Chapter 13
My office was located in the White House’s East Wing—may it rest in peace.
Every day, I traversed the downstairs hallway, past portraits of the former First Ladies.
I glanced at each image, particularly the more recent ones.
It was a humbling reminder that I was now part of a relatively small group of American women who’d called this place home and been charged with its preservation.
The symbolism and style of each portrait interested me.
Some First Ladies included their pets, like Grace Coolidge, who stands in a striking red dress beside her white collie, Rob Roy.
Eleanor Roosevelt’s portrait has no discernible background as she looks directly at the viewers.
Her portrait is unique in that the lower part of the frame shows her in various roles.
All the choices are deliberate and need to withstand the test of time.
Jacqueline Kennedy looks away and slightly downward.
Her portrait, which was painted several years after President Kennedy’s death, is haunting—you can read the grief in her demeanor.
The First Lady who made the biggest impression on me when I was a young girl was, of course, Jackie.
JFK’s assassination took place when I was in eighth grade.
It was a Friday. They called us into the school auditorium and told us, then sent us home.
We were all glued to the TV for days. I actually saw Jack Ruby shoot Lee Harvey Oswald live on television.
Americans loved John and Jackie and their beautiful young children.
I admired her, and, along with everyone else I knew, I grieved the loss of the president as if he were a member of my own family.
About fifteen years later, the night after Joe and I got married at the United Nations chapel in New York, we took the boys to see Annie on Broadway.
There we encountered Jackie with her then partner, Maurice Tempelsman, a few rows behind us on the aisle.
We excitedly whispered to the boys that she was there, but at seven and eight, they didn’t yet know who she was or her part in history.
When we got to the White House, I could still see her influence, from the wallpaper in the Diplomatic Reception Room to seasonal flowers in the gardens.
In Betty Ford’s portrait, she wears a pale blue dress and looks out of the frame with warmth and compassion.
I came to profoundly admire her as First Lady, because she was so open and honest about having breast cancer and later her battle with addiction.
She heroically discussed her alcoholism, easing the stigma and helping countless people get into treatment.
In her portrait, Barbara Bush focuses straight at the viewer.
This directness was part of her character, and the pearls around her neck were part of her signature style.
Barbara Bush might have looked grandmotherly, but she was nobody’s fool.
The portrait captures her strength, and yet also shows her soft side—her beloved dog Millie appears with her, a tribute to her love of animals.
Her grandchildren seemed to adore her, which is usually a pretty good measure of character.
Laura Bush’s portrait reflects her quiet, serene side.
The painting’s setting is the Green Room, which was restored under her direction during her husband’s administration.
It meant so much to me when, in the spirit of putting the country before party, Laura invited me to sit at her table at a White House Senate spouses’ luncheon.
This was leading up to the 2004 presidential race, when it was rumored that Joe might run.
I was delighted to get to know a fellow book lover, and I told her that I so admired the work she did promoting libraries.
Laura was much quieter than her gregarious husband, but she has a fun-loving side, and I imagine she must laugh a lot with George.
I also got the sense that they had a romantic marriage.
One time, I was meeting with President Bush at the George W.
Bush Library after speaking to military families there.
Laura came in and said, “Hey, Bushy,” then sauntered into the hallway for a cup of coffee as he smiled after her.
Hillary Clinton’s portrait shows her smiling broadly in a black pantsuit, one hand on a chair and the other on a table.
I often paused to look at this painting on my walks because I was truly amazed by Hillary Clinton as First Lady.
She hosted a fundraiser for Joe in 1996, when he was running to hold on to his Senate seat.
Wearing a beautiful brown St. John knit pantsuit, she spoke at first from a podium and then came and spoke to what felt like every single person in the room one-on-one.
I was so impressed by how she was able to instantly change topics and speak with such insight on each of them. She must have an encyclopedic memory.
Hillary and Joe ran against each other in the 2008 presidential election.
(It was supposed to be “her year,” but then Barack Obama won the Iowa caucus.) When Barack was assembling his cabinet, Joe supported her for secretary of state.
She and Joe had a good working relationship, having spent eight years together in the Senate.
Once Joe became president, we started inviting the Clintons to the White House.
I saw her in a different way—as one of the greatest politicians of our time, as well as a singularly kind person.
She’d say, “Anything I can help you with, call me,” and she meant it.
I don’t think you ever really know who your friends are going to be until things get rough and they stick around.
As Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. said: “The world is all messed up. The nation is sick. Trouble is in this land; confusion all around… But I know, somehow, that only when it is dark enough can you see the stars.”
In 2024, Hillary and Bill stuck with us through the entirety of the hard summer. Hillary had been through so much and seemed to have gained deep knowledge and grace as a result. I felt very lucky that she was willing to share it with me.
When Joe decided to get out of the race in 2024, we had them come to dinner to talk about the afterlife—what they did, what mistakes they felt they’d made, setting up their foundation, giving speeches.
They left the White House when they were in their fifties, and Joe and I were much older, so our situation was different.
Still, they had a lot of wisdom to share.
After that, Hillary and I made plans for time alone, and we had tea for about three hours. The relationship blossomed into something meaningful. Hillary and Bill ended up being good friends.
Interestingly, Hillary chose to put several elements of her life into her official White House portrait. She stands confidently in the Blue Room in front of the fireplace mantel. On the table beside her is her book It Takes a Village and her White House china.
Michelle Obama’s portrait is striking—you can’t walk by and not stop to gaze.
She chose to be seated on a couch in the Red Room wearing a powder blue gown, with a peach-colored background in a similar hue as her White House offices.
It captures her beautifully—she exudes calm and confidence.
The Obamas added their portraits to the White House collection during Joe’s administration.
Michelle and Barack; Michelle’s mother, Marian; and Marian’s friend Mama Kaye joined us for lunch upstairs in the Yellow Oval before going downstairs to greet their friends and family for the official unveiling.
It remains to be seen how such things will be handled going forward. While the portrait gallery might seem like a small thing, I’ve been dismayed by some of the changes to tradition. And yet, as Robert Frost wrote in a short poem in 1923:
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.
The call to put political differences aside for the greater good is on display nowhere more so than in the traditions surrounding transitions of power.
My first experience of such a ceremony was our transition tea with Dick and Lynne Cheney at Number One Observatory Circle, the vice president’s home.
No sooner had Lynne poured the ceremonial tea than they both jumped up and said, “Let us show you the house!” I’d just begun to raise the cup to my lips for a first sip.
I hastily set it down so I could follow them out the door.
Joe and I trailed behind the Cheneys as they speed-walked us from room to room.
The press was summoned for a departure photo. Waving, Dick and Lynne called out, “Goodbye! Nice of you to come!” as they led us to our car.
The whole thing seemed like it lasted maybe fifteen minutes. The ceremonial tea was probably still hot. Driving away, Joe and I couldn’t stop laughing. “Were we even there?” he said.
Those tours are an important part of the peaceful transition of power in a democracy.
They can also be phenomenally awkward. Tough words can be exchanged during campaigns, but you show up as a sign of unity.
All the while, the press has bright lights shining on your front door.
They’re reading motives into every aspect of the interaction.
In January 2017, it was our turn to host. Mike and Karen Pence came to the vice president’s residence for lunch.
We placed a small table in the sunroom for just the four of us.
I wanted them to love this house as much as we did.
Joe told Mike that he would be available to him 24/7.
I thought the meeting went really well, and I was pleased when Mike told the press that he and Karen felt the same way.
Afterward, Karen gave me a painting of the residence that she had painted herself. It now hangs in our Wilmington home at the top of the stairway—a daily reminder to me that politics can be civil.
Even before you leave the White House, the curators and White House Historical Association ask you to start planning your White House portraits.
Which artist will you select? What room will you choose?
What will you wear? Would you like to stage photographs for the artist to use?
I started taking photos to remember the details of the rooms and spaces I loved, but it all felt a bit overwhelming and wasn’t something I could focus on in those final days.
Choosing a portrait artist is a process.
White House archivists gave me several suggestions, as did the National Portrait Gallery.
I’ve since spent hours looking at books, and I visited the National Portrait Gallery exhibition.
I narrowed down my choices and then interviewed several people.
I chose David Larned because I felt he captured his subjects with authenticity, and also because he is a Delawarean.
Will I wear a blue dress—or maybe a suit? I’d like the image to reflect my independence. I want people to feel like they know me. I hope I remind them of their English teacher, their mom, their sister, their best friend—approachable yet reserved, confident, maybe a hint of mischief behind my smile.