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

for me. I’d like you to take the motorboat there and accompany her—you know the kinds of things I like—and then you can bring back the clothes to me here.”

This is way outside my job description, and you know that, I thought to myself. But just like in Palm Beach, I would be keeping her out of exposure to large numbers of people. It seemed like a good protective move.

“Oh, Mrs. Kennedy,” I said, shaking my head. I tried to look serious but I couldn’t keep from smiling. “Yes, I will go to Capri for you. But don’t you dare tell anyone that I’ve done this.”

She laughed and said, “Oh, I won’t tell anyone, Mr. Hill. It will be our secret.”

I explained to Agent Paul Rundle, the advance agent, what I was about to do, and he assured me he would take care of everything until I returned. The bigger problem was trying to explain to the driver of the Pretexte what I needed, but somehow he seemed to understand, and the next day we took off for Capri.

We hugged the coastline until reaching a point where we had to cross a considerable distance of open water in the Tyrrhenian Sea to get to the island. It was a windy day, and the water was filled with whitecaps and very choppy, and every time we went up over a wave and crashed down hard, it felt like we were being punched over and over again. I had never felt seasick before, but this time I was very close. It seemed to take forever but finally we reached the marina, and fortunately I managed to avoid being sick. I disembarked and proceeded to the villa to meet Princess Irene Galatzine—I was a bit windblown and sunburned, but no worse for the wear.

The princess was a strikingly beautiful woman, very tall and elegant, and I felt somewhat like the hired help, literally just off the boat, but she was extremely gracious, and eager to go shopping for Mrs. Kennedy. I had never heard of her before the previous night’s dinner, but Mrs. Kennedy had informed me that she was famous for designing trousers for evening wear, known as “palazzo pants.” Apparently she was quite well known in the fashion world. So, there we were, Princess Irene Galatzine and me, shopping together in the upscale boutiques on the Isle of Capri.

We selected an assortment of dresses, trousers, gauzy blouses, jewelry, shoes—you name it. We had a whole damn wardrobe for Mrs. Kennedy. By the time we finished and returned to the villa, it was getting dark, so going back to Amalfi across that rough body of water was out of the question.

“You’ll have to stay here at the villa,” the princess said. “I’ll make sure the boat driver is informed and have him available for you first thing in the morning.”

“Well, thank you very much,” I said.

She showed me to a guest bedroom and told me to make myself at home. “And you must have dinner with me, Mr. Hill.”

“Oh, no,” I protested. “I don’t want to be any trouble.”

“I insist,” she said. “Truly, it will be a pleasure.”

I hadn’t intended on staying overnight and I had no clothes to change into for dinner, so I just went into the bathroom and washed up as best as I could.

When it came time for dinner, I was surprised to find that it would just be the princess and me dining alone. It was a simple meal of seafood and pasta with a salad and excellent Italian bread. Princess Irene made me feel comfortable, but being a participant—rather than an observer waiting in the wings—was something I wasn’t used to.

So, that’s how I ended up spending the night at the home of Princess Irene Galitzine. My life had been one adventure after another. It sure was a long way from the North Dakota Children’s Home to the residence of a princess on the Isle of Capri. I felt like the luckiest man in the world.

In the morning, after some juice, extremely dark coffee, and a biscotti I was ready to leave. I now had in my possession a large trunk filled with purchases the princess had made on Mrs. Kennedy’s behalf. We loaded it on the boat and off to Amalfi I went. The trip back was smoother than the one to Capri, no whitecaps, and we made good time. Arriving at the beach house, we were met by the caretaker, who carried the trunk up to the house. Mrs. Kennedy and Lee were there and very glad to see me, and especially the trunk full of goodies. It was as if Christmas had arrived in August.

Mrs. Kennedy insisted I stay as she and Lee went through the various items of clothing. When I began to tell them about the wild boat ride across the choppy waters, they started laughing hysterically.

“I want you to tell me everything, Mr. Hill,” Mrs. Kennedy said with childlike delight in her voice. “From the moment you left here. Every detail. What Irene said, where you shopped, what you ate for dinner. Don’t leave anything out.”

So, as Mrs. Kennedy and her sister gave me an impromptu fashion show, I regaled them with details of my adventure on the high seas, and the night with the princess on the Isle of Capri.

Clint Hill and Mrs. Kennedy in Italy

THUS FAR, I had managed to protect Mrs. Kennedy while also keeping things in line with the president’s instructions. Then one evening Mrs. Kennedy informed me that she, along with Lee, Stash, and their guests, was going to go to Positano—to a nightclub.

The president’s words immediately popped into my head. And above all, no nightclub pictures.

“Okay, Mrs. Kennedy, whatever you want. I’ll handle it,” I said.

We left Ravello and traveled down the coast to Positano, yet another picturesque town on the Amalfi coast. We had alerted the police and advised them to provide a contingent of officers dressed in plainclothes, to