“Maybe,” she added, “along with Monsignor’s request for a transfer, he could recommend you for the job.”
They both allowed a few moments for that thought to take root.
“We could work together … every day!”
“That would be nice,” he mused. “Real nice.”
His thought took a flight of fancy.
It was by no means uncommon that a priest who became a bishop’s secretary eventually became a bishop himself. Not always, but it was one possible path to the office.
A full-time secretary lived in the same mansion with the archbishop. The secretary was also the customary chauffeur. The secretary met with other bishops, regularly. The secretary usually accompanied his bishop on trips, particularly to Rome.
Having studied in Rome was also a consideration in the candidacy for a bishopric. He, Delvecchio, had touched that base already. Not during his basic theology training, but postgrad-after his damned breakdown.
Based on his years of study there, he already had a familiar name in Rome. Being the archbishop’s secretary would only enhance that familiarity.
Then he wouldn’t have to borrow the archbishop’s clout to toss his weight around. Then, Delvecchio would be a force with which to reckon.
He felt the power of the episcopacy. It was just beyond his grasp. As long as he kept his nose clean. He couldn’t afford a stupid mistake. Not with his breakdown being one strike.
Jan leaned forward to stack the dessert and coffee dishes.
Without thinking, he laid his hand on her back. Through the thin dress he felt her bra strap. It was an intimate item of apparel. He felt the intimacy.
So did she. She froze.
Instantly, he realized what he had done. He jerked his hand away.
She left the dishes on the table and sat straight up. She turned slightly to face him. She didn’t know what to say. His face was flushed.
“Did you … do you …” She was stammering. “… want to … to … kiss me?”
He looked deeply into her eyes. “Very much so.”
She put her arms around his neck. He put his around her back.
After a few seconds, he released her. She did not release him. So he put his arms back around her.
He felt her tongue against his lips.
She was lost in the kiss.
He was thinking.
French kissing. He’d first heard of it in moral theology. When entered into willingly and when prolonged, it was a mortal sin. Oh, my God: a mortal sin! Now that he was experiencing it for the first time, he didn’t think it was worth being a mortal sin.
But he was firmly wrapped up in it.
Her arms remained locked around his neck. They had no place else to go.
His arms and hands were free to roam. And they did.
Consumed by the passion of the moment, his hand touched her knee, then slipped beneath the hem of her dress. Soon his hand fondled a firm, smooth thigh.
Suddenly, she stood up. She straightened her dress. She looked at him, inhaled deeply, and said, “I’ll be right back.”
Bewildered, he remained seated.
Immediately after thinking that he must at all costs avoid any stupid errors on his road to becoming a bishop, he had blundered.
Thank God it had gone no further.
He stood. He prepared to leave.
His trousers were wrinkled. He had been seriously aroused. But that was gone now.
She reentered.
She had bought two items during her brief shopping expedition. One was the dress she was no longer wearing. The other was the diaphanous robe she was wearing.
In but a few moments, he drank into his memory bank her every bodily feature. She was offering him her very self.
Part of him urged a shout of ecstasy and welcome. Part of him wanted to burn her at the stake. What triumphed was the outraged, Victorian Vincent Delvecchio.
“How-dare-you!” He shouted every drawn-out syllable.
Her shock and embarrassment was such that she grabbed a chair covering and quickly drew it around herself.
“But …”
“We were building what could have been …”
“You kissed me …”
“A platonic …”
They were shouting over one another. Their voices carried into adjacent apartments.
“And your hand …”
“Our friendship could have grown …”
“You were feeling me …”
“Into something beautiful …”
“You made me believe …”
“All of this could have been …”
“You wanted me …”
“You ruined everything …” He slipped into his coat, grabbed his hat, and made for the door.
“What was I to think …?”
“And it’s all your fault!” With that shouted crusher he slammed the door behind him.
She stood sobbing and trembling, then, with a howl, she threw herself on the couch. Tears flowed hot and copious. She couldn’t come close to calm consideration.
How could I have been so wrong? I tried to let things happen naturally. I didn’t try, to force anything.
We’ve known each other just two days. And it’s over now?
The archbishop told me to help him. He asked for my help. I gave it to him. No strings attached. I really did help him. He learned quickly. The way he reacted when I was near him. I thought he was hungry for a woman. Did I think that because I was hungry for a man?
That dress, that robe … I bought them today. Was I trying to force things? Subconsciously?
That kiss! I was the one who started that. I was the one who started the French kiss. I don’t think he even knew what it was.
No! Dammit! It wasn’t the kiss. We could have kept control if it had just been the kiss.
But not when he put his hand on my thigh and started to caress it. That was the message. It was unmistakable. We had to get out of our clothes then. It was our only direction then.
My fault! That’s a laugh.
This was an angry thought that turned almost immediately defensive.
What am I going to do now?
Can I go back to work at the chancery? Just like nothing happened?
He’ll be there! Only one wall between us. One constructed wall. The emotional wall will be much more powerful than one of plaster.
What if he tells the others? Men do that. I’ll be laughed out of the building.
I can’t go back. I simply can’t.
I’ll call in sick tomorrow. Later I’ll send them a noncommittal letter of resignation.
Where will I go?
To another city. Smaller.
I can get a letter of recommendation from Archbishop Boyle.
This part of my life is over. If I’m not careful, I may just wrap my car around a tree. Then all of my life will be over.
He thought:
Damn! I’ve got to get control of myself. I just ran a red light.
What an evening!
Now I know. Now I know why seminarians and priests must separate themselves from females-girls, women.
Suddenly it’s clear that only marriage can contain the lust between men and women. Women are the great temptation.
Admit it! Face it! I came this close to making love to her. Going to bed with her. Sleeping with her. And any other euphemisms they use for sex.
Tonight I came this close to throwing away my entire career. And for what? A moment of pleasure. Intense pleasure-I admit it. But momentary.
That kiss! I was flooded with desire.
Maybe there’s some good in this. I’ve got a much better appreciation of St. Paul. He wished everyone could live in the celibate state like him. But he realized not everyone could resist the seductive wiles of women. He hit it on the head when he wrote that it was better to marry than to burn in hell.
Such was the power of women. Without half trying, they could and did pull men into hell.
Even now, as I drive away from that woman, I can still feel the urge to throw good sense away and plunge into her.
Again, like St. Paul, I can almost hear Jesus tell me that His grace was sufficient for me.