinner reservations. “I don’t think anyone ever said that, darling. It’s so patently untrue.”

Chapter 12

Paris, France December 19, 1958

“Are you sure you haven’t forgotten anything?” Maria wrote on her notepad, and held it up for Battista to see. Her gala performance at the Paris Opéra was that evening and she felt agitated.

“Of course not.” He never had any patience with her pre-performance nerves.

Maria looked at him, sitting with his legs slung over the arm of his chair, reading an Italian newspaper without a care in the world. Her faith in him had sunk to an all-time low after they lost the Met contract. A decent manager would have salvaged the situation, but instead there were denigrating headlines alleging that she had been scared her voice wasn’t up to the role of Lady Macbeth. It simply wasn’t true—she’d sung it many times. A good publicist could have contradicted them, but it was left to Maria to call radio-show hosts and press contacts to deny it. She felt humiliated at being forced on the defensive.

It was no wonder that she was alarmed about Battista being in charge of so many of the arrangements for the evening’s concert, which was to be televised live in nine European countries. The 2,130 seats had sold out overnight despite a steep price of 35,000 francs apiece, and Maria’s fee was a record-breaking 5 million francs. Those figures rattled her, increasing the pressure exponentially.

“You’ve sung to audiences this big before,” Battista replied.

He couldn’t understand that the more famous she became, the harder it was. What if her top notes weren’t there tonight? Sometimes—not often, mercifully—they just refused to come. It happened to all first sopranos, but it would be devastating if it occurred when television viewers across Europe were watching, many of them hearing her for the first time.

She walked through to the bedroom and slammed the door, then poured herself a glass of water. She had to drink lots of water on performance days, served at room temperature, no ice. Standing by the window, with a view of the Paris skyline, she ran through some exercises to relax her throat and jaw, but found it hard to concentrate. No longer feeling that she could trust Battista made it hard to focus. He wasn’t any different; the change was within her. She wished there wasn’t such a chasm between them and that she didn’t feel quite so alone in her marriage.

She heard a knock at the door of their suite and Battista calling “Come in.” When she popped her head out, she saw a bellhop carrying a huge bouquet of red roses, at least two dozen of them.

“For Mrs. Callas,” he said, placing them on the table.

Maria picked up the card, which was in Greek, and smiled as she read it: “This evening you have one chance to change my mind about opera. Aristo.” She inhaled the summery scent of the roses as the bellhop produced a vase in which to display them.

She nudged Battista, hoping he would offer the man a tip, but he didn’t look up from his newspaper, so she had to scrabble for a few francs in her own purse.

“How did Aristotle know where we were staying?” she wrote on her notepad.

“He called last week wanting an invitation to the after-show party,” her husband replied. “I must have told him then.”

Maria was pleased. It was a good night for him to hear her for the first time. She was singing a program of famous arias in the first half, followed by the second act of Tosca—all of it easy listening. Maybe Mr. Onassis would even stay awake.

MORE ROSES ARRIVED from Aristotle later in the afternoon, but by then Maria was engrossed in her pre-performance warmups and paid little attention. By the time they reached the Opéra she had already begun her transformation into her stage alter ego, a figure whom, in her head, she called “La Callas.”

She placed the Madonna icon on her dressing table and sipped water as her hair and makeup were done, focusing her mind as she watched her reflection. Two dressers helped her into a champagne satin gown trimmed with sable, and fastened the million dollars’ worth of diamonds she had been lent for the night by Van Cleef & Arpels. Their security guard sat outside her dressing room, looking officious, and he would stay in the wings throughout the performance.

Once she was in costume, Maria sang a few trills, reaching F⁵ with ease. Her throat felt fine. When the time came, she walked to the stage with only the slightest flutter of nerves in her stomach, handed her glasses to the security guard, who happened to be nearby, crossed herself three times, and then stepped out on her right foot.

Time flew, until two hours later she was standing and shaking with emotion at the jubilant ovations. The French never rose to their feet—never—but tonight they were standing and cheering. Bouquets were thrown onto the stage and she stooped to collect an armful. When she tried to leave, she was drawn back for curtain call after curtain call. While she was singing, Maria had forgotten about the television cameras, but now she looked for them, wondering how she had sounded, how she had looked.

It always felt strange after a performance, as if she were returning from a voyage to a distant land. She was disoriented, her ears ringing with the applause, as she walked to the opera house’s grand foyer and stepped out to greet the party guests.

In an instant Onassis was at her side, taking her hands in his. “You made me cry,” he told her. “Real tears rolled down my cheeks. You were magnificent. Truly.”

“I apologize for your distress,” she replied. “But I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

“There are no words to express how I felt.” He looked into her eyes, pressing her fingertips. “I still have goose bumps.”

He had been speaking Greek but used the phrase in English, and his pronunciation made her laugh.

“I apologize for them too.”

They couldn’t talk further because others were hovering nearby, waiting to be introduced. She was dazzled by the turnout of the rich and distinguished, their jewels glinting: the Rothschilds, the Windsors, the Aga Khan, Brigitte Bardot, and Charlie Chaplin. They all greeted her like old friends, which felt phony because she’d never met any of them apart from the Windsors, and they were merely the slightest of acquaintances.

Tables were laid for supper beneath the sparkling chandeliers and ornate gilt-framed ceiling paintings of the foyer. There was a seating chart with place cards, but Onassis swapped his card for Battista’s and sat down beside Maria. She laughed at his audaciousness but didn’t force him to undo the mischief. Battista looked baffled at first, then shrugged and accepted the new arrangement with good humor.

“You looked as if you were experiencing every emotion onstage,” Aristotle said, once they were seated. “How do you get into character, particularly on evenings like this when you have to switch from one role to the next?”

“It’s not a conscious process,” she admitted. “I immerse myself in the music and feel the emotion coming through the notes. The composer has done the work for me.”

“And now you emerge to entertain your adoring public.” He was watching her closely. “That must be a difficult transition.”

“You’re very astute.” She smiled. “It can be hard after a particularly dramatic role, but I am fine this evening.”

“So I am definitely speaking to Maria, not Tosca’s Floria?”

“Aha! You read the program!” she quipped.

Aristotle grinned.

“I’m not planning to leap to my death from a parapet before the end of our supper, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Waiters brought appetizers, and she turned to speak with the director, who was on her left, but by the time the main course was served Onassis had reclaimed her attention.

“I wonder if I could tempt you to come for a cruise on the Christina next summer?” he asked. “We will have a distinguished party on board. Winston and Clementine Churchill join us every year. There are Greek musicians and you would not be required to sing a note, but could tour the islands of our homeland, swim, eat, drink—whatever your heart desires.”

He was leaning close, his voice lowered, and she could feel lust emanating from him. He wanted her badly, and she had to admit that she was attracted to him too. There was an animal quality she found very sexy. It was flattering to be pursued, but at the same time she sensed it was La Callas he wanted, the creature he had seen onstage, not her; not Maria.

“That’s a tempting offer,” she replied. “I’ll have to check my schedule—and my husband’s too. It’s our tenth wedding anniversary next year and he may have something planned.” She watched his face as she threw in a reminder of her marital status, but he didn’t falter.

“I hope he cherishes you,” he whispered into her ear, his hand resting on her shoulder and his breath tickling her cheek.

Chapter 13

Hyannis Port November 1958

Jackie arrived at Rose and Joe Kennedy’s house and let herself in. She’d spent the past hour trying to decide what to wear for a television show entitled At Home with the Kennedys that was being filmed that afternoon. She wanted to look elegant but not overdressed. Finally she’d opted for a plain dark-green wool dress with bracelet sleeves, and a string of pearls. Her hair was backcombed but she applied only the subtlest of makeup, her mother’s voice ringing in her ears: “Men want to see a pretty face, not a painted mannequin.”

As she hesitated in the hall, she heard male voices in the dining room and took a step closer, wondering if Jack was there.

“She’s polling as too remote, too upper class, not someone who shares their concerns,” said a voice Jackie recognized as belonging to Jack’s brother Teddy, and straightaway she knew he was talking about her. It was so unfair. America was a huge country and she was never going to appeal to every demographic.

“What do you want her to do?” Jack replied. “Talk about the brand of soap powder she buys? People might say in polls that they think she’s remote but look how many more turn out when she comes to rallies with me.”

At least he was standing up for her; that was something.

“You’ve gotta talk to her about her clothes,” someone else said, a voice she couldn’t place. “If it’s gotta be designer names, ask her to make it homegrown American designers, not fancy French ones.”

“I’ll try,” Jack said. “But don’t bank on it. Jackie’s got strong views on her clothes.”

Jackie looked down. The dress she was wearing was Lanvin. She couldn’t remember whether she had any American designer frocks in her closet. And anyway it was too late to change now.

What right did they have to dissect her like this? It was irritating to be discussed behind her back. Her hand hovered over the doorknob as she considered bursting in to remonstrate, but what would it achieve? Instead she walked toward the living room, where she could see the TV crew positioning a huge black camera. Rose Kennedy and Jack’s sisters Eunice and Jean were already sitting on some floral-patterned couches and chairs that had been arranged in a C shape.

“Hi, everybody,” she said, smiling at the TV folk and then her in-laws.

“There you are,” Rose said in a friendly enough voice but without a smile.

Jackie knew she was seen as an interloper by the Kennedy women, but she was tolerated as long as she toed the line and played the role of a politician’s ideal wife. Was she late today? She glanced at her watch. Less than five minutes. She sat down by Rose and smoothed her skirt.

“Can I powder your nose, Mrs. Kennedy?” A woman approached her with a powder puff. “Television brings out the shine.”

She leaned her head back, inhaling the old-lady scent and hoping she wasn’t going to look as if she were coated in flour.

Teddy appeared in the doorway and had a chat with one of the team, perhaps the director, about the running order. Then he turned to her. “Jackie, we’re going to start with Rose asking whether you like campaigning, so get your answer ready. You know the kind of thing: Meeting the people your husband represents is a great honor. You’ll do whatever you can to support him, but your most important role is making his home comfortable and raising his daughter.”

Jackie felt patronized. “And there I was, about to say I hope Jack gets voted out so I never have to attend another rally for the rest of my life.”

Rose rolled her eyes, glancing at her daughters.

Teddy cleared his throat. “Can you deepen your voice?” he asked. “It sometimes sounds a bit too high, too breathy.”

Jackie was a talented mimic, and she imitated various accents as she asked, “What would you prefer? Flat Boston? A southern drawl? California girl?”

Teddy chuckled. “Just yourself, but a little less patrician.”

“Have you been on TV before, Mrs. Kennedy?” one of the crew asked. “Do you know about not looking into the camera? Just pretend we’re not here.”

She nodded and replied crisply: “I surely will.”

Once the camera was rolling, she tried to lower her voice but it felt false. She sounded like a schoolmarm teaching class as she gushed, “I’ve enjoyed campaigning so much …”

JACK KNEW FROM the start that she came from a society family; that was part of the attraction for him. He liked that she spoke French, Italian, and Spanish and had studied art and literature. He was tickled that she had been “debutante of the year” in 1948 and that her favorite pastimes were horseback riding and reading. If he’d wanted someone more down-home, he should have thought about it way back then.

The first time they met was on a train from Washington to New York, when she was still a student at Vassar College and he was a newly elected congressman from Massachusetts. He leaned across the aisle to introduce himself, and her first impression was that he looked very Irish, with his thick reddish-blond hair, broad face, and arresting gray-green eyes. She felt uncomfortable telling a stranger her name but it would have been rude not to, and, after all, he was a congressman.

“You seem fresh and incorruptible in your crisp white frock,” he said next, “but I’ve got a theory about girls like you.”

Jackie’s hackles rose. “Is that so? You know nothing about me.”

He grinned, like a cheeky kid with his fist in the cookie jar. “I bet you are the best kind of kisser. I can always tell.”

She thought of opening a book to terminate the conversation, but part of her was intrigued. She and her girlfriends were forever talking about what made men fall in love with one girl over another, and not always going for the prettiest one either, so she decided to use Jack as research.

“Are there many different kinds of kisser in your vast experience?” she asked, hoping he caught the sarcasm.

“Four main types, with lots of variations,” he said, ticking them off on his fingers. “There’s the frigid type with bone-dry lips who give a quick peck then run away scared as chickens; there’s the girls who are too busy trying to kiss the way they think they ought to, following advice they’ve read in some magazine, to actually enjoy themselves; there’s the types who scare a guy to death by coming on too strong, all panting, drooling, and desperate eyes; and then there’s the ones like you, who relax and surrender to the sensation of lips on lips and just enjoy the kiss for itself.”

Jackie willed herself not to blush. “I hope you are not expecting me to prove your theory true, Mr. Kennedy.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he said with a grin. “What kind of a lecher do you take me for?”

When the train pulled in to Penn Station, he tried to persuade her to come to a nearby bar for a drink but disappeared pronto when he heard she was meeting her daddy.

She assumed she would never see him again, but four years later, in June 1951, her friends Charles and Martha Bartlett invited her for dinner, saying there was a man they thought she might like to meet. She walked into their front room—and there was Jack Kennedy.

“We’ve already had the pleasure,” Jackie interrupted as her hosts began the introductions.

“You’re the one who’s a great kisser.” Jack grinned, and Jackie had to laugh.

She had been eighteen when she’d met him before; now she was twenty-two and far more self-assured. She had traveled around Europe, spent an entire summer in France, and was due to return there the following week for an extended trip with Lee before she took a job as “inquiring photographer” for the Washington Times-Herald.

Jack glanced at her left hand. “I had assumed you would be married by now, Miss Bouvier.”

“You assumed wrong, Mr. Kennedy.”

She’d had dozens of beaus, of course, but they all wanted to turn her into a housewife. They clearly hadn’t read her high-school yearbook, where she noted that her ambition was “not to be a housewife.” She wanted more; she didn’t know what, exactly, but was sure she would find it eventually. And when Jack began talking about politics, her interest was piqued. She admired the fact that he was ambitious and wanted to create social change. She was impressed to hear that he was a war hero. She found him attractive, and maybe she had an inkling that life with a man like that would never be humdrum.

At the end of the evening, he asked if she wanted to go for a nightcap, but Jackie had already arranged to meet a friend and didn’t want to let him down.

“In that case, give me a call when you’re back from Europe,” he suggested.

Jackie thought that was too casual. If he wanted to see her again, he should ask Charles Bartlett to let him know when she returned, and he should call her. She wasn’t the type of girl to chase a man.

IN FACT, THE way things turned out, once they started dating she did have to chase Jack Kennedy. It came as a surprise to her when she fell headlong in love with him. Even more of a surprise was that he didn’t seem quite as smitten. Before then, Jackie had always possessed the knack of making men fall for her. She would ask all about them and listen attentively, as if they were the most fascinating people she’d ever met; she would laugh at their jokes, no matter how feeble; she would be sassy and funny but never overshadow them. None of those techniques worked on Jack, though. He liked her, sure, but she could tell he wasn’t in love, and she knew she wasn’t the only girl he was dating.

So Jackie stepped up her game. She read tedious books about political theory so that she could discuss them with him; she translated papers from French to help him in his work; she took hot meals to his office on evenings when he was working late; and she charmed his father, old Joe Kennedy, when Jack took her to meet the family at Hyannis Port.

Was it the fact that she couldn’t win his heart easily that made her so determined? No, it wasn’t just that. He was different from every other man she’d met: unpredictable, brave, witty, clever, and fiercely, burningly ambitious. Politics came first, second, and third on his priority list. It wasn’t long before she knew she wanted to marry him, but how could she get him to pop the question? At twenty-three, she was virtually the only one of her college friends who hadn’t walked down the aisle.

It was her daddy who told her that she would have to play hard to get if she was ever to make Jack propose.

“Cancel dates at short notice. Be vague about your plans. Whatever you do, don’t seem desperate,” he advised.

Jack’s sister Eunice was getting married in the summer of 1953, and he asked Jackie to accompany him to the wedding, but, following her daddy’s advice, she persuaded the Times-Herald to send her to London to report on the coronation of Elizabeth II. It was a gamble; perhaps he’d take another girl in her stead, someone who would finagle her way into his affections.

Jack seemed surprised by her decision. “I wanted you to get a chance to meet the wider Kennedy clan,” he said. “And there was a question I was planning to ask you beforehand.”

He said it in such a casual way that she had no inkling of what would come next. “Oh, yes? And what might that be?”

“I want you to marry me, kid. You know we make a great team.” He grinned his naughty-boy grin. “What do you say?”

She was stunned. She’d begun to think he might be a lost cause, especially after a recent magazine article reported that he was dating the actress Audrey Hepburn.

“When did you decide to propose?” she asked, wondering if it was her booking the trip to London that had nudged him into it.

“About a year ago. I decided to wait, but I knew all along you were the one.”

She hit him on the arm and exclaimed, “How big of you!” But she couldn’t stop smiling as he pulled her in for a kiss.

THE BIBLICAL QUOTATION “As ye sow, so shall ye reap” came to Jackie’s mind as she posed for the television cameras with Caroline on her knee. She’d fallen for a man who put his career first, and that’s what she’d gotten. The midterm elections were coming up, and since September 15 she had been on the road with Jack, appearing by his side on platforms throughout the length and breadth of Massachusetts, greeting dignitaries and their identical wives, listening to the same speech over and over with a fixed smile that made her jaw ache.

Her daughter was tired and crotchety that afternoon, with red teething spots on her cheeks. Jackie unfastened her pearls and handed them over to distract her. Jack came to sit beside them, in an attempt to leave voters with a wholesome family image at the end of the documentary. The film crew wanted Caroline to smile, but she was squirming and close to tears.

When at last they’d gotten the shots they wanted, Jackie whispered, “Thank God! That was excruciating.”

Jack patted her shoulder quickly but didn’t once thank her. It was taken for granted that she would play her part.

“Did Teddy tell you we’ve got Time magazine coming to the house next Wednesday?” he asked. “They’re going to interview me and take some photographs.”

Jackie sighed. “So that Mrs. Average Voter can check out my taste in drapes?” Caroline was trying to stuff the entire string of pearls into her mouth and squawked loudly when Jackie peeled them from her fist. “I hope they’ll stay downstairs and not invade our bedroom, at least.”

Jack’s mind was already half-engaged elsewhere. He glanced down the hall toward the dining room, where his team was still at work. This wasn’t the best time to get picky with him.

“Hell, I would give them a nude shot of you if I thought it would win me a hundred more votes …” He leaned over to kiss her cheek, then stood up. “But I guess that’s not what Teddy means by ‘family values.’”

“I believe you would,” Jackie murmured, but he had already gone.

Chapter 14

The Mediterranean August 1959

Much as she enjoyed Aristotle Onassis’s company, Maria didn’t plan to accept his renewed offer of a cruise on the Christina. Aside from the prospect of paparazzi photographing her in swimwear, she preferred friends who were not in the limelight, loyal ones like Mary Carter. She knew none of her inner circle would talk about her to the press; that was of paramount importance. But she couldn’t trust the guests Aristotle might invite.

In the end, though, Battista was insistent that they should accept. He loved mingling with the rich and famous, enjoyed all the accoutrements of real wealth. She wondered if he was aware that Onassis was flirting with her. And, if so, did he even care? As long as it didn’t go too far, he might decide it was good publicity.

Aristotle’s attentions had become even more apparent at a party he threw for her in London’s Dorchester Hotel after she sang at Covent Garden that June. He scarcely left her side all night and they danced together several times. She decided Battista was either oblivious to it or flattered by it—he loved to wallow in the reflected glory of her fame.

At last she let him persuade her to go on the cruise, on the proviso that they could disembark at any time if she felt uncomfortable. She would get her friend Biki to create a cruise wardrobe, with plenty of light cover-ups that she could throw on when they were close to shore. Both their spouses would be present, as would the Churchills and several other guests, so that would stop Aristotle from taking liberties. Not that she would have let him anyway, she told herself.

They boarded the yacht in Monaco and were shown down a grand staircase lined with onyx pillars, then along a corridor to a guest suite that had the name Ithaca on the door. Inside were a sitting room, bedroom, and dressing room, all with wood-paneled walls, solid gold fixtures in the shape of dolphins, Venetian glass screens, and a carpet that her feet sank into. Through wooden doors she found twin marble bathrooms. It was more luxurious than the top hotel suites.

Tina Onassis arrived to give Maria a personal tour of the facilities: a beauty and hairdressing salon, a library, a laundry, and two kitchens—one for Greek food, one for French.

“We have cocktails on deck at six-thirty, then dinner at eight-fifteen. Earlier in the day, please ask the waiting staff for whatever food and drinks you require,” she said.

“It sounds wonderful,” Maria replied, relieved she was not required to rise for an early breakfast. She was a night owl and seldom awoke before noon.

Tina opened the door to a sumptuous lounge. “There’s a Steinway piano here. I thought you might like to use it when you practice.”

“How thoughtful! But I’ve decided to give myself a break from singing.” She pressed Tina’s hands between her own. “Frankly, it’s been a hectic year, and I just want to relax and rest my voice.”

Tina beamed. “We’ll make sure you do that, alright.”

The two women embraced, and Maria looked at her hostess closely. Her complexion was fresh and there was no hint of a wrinkle, although she had celebrated her thirtieth birthday earlier that year, making her just six years Maria’s junior. Tina had never done a day’s work in her life: she’d been born into a wealthy Greek ship-owning family, then married Onassis at eighteen, and he’d taken care of her ever since. But who knew? Maybe there were pressures in her life all the same.

TWENTY OF THEM sat down to dinner on either side of the long, elegant dining table. Stars twinkled through a skylight and candles flickered in silver holders on the walls. Churchill was the guest of honor, in the middle with Onassis by his side, but Maria was seated opposite, where she could see the great man up close. He was, of course, instantly recognizable, with those jowls and the broad, high forehead, but Maria was puzzled by the vacant look in his blue eyes. He was like a child. His wife, Clemmie, kept glancing across to check on him, but Onassis had taken charge.

“Remind me again: Where are we?” Churchill asked his host, sounding bewildered.

“You’re on a summer holiday, on my yacht. We’ll be setting sail soon.” Onassis spoke with infinite patience.

“Ah, yes. A yacht. That’s like a boat, isn’t it? I enjoy boating.”

As appetizers, there were eight types of caviar served in tiny heaps, with melba toast on the side. Churchill frowned as he tried to decide how to eat it. Finally he scooped some caviar onto a sliver of toast, but when he raised it toward his mouth, the black globules fell into his lap.

Without a word, Onassis shook out the old man’s napkin and spoon-fed him caviar directly from his own plate, continuing his conversation without pause, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

“The forecast is calm so we should have a good night’s sleep. But of course you must join me for brandy and cigars on deck after dinner.”

“Cigars, yes, of course.” Churchill nodded. That was something he remembered.

Maria was moved as she watched them; no son could have been more attentive. Onassis anticipated Churchill’s every need and met it without making him feel patronized. She had heard he was a generous host, but this was an unexpected side to his personality.

English was the language spoken around the table, in honor of the Churchills and several other English guests. Tina leaned over to translate for Battista that first evening. Maria was rather quiet at dinner, feeling self-conscious among these people with whom she would spend the next three weeks. She wanted to observe first; there would be time to forge friendships later.

THE CHURCHILLS RETIRED at eleven, and Battista went to bed at midnight, but Maria was restless. She wandered the decks, looking out at the velvety darkness penetrated occasionally by the blurred lights of a fishing boat. The movement of the yacht was so smooth, you could barely tell you were at sea.

“Come and join us,” Onassis called from a doorway in the aft section. “This is what we call Ari’s Bar.”

He was sitting with a couple of English women whose names Maria had forgotten.

“Don’t do the joke, Ari,” one said. “I can’t bear to hear it again.”

“What joke is this?” Maria asked, and the women groaned.

Onassis shook his head. “I would never be so uncouth as to repeat it in front of the great Maria Callas.”

“But I insist!” Maria clapped her hands.

“Definitely not,” he said. “Tell me, what can I offer you to drink?”

“Whatever you’re having,” she said, and he went to look for a waiter.

One of the women confided, “His barstools are covered in whale foreskin, from his whaling days, and when a woman sits on one he asks, ‘Do you realize you are sitting on the largest penis in the world?’”

Maria made a shocked face. “I’m very glad you told me so I can be sure to avoid them.”

Onassis returned and handed Maria a glass.

“Napoleon brandy,” he said. “The only drink for the small hours.”

They toasted the voyage; then he switched to speaking in Greek, since the English women were talking to one another, and asked if Maria planned to base herself at another opera house now she was no longer part of the company at La Scala.

Maria sighed. “No, I think I shall become a gypsy, wandering from place to place with nowhere to call home. Your life must be similar.” She took a sip of the brandy, which was smooth and warming.

“My home is the Christina,” he replied. “It doesn’t matter which country’s waters we sail in; my toothbrush resides in the same bathroom. But I have read in the newspapers of your troubles with La Scala and the Met. It must make it difficult to focus on the music.”

Maria agreed. “I hate that side of things. I’m fed up being misquoted and called names and photographed at odd angles to look ferocious. It’s not good for a woman’s ego.”

“No matter how hard they try, no photographer could make you look less than beautiful,” he said.

“Thank you.” She felt shy suddenly. Ridicolo!

“I had an idea I wished to discuss with you on this cruise,” he continued, “and maybe it is as well to introduce it now, on your first night, so you have time to consider it.”

“Please do,” she said. She inhaled the exotic aroma of the brandy.

“I don’t know if you are aware of my association with His Serene Highness the Prince of Monaco.

She nodded. She knew he had a controlling interest in the Société des Bains de Mer, which managed commercial real estate there. Some said he was the true ruler of the principality.

He continued: “I have suggested to Rainier that we create an opera company in Monte Carlo and invite you to be the resident soprano. You could choose how much or how little you sang each year and have a hand in selecting the repertoire. You don’t need to make up your mind now but …”

Maria loved the idea. She missed working with a team that she knew. Perhaps she could tempt some of her favorite backstage staff from La Scala to join them. And having creative control would suit her to a tee. She interrupted him. “Yes, please. When do I start?”

He laughed. “It’s just as well you don’t negotiate your own contracts, my dear. You need to drive a much harder bargain. Hold out for an extortionate fee. A penthouse apartment overlooking the harbor. A say in the choice of orchestras and conductors …”

“You tell me that after plying me with your best brandy.” She laughed. “It’s a clever tactic. But the answer is still yes.”

Onassis called for more brandy, and they clinked glasses to seal the deal.

Chapter 15

Hyannis Port August 1959

Jackie persuaded Jack to buy a house in Hyannis Port, on a road that ran behind the main house occupied by Rose and Joe, so she wouldn’t have to stay with her in-laws anymore. Bobby and Ethel already owned a property just in front of theirs. Jackie spent the summer of 1959 there with Caroline and her nanny, and she invited Lee and her new husband, Prince Stas Radziwill, to join them straight after the birth of their son, Anthony.

The affair Lee had mentioned during their vacation in the South of France had proved irresistible, and both parties had left their spouses so they could be together. Jackie felt sorry for Michael but she warmed to Stas from the start, finding him easy company, with elegant manners. He and Lee seemed well suited, and even looked a bit alike, with their high foreheads, sharp noses, and sculpted cheekbones. It felt as if he was the husband her sister had always been meant to have and that Michael had been an aberration along the way. A baby arriving just five months after the wedding seemed proof of their compatibility, and Jackie was delighted for her sister.

Motherhood mellowed Lee: with Michael she had been carping and never satisfied, but now she had the inner glow of a woman whose emotional needs were being met. In the past, she had been loath to accept her big sister’s advice—Lee had to be the one who knew best—but now she was grateful for tips on how to settle little Anthony, or how to burp him. He was an easy baby, and a rather aristocratic-looking one, with jet-black hair and a high brow, reflecting the looks of his father’s regal family.

Lee and Stas spent a lot of time in their room and Jackie scarcely had any moments alone with her sister, but she enjoyed their company over dinner each evening. Stas told fascinating tales of the Radziwills’ lengthy history in Poland, and he was a voracious reader with a keen appreciation for literature and the arts, so Jackie was in her element; they felt more like her true family than the politics-obsessed Kennedys. Sometimes Jack would join them, sometimes not. He was more distracted than ever that summer, his head bursting with polls and campaign strategies.

“No politics at dinner,” Jackie chided. “You’ll spoil our appetites.”

Most days the weather was too windy to sit on the beach, and a pungent, glutinous mass of seaweed hugged the shoreline. You had to clamber through it to reach open water, but Jackie waded out every day for long solitary swims, floating on her back beneath scudding clouds. She also spent a lot of time with Caroline, who loved to toddle along the shore collecting “treasures” that had washed up—colored sea glass, conch shells, a dead crab. Their porch was fast filling up with souvenirs.

In August, Jack was officially on vacation, but the campaign team turned up most days to hold meetings around the kitchen table. One morning Jackie came down early to make coffee, still in her pale blue nylon negligee, and found half a dozen of them reading the morning papers, like unwelcome houseguests.

“Morning, all!” she said. “Are you waiting for Jack? He’ll be down in ten minutes.”

They coughed and scraped their chairs, embarrassed by her skimpy attire, as she breezed out again, swallowing her annoyance. Bit by bit her life was being consumed by politics, and it seemed as if the moment when it might have been possible to draw the line had long since passed.

ONE EVENING, JACKIE went to bed before Jack returned. She read for a while, then turned out the light but couldn’t sleep. Her body was tired but her brain was buzzing. The vacation was drawing to a close, and soon they’d be traveling back to Georgetown, where she would see even less of Jack than she did here. They were supposed to be trying for another baby, but she couldn’t imagine how that would happen when she was invariably asleep by the time he came to bed, and Caroline woke her early in the morning, running into their room and clambering in for a cuddle.

Jackie got up and walked to the window. The shutters were flung wide; she hated a stuffy bedroom, and the regular shushing of waves in the distance was soothing at night. She heard the strike of a cigarette lighter and, looking out, saw Lee sitting in a deck chair on the lawn. The orange tip of her cigarette floated like a firefly. Jackie was about to call to her when she noticed that Jack’s Cadillac was in the drive; she hadn’t heard him return.

As her eyes grew accustomed to the dark, she realized he was sitting on the grass by Lee’s chair and they were talking in low voices. Jackie strained to hear but could only make out snatches.

“Great guy … good one this time.” She guessed Jack was saying that he approved of Stas.

Lee replied, her voice harder to follow, but Jackie caught the word annulment drifting on the night air. She knew Lee wanted to apply to have her first marriage annulled so that she and Stas could marry in the Catholic Church. Perhaps she was asking Jack’s advice on how to go about it.

“Shame we won’t be able to have a repeat of our tryst,” Jack said—or at least she thought he did. Jackie froze. What did he mean? What tryst?

Lee reached out and touched his shoulder. Jackie felt a stabbing pain in her chest as she tried to make sense of it. Was tryst the word he had used? Did it mean that her sister and her husband had slept together? They wouldn’t, would they?

Lee had always been crazy about Jack, and made no secret of it. She openly embraced him in front of Jackie, and cocked her head to one side in her irritating manner, asking his opinion and giggling disproportionately at his witticisms. That was fine. She was like that with any handsome man. But why was her hand still resting on his shoulder? Had they really betrayed her? The two people she was closest to in the world? She clutched her stomach, sick at the thought.

As she watched, Jack stood and said, “Good night.” He didn’t stoop to kiss Lee, but strode across the grass toward the front door. Jackie shrank behind the shutter so he wouldn’t catch her spying, then scuttled to bed, deciding she would pretend to be asleep when he came in. She needed to think.

Her heart was banging in her chest. Was this about Lee’s jealousy of her? What a bitch! She’d been annoyed that Jackie had married a richer, more ambitious husband. Perhaps that’s why she swapped Michael for a Polish prince, albeit one in exile; she was sure to drop her new title into conversation at any opportunity. Princess Lee. Had she flirted her way into Jack’s bed? It was possible, but Jackie couldn’t think of when it might have happened.

What about her husband? Would he do that? She could accept that he was unfaithful with faceless, nameless blondes; them she could ignore. But her own sister? Would he be so disloyal? Her throat felt raw at the thought.

Perhaps she had misheard and it was all a mistake. Maybe “tryst” had referred to something else entirely—but she couldn’t think what. She heard his feet on the stairs and wondered whether to admit she had overheard the conversation and ask him what it meant. That’s what a normal wife would do.

But they didn’t have a normal marriage. They had a marriage full of secrets, in which each lived separate lives that overlapped from time to time. He had the Scandinavian blonde in the hot-pink bikini, and all the other women whom he thought she didn’t know about, while she held that knowledge hidden in her breast pocket, like a dagger.

“Are you awake, honey?” he whispered as he tiptoed into the bedroom.

She lay very still, slowing her breathing, as she listened to him remove his clothes and fling them on the chair. His belt buckle clattered to the floor; then she heard him curse as he unfastened his fiddly back brace.

The mattress dipped as he sat on his side of the bed to remove his socks, and Jackie pretended to stir.

“Are you alright?” she asked, in a drowsy voice.

“Yeah, we had a good meeting. I’ll tell you in the morning. You go back to sleep.”

When he climbed under the covers, she rolled toward him for a hug, trying to ignore the fury and hurt that she knew would make her implode if she ever let them.

Chapter 16

The Mediterranean August 1959

The cruise took them around the boot of Italy and across the Aegean to Piraeus and the Greek islands. Onassis—Ari, as Maria now called him—said he wanted to show his guests the places he loved best.

Maria slept more soundly than she had in years, lulled by the gentle motion of the yacht and drowsy from the expensive brandy she drank with Ari late every evening. On the second night at sea, they began to talk about the war years, and Maria told him she had lived in occupied Athens.

“Mother never thought the war would reach us, and when it did, we were too late to board any ships leaving town,” she told him. “I was training at the Conservatoire by day, then in the evenings Mother forced me to date German soldiers and beg them for food and money. It was humiliating. Horrible.”

Ari was aghast. “How could she? You were only a teenager. Anything could have happened.”

Maria grimaced, remembering one soldier who’d wrestled her to the ground and tried to rape her. She had fought tooth and nail, scratching and biting, until at last he gave up. “A big girl like you should be grateful,” he’d said. “No one else will want you.” And when she got home, her skirt torn and knees bleeding, her mother assumed she had been raped. There was no maternal sympathy, no words of comfort, just the cold demand: “How much did you get?”

Ari was listening with a compassionate expression. “I don’t understand how she could put you in such danger.”

Maria shrugged. “I drew the short straw when mothers were handed out. Mine never warmed to me. She had been hoping for a boy and was so disappointed when I emerged from the womb that she couldn’t bear to look at me for four days. My sister was the pretty, charming one, and I was a huge disappointment.” She smiled as if to brush it off, although it still hurt to say the words.

“But she must be proud of you now? How could any mother not be?”

Maria shook her head. “When my talent was discovered I became her cash cow.” She used the phrase in English, unable to think of a Greek equivalent. “As a child I was dragged to radio-station competitions and forced to sing on command for the paltry prizes. Then she brought me to Athens for training at the Conservatoire and as soon as they started paying me a salary she commandeered it.”

“I suppose she did you a favor in getting proper voice training,” Ari said.

Maria wrinkled her nose. “Perhaps, but it was in her own interest so I would make more money. After I got married, she still demanded half my earnings and I paid up for years, like a good Greek girl. Eventually Battista put his foot down and cut back her allowance, but in retaliation she sold her story to Time magazine, telling them what an ungrateful daughter I am.”

Ari shook his head. “She sounds appalling. Are you still in touch with her?”

“God, no; not since the Time article. I have washed my hands of her at last. It was long overdue. Once in a blue moon I get a letter from my father or sister but I haven’t seen them for many years.”

“I’m amazed you succeeded despite all those odds stacked against you. I’m sure it’s not just your voice; it’s your character that got you to the top.”

Maria smiled her thanks for the compliment. “I think you and I both know it’s working harder than everyone else that counts. I believe in destiny, but you can’t relax and wait for success to happen.”

“A woman after my heart. We share the same philosophy.”

“So, tell me about you,” she said. “I read that you are a self-made man but I don’t know anything of your background.”

“In my case, my difficult relationship was with my father.” He drained his glass before continuing. “He had a tobacco-import business in Smyrna—until September 1922 when the Turkish army came to drive the Greeks out.”

Maria knew about this; it was a brutal campaign that quickly turned into a massacre.

“I lost several relatives. My uncle Alexander was hung in the public square in Kasaba.” His tone was neutral but a flicker in his eyes betrayed emotion. “My aunt Marie was burned to death with her husband and child in the church in Akhisar. Then my father was jailed and my three sisters sent to evacuation camps. I was just sixteen and entirely alone in a city where the Turks were shooting civilians on sight.”

“What about your mother?” Maria asked, aghast.

“She died when I was three. I was raised by a grandmother.”

Maria felt a surge of compassion. Ari seemed invulnerable, but his past was filled with so much pain. She’d had no idea that his seemingly charmed life had been built out of such sorrow, and it made her feel close to him. They both shared something—a tragic childhood—and had both succeeded in spite of it.

He signaled for the barman to top up their glasses, but she placed three fingers across the top of hers. She couldn’t possibly drink any more.

“I persuaded the Turkish commander who took over my family’s home that they needed me alive because I knew how everything worked in the city. I ran errands for them, found them bottles of raki and ouzo, all the while trying to get my father freed.” He paused. “Would you mind if we step out on deck so I can smoke a cigar? I don’t want to irritate your throat with my smoke.”

Maria was touched by his thoughtfulness. So often people lit their cigars or cigarettes without any thought for her voice. “Of course,” she said, standing up.

They settled on cushioned chairs in the stern, where the moon lit a path across the yacht’s wake. Two of the English guests were in the pool, shrieking as they splashed each other.

Ari continued his story: “The Turks passed a law that meant I would have been sent to a concentration camp as soon as I turned seventeen. That’s when I knew I had to flee. I escaped through the American base and snuck onto a U.S. destroyer that took me to Athens.”

Maria realized how lucky she had been to survive the wartime occupation with nothing worse than cuts and bruises from the soldier who’d tried to rape her.

He took a cigar from his breast pocket, cut off the tip, then toasted it with the flame from his lighter before putting it to his mouth to take short puffs until the tip was glowing. Maria could smell the smoke although they were outside; it was fragrant, like freshly cut grass drying in the sun.

“I borrowed money from all my father’s friends and business associates and managed to buy his freedom from jail. It seemed the only thing to do. But when he arrived in Athens, he was furious.” He was gazing at the horizon as he spoke. “He said he would have won his release anyway and I had thrown good money down the drain.”

“I’m sure he wasn’t really cross,” Maria sympathized.

“He definitely was,” Ari insisted. “Our relationship broke down. It’s then I decided to sail for Buenos Aires and make my own way in the world. I set off with just sixty dollars in my pocket, and four years later I had made my first million. So you and I both know what it is to struggle in a foreign land. One of many things we have in common.”

He reached across to squeeze her hand, just quickly. His skin was warm. She squeezed back, feeling their relationship deepen with the revelations they had shared.

EVERY MORNING, THE Christina was moored in a deserted cove and the younger guests leapt into the water to swim. Ari’s son, Alexander, who was eleven, and his daughter, Christina, aged eight, got the lion’s share of his attention. Although they were the only children on the cruise, no one seemed to mind their antics. Tina, Ari, and his sister, Artemis, who had joined the cruise party, doted on those youngsters. Maria stayed in bed till noon most days but she heard Ari shouting encouragement as he drove a launch so Alexander could water-ski or lifted Christina in the air and tossed her into the water.

“Throw me higher!” she shrieked. “Do it again!”

In the afternoons Maria sunbathed on deck, watching the pride in Ari’s eyes as his son executed a perfect dive or Christina did a silly dance in her pink mermaid swimsuit with its frilled skirt. He clearly adored his children, but she never saw him spend time with Tina. Maria saw no intimate conversations or hugs, no eye contact between them.

Surreptitiously she checked out Ari’s figure and saw that he was fit and well muscled. His skin was very tan but it appeared soft, not at all leathery. His chest was covered with a mane of soft, fine hair, and his waist was trim. She realized how strong he must be when Alexander cut his leg during a trip ashore and Ari carried him on his back for the rest of the afternoon, making it look effortless.

Privately, Maria found the children a little spoiled; they ran around on deck, splashing water on the fully clothed elderly guests, but she never heard Tina or Ari chastise them. They beamed with pride at each minor achievement and ignored misdemeanors. Maria envied those children; she had never experienced love like that from a parent.

AS THE FIRST week came to an end, Maria began to relax more fully. She had daily massages in the yacht’s beauty salon, she read books and swam; then in the late afternoons she and Tina often went ashore to explore tiny Greek villages and buy souvenirs, along with some of the English women. Only one thing niggled at her: Battista. He wandered around on his own unless either she or one of the Onassises was available to converse with him in Italian. It irked Maria that he had never taken the trouble to learn another language. He was clever enough; it was sheer laziness that had stopped him.

There was more. She felt embarrassed when he left his shirt hanging open, because his belly was as round as if he were six months pregnant. She cringed at his manners when he reached across his neighbor at dinner to grab the bread basket. These were all minor complaints, but soon he began to get on her nerves no matter what he did. When they were alone in their cabin, she snapped at him for no reason, then felt bad afterward. It had been he who had wanted to come on this cruise, but, as it turned out, he was a fish out of water, while she was in her element.

Every evening when Battista went to bed, Maria would wander along the deck to Ari’s Bar. Although Tina retired early, Maria was never entirely alone with Ari, because a few younger members of the English crowd stayed up till the early hours. Ari and Maria usually chatted to each other in Greek, and as the evenings passed they shared more confidences.

One evening he surprised her with a personal question: “Is everything alright with you and Battista? It’s just that—forgive me—I thought I sensed tension earlier.”

Maria paused, aware she was about to cross a line. “You’re right. He drives me crazy sometimes.” She tried to make light of it, but her tone was harsher than she had intended.

“I love him, of course,” she added, unconvincingly.

Ari nodded and waited for her to continue.

“Marriage is difficult, isn’t it?” She felt tears prick her eyes and blinked them away. “I feel very underappreciated. Because Battista is my manager, our conversations tend to be about contracts and money and I feel as if …” She hesitated, took a sip of brandy, then continued. “I feel as if I am the goose that lays the golden eggs, while he just lives off me. He distributes my money to his family as well. It’s like my mother all over again—although, of course, he is much kinder.”

She bit her lip, feeling that she had gone too far. She should be loyal. He was her husband, after all.

Ari nodded, his expression concerned. “He doesn’t earn his own money?”

“He used to when we were first married. He had a brick factory. But he sold it to manage my career. I should be grateful, really.” Maria turned her head away. Money wasn’t the root of the problem; not really. “I am a firm believer that marriage is for life. I’m sure you are too. It’s just that sometimes it feels like a life sentence instead of a love affair.”

She shouldn’t have drunk so much. The brandy had loosened her tongue. She should stop now.

“Is he unfaithful?” Ari asked quietly.

She shook her head. “No, he’s not. But at the same time I don’t think he truly loves me anymore.” She felt like crying now the words were out there. She had never said this to anyone else.

Ari’s next words surprised her. “Tina is unfaithful to me. Three years ago she had an affair. It got serious and she asked for a divorce but I refused. Same reason as you: because I think marriage should be for life.”

Maria wasn’t surprised. It explained her earlier observations that Tina never seemed interested in what Ari had to say; there was little communication between them. Instinctively, she reached over and touched his arm in sympathy. He took her hand and squeezed her fingertips.

“If only we had met first,” he said, his voice so low she could barely hear it.

Tears sprang to her eyes again. If only.

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