Mrs. Kennedy and Me: An Intimate Memoir, Clint Hil [large ebook reader TXT] 📗

much she knew about not only American history, but also the histories of so many other regions of the world.

After walking around the large site, we headed back to the coast, where the crewman was waiting for us with the rowboat.

There had been a few paparazzi following us around as we toured the ancient city, and they of course followed us as we made our way back to the shore. The sea was a little bit rougher than when we had arrived and in order to get into the boat, we had to take our shoes off, roll up our trousers, and wade into the water.

The oarsman was seated in the middle of the boat and I tried to hold the boat steady so Mrs. Kennedy and the two other women could get in gracefully.

“Do you need me to give you a hand, Mrs. Kennedy?” I asked. I was worried she might slip and the photographers would have a field day.

“No, thank you, Mr. Hill. I can do it just fine,” she said as she hoisted herself into a seated position on the edge of the boat and then swung her legs around. She was laughing, completely ignoring the photographers, just having a great time. By the time we all got into the boat, it was sitting quite low in the water, and as the oarsman struggled to get the boat in motion against the surf, it felt like we were going to flip over. A few of the photographers had waded into the water, and were snapping away.

“For Christsake!” I yelled. “Put down your goddamn cameras and somebody give us a push before we swamp!”

Meanwhile, Mrs. Kennedy was laughing just as hard as she could. I don’t know if she was laughing at me or whether she thought it would be hilarious if we actually did flip over.

Finally someone gave us a push and we got out beyond where the waves were breaking so we could get some momentum.

“Oh, Mr. Hill,” she said. She was laughing so hard she could barely speak. “If you could have seen the look on your face when you thought we were going to tip over! I hope one of the photographers caught it. I would pay to have that shot!”

As it turned out, one of the photographers did get a shot of that look on my face and he gave both Mrs. Kennedy and me a copy of the picture. It was such a great snapshot of a moment in time, a photo that captures the mischievous, adventure-loving woman I had come to know so well, to care for so very much. It was a moment when she was carefree, enjoying life to its fullest.

WE USED THEAgneta more and more as a mode of transportation to get to the places Mrs. Kennedy wanted to see because it was a respite from the prying eyes of the press and the gawking public. On the yacht, her privacy could be maintained. Mrs. Kennedy would read, or write, or sketch at her leisure, and simply enjoy the company of her sister and friends. Most of the time Gianni Agnelli was not on the yacht, but on one of the first evenings that he was, he introduced everyone to a new drink.

“What is that?” I asked Mr. Agnelli the first time he served the cherry-colored drink to Mrs. Kennedy.

“It’s an aperitivo. We call it Negroni,” he said.

“Here, try it,” he said as he handed me a glass.

I took a sip and handed the glass back to him.

“Not bad,” I said. It had a bitter, sort of sweet taste to it. “What’s in it?”

“Campari—that’s what makes it red—then it’s mixed with sweet vermouth, and garnished with a slice of orange.” He took a sip from his glass and then added, “Oh yes, and just a dash of gin for a bit of an extra kick.”

I laughed. There was definitely more than “just a dash” of gin in that drink.

“It’s very refreshing,” Mrs. Kennedy said. “I rather like it. I’ll have to remember to have Campari on hand at the White House for our Italian guests.” She laughed.

Aperitivo time was a way to wind down after a day out on the water, and as the sun went down, when the bottle of Campari came out, it signaled the evening’s activities were about to begin.

ONE EVENING, WE took the Agneta to Capri, a stunning island that rises dramatically out of the Tyrrhenian Sea. It was a beautiful sail, and after anchoring at the port, we transferred to the Riva motorboat, the Pretexte, because Mrs. Kennedy wanted to cruise along the shoreline. She had been invited to dinner at the villa of Silvio Medici De’ Menezes and his fashion designer wife, Princess Irene Galitzine, who were friends of the Agnellis. They had a lively al fresco dinner served at midnight, and it wasn’t until after two o’clock in the morning that we returned to the Agneta and sailed back to Ravello.

A couple of days later, Mrs. Kennedy came to me and said, “Mr. Hill, I need you to do something for me like you did in Palm Beach. You know the problems we had with people when I wanted to go shopping on Worth Avenue? Well, I would really like to go shopping at the boutiques in Capri, but I’m sure the same thing would happen.”

“Yes, you’re absolutely right, Mrs. Kennedy. I have no doubt you would be hounded by not only tourists, but also those damn paparazzi. I’m afraid it would be much worse than what we experienced in Palm Beach.”

She sighed. “I agree. So, I came up with an idea.”

As she said that, she looked at me and I could see the mischief in her eyes, like a little girl asking her daddy for something she knew Mummy wouldn’t approve of.

“Would you go to Capri for me, Mr. Hill?”

“What exactly is it you want me to do?” I asked.

“Well, Irene Galitzine offered to go shopping