Introduction

"A riveting reimagining of a true tale of forbidden love."—People

Now in paperback, the captivating novel following the exploits of Kathleen "Kick" Kennedy, the forgotten and rebellious daughter of one of America's greatest political dynasties.

London, 1938. The effervescent "It girl" of London society since her father was named the ambassador, Kathleen "Kick" Kennedy moves in rarefied circles, rubbing satin-covered elbows with some of the twentieth century's most powerful figures. Eager to escape the watchful eye of her strict mother, Rose; the antics of her older brothers, Jack and Joe; and the erratic behavior of her sister Rosemary, Kick is ready to strike out on her own and is soon swept off her feet by Billy Hartington, the future Duke of Devonshire.
 
But their love is forbidden, as Kick's devout Catholic family and Billy's staunchly Protestant one would never approve their match. And when war breaks like a tidal wave across her world, Billy is ripped from her arms as the Kennedys are forced to return to the States. Kick finds work as a journalist and joins the Red Cross to get back to England, where she will have to decide where her true loyalties lie—with family or with love. . . .

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Excerpt

Chapter 1

Presentation day. Finally, Kick thought as soon as she opened her eyes that morning. This is it, she kept thinking, her heart pounding. This is it.

Rising out of damp sheets, Kick stole into the bathroom down the hall and ran steaming water into the tub, then spiked it with a strong dose of lavender oil to cleanse away the sour sweat that had drenched her the night before. Fear had plagued her dreams for weeks, encouraging one of her most embarrassing and least ladylike bodily functions—perspiration—and made daily baths an absolute necessity. Her new friend and fellow debutante Jane Kenyon-Slaney claimed to bathe only a few times a week, and yet she was as groomed and aromatic as the gardens of Hampton Court. Kick blamed her father’s insistence on sports for all his children, including the girls. Perhaps if she hadn’t exerted herself so often on tennis courts or the harbors of the Cape, she would be as dainty as Jane and the other girls who’d line up with her that day. But then, she thought ruefully to herself almost in her father’s voice, she wouldn’t have won so many trophies.

Still. Surely even Jane would be nervous in her place. Every photographed move Kick had made since her family’s arrival in London two months before had been leading up to the moment when she would lower herself in a meticulously refined curtsy before King George VI and Queen Elizabeth, then drink champagne with the most essential people in England. Kick had always been expected to perform better than anyone else, but here in England she wasn’t just Rose and Joe Kennedy’s fashionable daughter, eighteen years old and fresh from school, who could keep up with her older brothers when she set her mind to it. She was the daughter of Ambassador Joseph P. Kennedy, the first Irish Catholic ever to be appointed to the coveted post in this most Protestant of countries. This time, she had to succeed. There was more than a trophy on the line.

She’d been waiting for a moment like this forever, through every long mass and from inside every scratchy wool uniform at Sacred Heart. A new life. And now she had a chance at it—in one of her favorite places, thank the good Lord. She’d savored a delicious taste of English society two years before when, on a too-brief break from her year in the convent at Neuilly, she’d attended the Cambridge May Balls in a swirl of music and laughter. Now that she was free of nuns and school, she was ready to embrace it all—but as Kick, not just Kathleen Kennedy.

Add to all that the problem of Rosemary, her beautiful older sister who’d be presented with her that morning, whose erratic behavior could make everything impossible, and Kick judged that her fear was well-founded. A long hot soak in a fragrant tub would do her a world of good. Arms suspended in the water, Kick said a solemn Hail Mary and an Our Father before moving on to a short prayer asking God to guide her footsteps that day.

A knock on the door interrupted her. Typical.

“I’m bathing!” she shouted back, assuming it was Bobby, Teddy, or maybe Jean or Pat, one of her littlest siblings who didn’t give a toss about the few moments of privacy she savored in a day. This day especially. As soon as she got out of the tub, she was in for relentless hours of beauty treatments, photo shoots, and then the presentation itself, followed by the most important party of her life.

“It’s your mother,” said Rose as she opened the door, letting in a gust of cold air.

She was wearing a tweed suit and black pumps, her dark hair sleekly coiffed and her red lipstick recently applied, looking ready for a ladies’ luncheon or a visit to one of the children’s schools. No one would know that in a few hours, Rose Kennedy would be stepping into a white Molyneux gown designed just for her and the night’s grand occasion. “A work of art,” she’d said to her favorite designer on the phone.

Now Rose perched on the rim of the white porcelain tub and looked down at her naked daughter. In an effort to look as slender as possible to her petite mother, who’d been monitoring every mouthful of food she ingested on one of her infernal index cards, Kick pulled up her knees, which she thought made her legs look thinner and her belly concave, then she stretched her arms around her knees in an effort to cover some of the rest.

“I know you’ll make us proud today, Kathleen,” said Rose, her voice sounding higher and tinnier than usual as it pinged off the tile walls and floors. “This presentation is so important for your father. For the whole family. The English have been so accepting of the Kennedy family so far, but today will show them and the world that there is no difference between us and them.”

“Of course, Mother,” Kick replied, because it was easier than pointing out that more than half of the many articles written about their family had included references to their Catholicism, or Irish descent, or both. It was only with her new friends—Jane, Debo Mitford, Sissy Lloyd-Thomas, and Jean Ogilvy—all of whom would be queuing with her to curtsy before the king and queen, that Kick could sometimes forget who she was.

Rose made an effort to smile, then said, “You’ve done a wonderful job of keeping your figure, Kathleen. And, after some initial stumbles, of knowing who everyone is and engaging everyone important in conversation. The newspapers love you.”

“Thank you, Mother,” Kick replied, now shivering in the tub. Her mother had left the door ajar, and a draft was blowing in, cooling the water and giving her goose bumps. It didn’t help that Rose kept referring to her “stumble” from a month ago, when Kick had mistaken Lady Smithson for Lady Winthrop at the opera, a gaffe made worse by the fact that Lady Winthrop was a rotund matron whose husband had expatriated to Paris to live with his French mistress, and Lady Smithson was a statuesque but hardly fat beauty whose husband discreetly kept a French mistress in Bath. Thankfully, Lady Nancy Astor had come to her rescue with her trademark double-edged wit and said to Lady Smithson, “Gretchen, you can hardly expect such a young American to be familiar with the hypocrisies of English society as soon as she steps off the boat. Give her another few weeks and she’ll be insulting you without your even knowing it.”

It was a profound show of support from Lady Astor, once a belle from Virginia who was now a member of Parliament and one of the most important hostesses in her adopted homeland. When Lady Smithson had huffed off to find her seat, Kick had gushed her thanks to this fellow American, who’d replied with a wave of her hand, “Any opportunity to put that woman in her place is a welcome one, my dear.” After that, Kick had made herself a set of flash cards, so that she could study every single name and face that appeared in the papers and magazines, and in the copy of Burke’s Peerage her mother had given her to study a week before they’d sailed from New York, insisting she must know who everyone was. She never got another name wrong.

“I remember how difficult it could be, playing a role like this,” her mother went on. “There were times when I wanted to run away from all the duties of being a mayor’s daughter. But I’m glad I never did.”

“Seems like Grandfather would have made everything fun,” Kick said, thinking fondly of her mother’s father, Honey Fitz, infamous former Boston mayor and number one grandfather. He never tired of playing on the floor with her and her siblings as children, or taking them to races and dockyards and political meetings as they got older.

“He did,” her mother agreed, looking down at her hands, “some of the time. But there is a big difference between being a parent and grandparent. He was different with me than he is with you and your brothers and sisters.”

“Mother,” Kick said, sensing her mother’s little pep talk was winding down, and wanting very much to warm back up again, “the water’s getting cold.”

Rose stood and brought Kick one of the plush American towels she’d immediately ordered from New York when she saw the sad state of English towels, which were, as she’d put it, “little more than dishrags.”

Kick stood with a waterfall sound and wrapped herself in the blessedly toasty towel that had been waiting on that most ingenious of English amenities, the warming rack. She loved that the English had found so many weapons to combat the constant chill: warming racks in the bath, hot water bottles in bed, chic scarves from Liberty, steaming tea and sweets at four in the afternoon when it seemed the gray would never dissipate.

Rose looked once more at her daughter, appraisingly, and Kick worried she might say more, but after a beat Rose informed her, “Hair and makeup is at eleven.” Then, with that heavy sigh she indulged more and more often when thinking of her oldest daughter, she said, “Now to attend dear Rosie. Thank goodness I can count on you to take care of yourself, Kathleen.” Rosie. Rosemary. Her mother’s namesake and doted-on darling who was nearly twenty, a year and a half older than Kick herself, who so often acted more like she was ten. Which could be charming—until it wasn’t.

Rose left in another puff of cold air. Despite the warm towel, Kick felt chilled down to her toes.

At Buckingham Palace, there was a last-minute kerfuffle as Kick and Rosemary were lining up with the other debutantes because Kick’s train wasn’t properly fastened to the white lace gown that had been hand stitched for the occasion. Curses, she thought as a lady-in-waiting pinned it on, stabbing Kick in the side with a pin. How typical that Kick had been forgotten with all the attention being paid to Rosemary to ensure that she was perfectly dressed and serene as the Tintoretto Madonna she resembled that morning.

Kick tried to reason that this was correct and necessary given her sister’s problems. She told herself not to be jealous, to be a good and patient sister. After all, her mother had employed a genius makeup artist who knew how to coax the bones from Kick’s doughy cheeks and make her eyes appear larger and more prominent. Her often unruly auburn waves had been brushed and sprayed into glossy submission, curving smoothly off her forehead and skimming her shoulders. It was surely because of their efforts that the photographers and reporters had fawned over Kick’s every move, from the ambassador’s house at 14 Prince’s Gate to the palace.

Hail Mary, full of grace, please make me graceful today. Just for the next five minutes, at least. And Rosemary, too!

To steady herself, she put her nose to her wrist and inhaled the Vol de Nuit, her first adult perfume, which her mother had bought for her on their last trip to Paris. After an exhausting day of fittings and painful facials, Rosemary had retired to the hotel for a nap, and Rose had strolled with Kick down the Champs-Élysées to the Guerlain store. “It’s time you had a woman’s scent,” she said, handing Kick a square bottle with a propeller design molded into the glass and VOL DE NUIT engraved in a circle at the center. “The name means ‘night flight.’ It’s popular, but not common, bold but still refined. I think it suits you.” Kick had lifted the stopper, which produced a pleasing ring as it scraped against the glass, and let a tiny golden drop fall on her wrist. It smelled surprisingly sophisticated, not at all flowery and girly. “Wonderful, isn’t it?” Rose had prompted. Kick nodded eagerly and felt tears needle her eyes. For a moment, she felt her mother had seen her and loved what she saw. And though she didn’t say it, Kick relished the idea that night, with all its forbidden pleasures and promises, should be so featured on the bottle. Throwing her arms around her mother, she exclaimed, “I love it! Thank you.”

Time to fly, she told herself now.

It was almost her turn to curtsy before the king and queen, and her hands were so slick with sweat inside the white gloves, Kick thought for sure she’d lose her grip on the little bouquet she was holding. Meanwhile, Rosemary’s eyes were closed and Luella, the family nurse, was running her hand soothingly over Rosemary’s arm because Rose herself had to stand in the audience with Joe, the only man in the room not wearing the traditional knee britches because with characteristic obstinacy, he’d refused on account of his knock-knees. Kick thought her father should have worn the ridiculous short pants anyway, out of respect for the country with which he was supposed to be forming close ties, especially with so many uncertainties brewing in Germany. But she wouldn’t have dared tell him so.

Then it was time. As the king’s attendant called “Kathleen Agnes Kennedy” in his full-throated bass voice, Kick put one foot in front of the other. When she stood before the monarchs—King George, encrusted in medals, and Queen Elizabeth, encrusted in jewels—she lowered her eyes deferentially as she curtsied, then hurried on. Just as Kick completed her relieved escape, her stiff white gown rustling as if in genteel applause, she heard a thump and a gulp and a whispered, mortified “excuse me,” as stifled gasps rose up all around them.

Kick turned back to see that Rosemary had tripped. In front of the king and queen.

Her feet suddenly winged, Kick rushed to offer her arm to Rosemary, whose own white hand was on the velvet ground, her long body arched over like a giraffe in a wedding dress. Rosemary smiled gratefully at her sister and miraculously recovered her composure. Then, standing one more unplanned time before the king and queen, Kick lifted her eyes to them and nodded. King George nodded back, and Kick saw a glimmer of understanding in his eye. Well, why should that be so surprising? she asked herself. She began to relax, just a little.

Reunited in the receiving room after all the debutantes had been presented, Rose bent over carefully under the weight of Lady Bessborough’s diamond and platinum tiara, kissed each daughter on the cheek, and simply said, “Marvelous, my darlings. I’m so proud of you both.” Their father stood between them and patted each girl on the back, beaming for the flashing cameras with that confidence he always exuded in public, as if he were Laurence Olivier or Errol Flynn. Rosemary appeared unperturbed by the incident, perhaps because their parents had chosen not to mention it and—as usual—to act as if she was nothing less than perfect. In fact, the conspiratorial silence about her sister’s fall was so absolute, Kick began to wonder if it had actually happened.

Until later, when her mother clutched the ungloved part of Kick’s upper arm a bit too tightly and whispered in her ear without looking her in the eye, “Thank you, Kathleen.” Kick blushed hot and red at her mother’s gratitude, then saw that her father was there, too, giving Kick a similarly grateful look from behind his round spectacles. She wasn’t sure why she felt so much like she wanted to cry, but with the stiff mask of mascara and rouge on her face, there would be no crying that night, that was for sure. She sniffled back the collecting phlegm and coughed out a “you’re welcome” just before Lady Astor charged toward her, hands in the air, saying, “There you are!” She was wearing pearls and a green gown, and her copious chestnut mane—which was fading to gray, Kick couldn’t help but notice—was pulled gently off her face and secured with pearl combs. She greeted Rose and Joe with kisses on the cheeks, then turned to Kick with a warm smile and effused in her bizarre Anglo-American accent, “Well, if it isn’t the most talked-about debutante in London! I am so glad your father did away with that absurd practice of allowing every American tramp with some money to come to court.”

Kick glanced at her father, who threw his head back and guffawed at Lady Astor’s crass comment. One of his most controversial decisions in office thus far had been to allow only American girls currently living in England to be presented at court. No more could families sail their daughters across the Atlantic for a month of parties and prestige in London.

Suddenly it was Kick’s turn to enter into the conversation, and something inside her shifted. She had logged many years practicing the alchemy of spinning nerves into confidence, and pressure—the uncomfortable kind that she’d been feeling for weeks—was a key component of the transformation. How else had she charmed the friends of her whip-smart older brothers? Her parents were depending on her.

Giving Lady Astor’s hands a strong clasp, Kick cleared her throat and replied with a conspiratorial smile, “Well. You might not say that if you were his daughter.”

“Is it as bad as all that?”

“Let’s just say the English press has nothing on the spurned friends from home who’ve written me infuriated letters,” Kick replied.

“Oh, Kathleen, people will be jealous of you your whole life. It’s about time you get used to it.”

“That would be a welcome state of being,” Kick replied. “But I wouldn’t want to forget myself or my friends.”

Lady Astor laughed. “Oh, my dear, you are so young.” Then, turning to Joe and Rose: “Let me have the honor of showing off your lovely daughter.”

“Of course,” Joe agreed with a generous nod to Lady Astor, and a whispered “well done” in Kick’s ear. Kick knew she would vanish before his very eyes as soon as Joe Jr. and Jack arrived on break from Harvard, so she savored this warm, rare moment with her father, leaning against his broad chest and inhaling his clean scent, the sandalwood notes in his aftershave.

With that, Lady Astor steered Kick away from her parents and deeper into the buzzing room. She patted Kick on the forearm and whispered, “By all accounts, you are a success, my dear, but be on your guard always. The serpents lie in wait.” Just as she’d been starting to relax, here was another warning to put the nerves back in her belly. Serpents liked to hide.

As the evening went on, Nancy, as she instructed Kick to call her, laughed and confided benign secrets about this viscount or that duchess, and Kick imparted a few about her debutante friends. Shortly before dinner, Lady Astor released her into the company of Kick’s favorite of the other debutantes that year. The youngest of the five Mitford sisters to be presented at court, Deborah—or Debo, as everyone called her—had a relaxed, often hilarious attitude toward the whole procedure. The two had become fast friends, trading quips about the ugly hats worn by ancient matrons at a luncheon weeks before, and they’d been seeing a great deal of each other ever since. Lucky for them, the Mitfords’ London house was just around the corner from 14 Prince’s Gate. Kick just wished she didn’t envy her friend’s tiny bones, the delicate arc of her eyebrows, her little nose, and her glistening blond hair, all of which were magnified by the ethereal white dress and dewy makeup she wore that night. Kick knew her own nose was a bit too large and her eyes too deeply set for her to ever be called a great beauty.

“Having a good time in the lion’s cage?” Debo inquired.

“The best,” Kick replied. “I feel as though I’ve met the entire cast of Miss Sketch’s column. And now I’m famished.”

“Only about half of the column,” Debo judged. “Here, have a canapé.” She flagged down a footman with a silver tray of some sort of mousse on crackers, and Kick wolfed down two, then took a third.

“Is Andrew here?” Kick asked, referring to Andrew Cavendish, the second son of the Duke of Devonshire and their friend Jean Ogilvy’s cousin. Debo had liked him as soon as she’d clapped eyes on him at a party in Cambridge. He was handsome and blond and a bit of a gadabout.

“No,” Debo lamented and then, deftly shifting the topic, asked, “did Grande Dame Astor introduce you to anyone fun?”

“The Duke and Duchess of Kent, the Lancasters, the Grotons . . .”

“Oh, Kent’s fun, I’ve heard,” Debo said in a warning tone.

“N-sit?” Kick asked, using one of her favorite London terms, short for “not safe in taxis.” It was almost as fabulous as bloody.

“Worse,” said Debo.

Kick was about to ask for clarification, when they were approached by a darkly handsome young man of about Jack’s age, who looked like he hadn’t smiled all night. He looked familiar, though, and it drove Kick crazy that she couldn’t immediately put a name to his face.

“David!” cried Debo warmly, exchanging kisses on each cheek.

Ah yes, David Ormsby-Gore, thought Kick. Sissy’s boyfriend! She kept a picture of him in a locket in her handbag. You should have remembered something so simple, she told herself, hearing her mother’s voice.

“David,” said Debo, “I’m sure Sissy’s told you about our friend Kick Kennedy. Kick, this is David Ormsby-Gore.”

Son of the Baron of Harlech, Kick recited to herself, just to prove she wasn’t a complete failure.

With a raise of his thick black eyebrows and the twitch of a smile on his lips, David shook Kick’s outstretched hand and said, “Miss Kennedy, it’s a pleasure to meet you at last. What a relief to see that our press has left you in one piece.”

“In dancing shape, in fact,” she said, determined to find a way to get this dour young man to laugh. ”And please, call me Kick. All my friends call me Kick.”

“Does that mean we are friends . . . Kick?”

“I don’t see why not,” she said, “Sissy and I are.” And Sissy’s a Catholic, too, so you won’t hold that against me, she didn’t add. She countered David’s stern gaze and held it. A dare.

Then David Ormsby-Gore shook his head and burst out laughing. “I don’t, either, Kick. Is it really Kick, as in to kick a football?”

“Or even a soccer ball,” she replied.

“Not on our turf,” he replied, faking a terrible American accent. Then, back in his normal voice, he asked, “But seriously. How the deuce did you come by such a nickname?”

“None of my younger siblings could say Kathleen,” she told him, not even sure if this was the truth or some sort of Kennedy apocrypha, for she couldn’t remember Pat or Jean trying to say Kathleen and failing. She’d just always been Kick. Only her mother and the nuns called her Kathleen.

It seemed to satisfy David, though. “Charming,” he said, shaking his head in amazement.

Now that the whole coming-out business was done, Kick could admit that she relished conversations like these. Until England, she’d thought only Jack and Joe Jr. and a few of their friends from Choate and then Harvard treated conversation like a blood sport. But it appeared that everyone in society here did, and as she collected laughs and approving nods, she put them down in her mind as points she was scoring in a new and exhilarating game.

They were soon joined by Jane and Sissy, then Robert Cecil and William Baring, and it was such a relief to finally talk about Cary Grant and Errol Flynn, and Cole Porter records and dancing the Big Apple at the upcoming balls. She saw that David was something of a leader in this set; his opinion mattered just slightly more than anyone else’s. She wondered what it would feel like to be in a position like that, to be more than a middle child in a large family, a Catholic among Protestants, and now an American among the English gentry. To be her own person, worthy of respect on her own terms.

Close to midnight, when the older guests and dignitaries were starting to drift out of the palace, Debo slid her arm around Kick and leaned in close to breathlessly say, “David’s offered to give us a lift to the 400 tonight. He said to tell our parents there’s a party at Adele Cavendish’s. She’s agreed to be our cover.”

The 400—at last! Kick and Debo had been trying to go there for weeks, but with chaperones and matronly aunts and worried mothers watching the debutantes so closely, neither of them had been able to figure out how to get there.

In fact, when Kick scanned the crowd to find her parents, she saw Adele’s husband Charles already chatting with her father. Kick wondered how Charles, not the most handsome or charming of men, had come to marry Fred Astaire’s gorgeous and talented sister Adele, who used to perform with Fred until she became a Cavendish.

Kick wandered over to them as casually as she could and said hello, though her heart was hammering holes in her ears. She was used to her brothers doing this sort of thing for her at home. Time to take care of yourself.

“Well, well, if it isn’t my daughter, the star debutante of the evening, if I do say so myself,” said her father.

“You may always speak the truth, sir,” said Charles generously, sliding an easy arm around Adele as she joined them.

“You are too kind,” Kick said to Charles, then turning to her father, she teased, “but you are ridiculous to make such a claim with all these beautiful and clearly superior ladies present.”

“Such modesty,” Joe marveled, still jesting. Then he clapped his hands together and said, “So! I’ve heard a party is forming.”

“Adele and I would be honored to have your daughter back to our house for a late supper and some charades, with some of the other young ladies and gentlemen. I know how difficult it is to wind down after a night like tonight, and we’d be very glad of the opportunity to help her settle.”

“May I, Father?” Kick asked, on her tiptoes to meet his eyes as well as she could. She hoped he couldn’t tell how flushed she was with anticipation.

“I don’t see why not. You’ve earned some fun,” he said, pressing a meaningful look into her eyes—another reference to helping Rosemary earlier, Kick assumed. Was this the way things worked when you became an older Kennedy? Tit for tat? “And,” Joe went on, “your mother’s already gone home with Rosemary, so she isn’t here to disagree.”

Kick threw her arms around him. “Thank you, Daddy!”

And as simple as that, she was in a taxi with Debo, Jane, and Jean heading for the storied nightclub as Big Ben tolled one. The first hour of a new day, Kick thought to herself. And I’m wide-awake to greet it. view abbreviated excerpt only...

Discussion Questions

Questions for Discussion

1.In these days of Facebook and FaceTime, it is hard to imagine a love like Kick and Billy’s, which endures four years of their being separated by an ocean and a war, with infrequent letters and telegrams their only means of communication. Why do you think their love survives that distance of time and space?

2.Kick often struggles with the relationship between her internal desires and her external image. Where do the internal and external meet for her? Where are they most different? How does Billy deal with the same struggle?

3.Family, religion, and class are powerful forces in Kick’s life. How does she use them to her advantage? In what cases do they undermine her desire for an independent life?

4.Kick makes a number of observations about the differences between her own life and upbringing, and the expectations of her new milieu, English society. How does she use these differences to her advantage? Which ones does she try to minimize?

5.Have you ever been thrown into a new social scene and felt that you had to perform? How did it make you feel? What did you do?

6.Kick has to make a painful decision between her family and her love. Do you think you would make the same choice?

7.In what ways are Kick’s years in England before the war like a “beautiful dream,” as she described them in the letter she wrote to her father in 1939? Does the dream continue when she returns during the war?

8.Jack, Joe Jr., and Billy all fight valiantly in World War II, but how are their attitudes toward the war different from one another’s? What do they have in common? What seems to be each man’s primary objective?

9.Kick and her English friends tend to “Keep Calm and Carry On”—or maybe “Party On” is a better description. Why do you think that is possible for them? Do you think the modern sensibility about war would produce the same result today?

10.Kick often envies her older brothers for their independence and freedoms. In what ways have young women today transcended those gender roles? In what ways are they still present?

11.Many women have to reconcile personal desires with the constraints of family and society. What do you think of Kick’s strategy? Do you think she would take the same approach today?

12.How does the Kennedy family as portrayed in the book fit with your own picture of the family? What surprises you?

13.The Kennedy women invest a great deal of time, effort, and money on fashion. What role does fashion play for them?

14.Jack tells John White, “There is Saturday night, and there is Sunday morning. Never the twain shall meet.” Do you think Kick agrees?

15.How does the portrayal of Jack as a young man fit or not fit with your image of him as JFK, the man who—as Debo’s mother correctly predicted—became president of the United States?

16.“Some lives are short,” Kick writes to Father O’Flaherty from Washington, DC, “and I increasingly feel that it’s essential to live the life it’s in one’s soul to live.” In addition to the premature death of Kick’s friend George Mead, what do you think prompts this revelation? Do you think Kick lives the life it’s in her soul to live? Why is she so conflicted about her soul?

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