April is the cruelest month.

It’s still winter in Boston. I had tried to get that across to the staff before we left Washington. They had listened, of course, but it never really registered on them. Too excited about the trip. The President didn’t make that many public appearances, and they were too busy with the details of this one to worry about topcoats. When we landed at Logan and filed out of the staff plane, that old wind off the harbor knifed right through their doubleweave suits and the women’s stylish little jackets. I was the only one with a real coat. Didn’t look photogenic, but I didn’t freeze my ass, either.

The President didn’t seem to notice the cold. While we huddled down on the windswept cement rampway, stamping our feet and blowing on our hands, he stood framed in the hatch of Air Force One, casually smiling and waving for the photographers, while the Secret Service security team set up the laser shields and their other protective paraphernalia. The Man wore only a sport jacket over his turtleneck and slacks. Mr. Casual. When McMurtrie gave him the all-clear nod, he came loping down the ramp in that youthful, long-legged stride of his. The politicians and media flaks surged toward him. The crowds beyond the police lines roared. One of the bands struck up “Hail to the Chief.” He smiled and grabbed hands. Everybody smiled back, warm and friendly. Especially the women.

“Damn!” Vickie Clark yelled over the noise. “Why didn’t you tell me it was going to be this cold?”

“I did.” But Vickie’s a California girl. She puffed out frigid clouds of vapor and looked miserable. Which is difficult for her to do. She’s an elf, really. Good-looking in a delicate, almost fragile, sort of way. The face of an innocent. With a sharp, tough mind behind it. Vickie typified the White House staff: young, intelligent, an achiever.