Glen Ora was a farm in Middleburg, Virginia, where Jackie Kennedy kept horses and rode with the Orange County Hunt. It was about an hour from Washington.

Jenny said: “She’s taken Caroline and John John.”

Caroline Kennedy was four and John John was one.

If I were married to him, Maria thought, I wouldn’t leave him to ride my horse.

Suddenly he walked in, and they all stood up.

He looked tired and strained, but his smile was as warm as ever. He took off his jacket, threw it over the back of a chair, sat on the couch, leaned back, and put his feet on the coffee table.

Maria felt she had been admitted to the most exclusive social group in the world. She was in the president’s home, having drinks and snacks while he put his feet up. Whatever else happened, she would always have the memory of this.

She drained her glass, and Dave topped it up.

Why was she thinking, Whatever else happened? There was something off here. She was just a researcher, hoping for an early promotion to assistant press officer. The atmosphere was relaxed, but she was not really among friends. None of these people knew anything about her. What was she doing here?

The president stood up and said: “Maria, would you like a tour of the residence?”

A tour of the residence? From the president himself? Who would say no?

“Of course.” She stood up. The daiquiri went to her head, and for a moment she felt dizzy, but it passed.

The president went through a side door, and she followed.

“This used to be a guest bedroom, but Mrs. Kennedy has converted it into a dining room,” he said. The room was papered with battle scenes from the American Revolution. The square table in the middle looked too small for the room, Maria thought, and the chandelier too big for the table. But mostly she thought: I’m alone with the president in the White House residence—me! Maria Summers!

He smiled and looked into her eyes. “What do you think?” he said, as if he could not make up his own mind until he had heard her opinion.

“I love it,” she said, wishing she could think of a more intelligent compliment.

“This way.” He led her back across the West Sitting Hall and through the opposite door. “This is Mrs. Kennedy’s bedroom,” he said, and he closed the door behind them.

“It’s beautiful,” Maria breathed.

Opposite the door were two long windows with light-blue drapes. To Maria’s left was a fireplace with a couch placed on a rug patterned with the same blue. Over the mantel was a collection of framed drawings that looked tasteful and highbrow, just like Jackie. At the other end, the bedcovers and the canopy also matched, as did the cloth that covered the round occasional table in the corner. Maria had never seen a room like it, even in magazines.

But she was thinking: Why did he call it “Mrs. Kennedy’s bedroom”? Did he not sleep here? The big double bed was made up in two separate halves, and Maria recalled that the president had to have a hard mattress because of his back.