Jan had long been aware of Vincent Delvecchio.
His name, of course, had become well known when he’d suffered the breakdown, recovered, and then been sent to Rome. What to do with this talented yet perhaps flawed young man had been a periodic topic in the chancery for sometime. As a secretary in the archbishop’s office, Jan was privy to much of the gossip.
Eventually, he had arrived at the chancery, his appointment after ordination.
While he did not seem to notice her, she was acutely aware of him: He was tall, dark, and handsome. She fantasized about him.
And now, here he was. In her apartment. Alone. Without making it seem intentional, she brushed up against him. She was aroused. But she did not let on.
They finished the Chinese dinner. She made coffee, chattering on about the symbols she’d devised to capture the thoughts and disposition of the archbishop.
They drank a lot of coffee while Delvecchio committed her hieroglyphics … or at least most of them … to memory.
By the time Delvecchio glanced at his watch, it was almost eleven. “Holy cow! Look at the time! And I’ve got early Mass tomorrow morning.” He stood. “I’d better get going.”
She handed him his scarf and stood holding his coat. “You’re a quick study,” she observed. After all she’d heard about him, she’d expected him to be sharp; still, his acumen surprised her.
“But not quite quick enough. There’s still a lot for me to absorb before I can be confident that I’m really filling in for Shanahan. Would you do what you did this morning? I mean, bring in the messages and record the archbishop’s reaction to them? Then I’ll go over them with you and see if I’ve got this all down. One more day will probably do it-that is, as long as we can put in another evening on this crash course.”
“Sure. I think I can swing that.” She helped him on with his coat. “Just remember that lots of people want to see the archbishop. But only a few will make it. The thing is that most of this business can be handled by lower-echelon personnel. We-well, you-have to steer these people to an auxiliary, or a monsignor, or a priest-or even someone like me. Mostly you’ll be a filter protecting the archbishop from having to deal with problems and questions that others can take care of.
“That sounds simple enough,” he said as she handed him his hat.
“Maybe because I’m oversimplifying it.”
“Maybe.” Ready to face November’s cold, he reached for the doorknob.
“Oh-”
“Yes?”
“You don’t have to bring dinner. I’ll make it. Tomorrow’s Friday. You want to eat meat?”
Earlier in the month, the Vatican had announced that there would no longer be a law obliging Catholics to abstain from meat on Fridays. The announcement had triggered some simplistic humor. Such as, What is God going to do with all those people who are in hell because they ate meat on Friday?
It also caused a furor among traditional Catholics who looked on as yet another ancient tradition went down the drain.
Delvecchio glanced at her sharply. “Certainly not! Besides, the decree doesn’t become effective until December second.”
She tried to cover a blush. “Just kidding.”
“Okay. Well, see you at the office tomorrow, and here tomorrow evening.”
There was little traffic; it took him only half an hour to drive home.
She cleaned up in record time. They had spooned out portions from the cardboard cartons, so there were only the coffee cups to be washed. And since they had used chopsticks, aside of the serving pieces, there was no flatware to be washed.
Neither got much sleep that night.
He felt much like a teenager after his first awkward date. By contemporary standards it was extremely odd that this was his first date. He found his reaction curious.
He lay in bed thinking of her. He imagined he could still smell her delicate perfume. He figured her to be roughly his age, perhaps a little older. He found her beautiful and intelligent. He remembered his reaction each time she’d touched him … inadvertently, of course, but touch him she had. And he had reacted … involuntarily, of course, but react he had.
He wondered about her.
That he’d had no sexual experience was one thing. What with parochial school, the seminary, summer camp, his priesthood, sexual expression had been a forbidden fruit from early childhood on. Not many men in their early thirties were virginly intact.
But what about her?
She was an attractive, available young woman. She must be experienced in sex. The way he’d acted and reacted to her tonight must have seemed foolish and adolescent-if she was aware of it.
What was he supposed to do? How was he supposed to behave when he was alone with a beautiful woman?
Well, he knew the answer to that!
The Church demanded that he never marry. And morality demanded that any sexual expression whatsoever be confined within marriage. Chaste! That’s how he was supposed to behave when alone with a beautiful woman-any woman.
He expected tomorrow evening would present the most difficult temptation he had ever faced.
She lay in bed thinking of him. He was so talented, so brilliant, so interesting-and handsome, to boot. She had heard the expression made regarding certain priests, though she herself had never had occasion to use it. Now was that occasion. She thought of his celibate life and said to herself: What a waste!
Then she felt guilty.
She could sense that he had been aroused when she brushed against him.
The first time it was accidental. Thereafter, she certainly had not gone out of her way to avoid touching him.
Was there chemistry between them? She had been interested in this young man when she first heard of him. When he began work in the chancery, she would see him from time to time. For instance, in the elevator. She would smile at him, at least in the beginning. He rarely returned the smile-or even acknowledged her presence.
But that remote, standoffish man was not the same as the overwhelmed priest who needed help with a new job. He was not the same as the young man who had reacted to her innocent touches this evening.
He would be at the office tomorrow, still needing her help. They would work together-at least as much as she was able and time allowed.
Then … he would be back here tomorrow evening.
There was not really all that much work to do. Surely she had little more to teach him. That business about shielding the archbishop from unnecessary appointments by finding others who could handle the various sorts of demands, advice, etc.; that really was at the heart of the position that Vince Delvecchio was filling for the duration of Shanahan’s illness.
Jan Olivier had grown up sheltered by parents who treasured their one and only child. Parochial schools led to Marygrove, a Catholic womens’ college. And that led to a job in the offices of the archdiocese of Detroit.
She had dated. But her dating and her dates had had to pass her parents’ muster-the upshot being that she was still a virgin. Even though she was living through the turbulent sixties. Even though she had her own apartment.
Maybe, just maybe, after tomorrow night, she would no longer be a maiden lady.
It’s a good thing Mother couldn’t know what her fine Catholic daughter was thinking; she would be mortified!
Shortly after assuming jurisdiction over the Detroit archdiocese, Mark Boyle set the tone for diocesan bureaus. Everyone would be assembled and ready for work by 9 A.M. In the beginning he made it his practice to drop in on the various offices-unannounced and seemingly haphazardly-a few minutes before 9.
It did not take long for the bureaucrats to catch on. Boyle set the style and expected everyone else to follow suit. Rather quickly, everyone did.
Among those who followed faithfully were Father Vincent Delvecchio and Miss Jan Olivier. They both arrived within minutes of each other at approximately 8:30.
Delvecchio began by boning up on the rating system Jan had devised. He’d had no time either
last night or this morning to study it.
Jan gathered the messages that had accumulated late yesterday afternoon and the few that had trickled in earlier this morning. She brought them in to the archbishop. She began reading them and, where she had some insight, commenting. Boyle gave directions for their distribution. That meant that either he would handle the matter himself or find someone to take care of it.
Actually, the archbishop had expected Father Delvecchio to be handling this by now. Realistically, he knew that was expecting a bit much. So he made no comment. In another day or so the bright young man would master the job.
Jan brought the messages to Delvecchio and looked over his shoulder as he read and interpreted them. He misread only a couple.
He was alert to her scent. He thought he had read somewhere that perfume takes on a different fragrance as it is applied to different skin. He expected he would never forget what Jan’s perfume did for her. Or what she did for it.
As she leaned over, he felt something touch the back of his neck, just above his clerical collar. It must, he thought, be her breast. That set him off on another fantasy. He certainly did not attempt to escape from her touch, or to push her-or himself-away.
Enough, of that. He had work to do.
He began his second day of phoning, or, rather, returning calls that had been directed at Archbishop Boyle.
He was getting into the swing of it. It was a kick phoning pastors, men much older than he, and, in effect, telling them where to go.
For their part, the pastors hung on his every word, trying to interpret the message within the message-between the lines, as it were.
After talking to Delvecchio, some of them thought: The Arch isn’t going to see me, but I must still be in his good graces-after all, now I’ve got his permission to talk to his senior auxiliary. Maybe that’s enough … maybe I won’t even call that brown-noser after all. Keep ’em guessing. Yeah!
Others thought: Oh, my God! The old man agreed to see me. What the hell, I didn’t expect him to give me an interview. Why is he going to see me personally? What does he know? He can’t know that the guys and I are going to Florida during Advent! Who would have told him! Who would have given us away? I’ll bet it was O’Malley. Sure; that’s why he canceled out on the trip.
In each case, from his listener’s tone, Delvecchio could measure the effect his message was having. He began deliberately changing his speech patterns to create differing pastoral modes.
He enjoyed having and exercising power. It was one of the things he was learning about himself lately.
Around 11:30 he strolled out to Jan’s desk. “Almost lunchtime. Want to go? My treat.” He was smiling, something he seldom did.
She looked up brightly. “Any other day of any other year. I’ve got some catching up to do.”
“My fault, eh? I took your time to teach me my job. Sorry about that. But without your help, I wouldn’t have the foggiest idea of what I’m supposed to be doing.”
“It’s all right. A raincheck … okay?”
“Okay.”
Instead of taking a normal lunch hour, Jan got a carry-out from a nearby drugstore. She also did some judicious shopping in a Woodward Avenue apparel shop. She had no plans for tonight, nor any idea of what would happen. This “date” could lead anywhere; she wanted to be ready for whatever.
It was almost five. The workday was winding down.
Once again, Delvecchio popped up in front of Jan. “Listen, I’ve just got to see someone at the rectory at six-thirty. I figure we’ll be done by seven-thirty. So how ’bout I get to your place about eight?”
The incipient frown that broke out when she’d thought he was canceling their get-together quickly dissipated. “Actually, that’ll be perfect: I need a little time to put dinner together.”
On the way home she stopped at her favorite fish place for some swordfish and at a small bakery for French bread. At home were potatoes, vegetables, and the makings for a tossed salad.
What was it they said in the tribunal? Omnia parata. Everything is ready.
By the time he arrived a minute or two after 8, everything indeed was ready. The table was set, the candles were lit. He handed her a bottle of-light Chardonnay.
As she was putting food on the table, he asked to wash up. Through the door to the bedroom and past the walk-in closet, he was instructed.
He glanced around the bedroom. Typical woman’s room. Lots of frilly things. Lots of white. The bed-queen-size, he conjectured-became the focus of his interest. A bed, in this pagan age, had become the symbol not of sleep and rest, but sex. For just a moment, he imagined himself and Jan together on that bed, naked. It was such a strong image that he had to force his mind to let it go.
He washed his hands and, steadfastly looking away from the bed, returned to the dining room.
The table wasn’t large enough to hold all the serving platters. She kept popping up and down, offering dishes to him, and from time to time dropping dollops on her own plate.
Small talk surrounded how good everything tasted, how easy it had been to make, what had happened at the office today, and the like.
How much this resembled married life, Jan thought. Working couples coming together in the early evening to share the highlights of their day. Even though their conversation was a bit strained, she liked the experience. After all, they had known each other only a couple of days; there was plenty of room to develop.
From the moment he entered her apartment this evening, he had been acutely aware that something was different. That fetching fragrance was the same. The hair was the same. She was wearing a tad more makeup. But her dress: No Marylike creation this.
It was black or possibly a very dark blue. And there wasn’t an extra inch of cloth to it. It met and caressed each and every curve. The neckline was cut so that each time she bent over to serve him, he could see-he couldn’t miss! — more than a hint of full, molded breasts.
Vaguely he had been aware of all this at first glance this evening, but the passing minutes developed the details.
Entree finished, Jan suggested they repair to the living area for coffee and dessert.
She put the tray on the coffee table. She sat where she had last night-on the couch. He could easily have taken the chair across the table from her. But he too sat on the couch. As he sat next to her he recalled her touches last night.
They had dessert and two cups of coffee each. Finally, he passed, claiming he would float if he had any more.
An awkward silence followed.
“Would you like to watch some TV?” she asked tentatively.
He shook his head. “I can watch TV any night.”
“You don’t really need teacher anymore, do you?” she said playfully.
He shook his head again. “That’s what you get for being such a good instructor.”
She was aware that during dessert and coffee, he had inched over; their bodies were lightly touching.
“What do you think of the job?” she asked.
“Which job?”
“The archbishop’s secretary.”
He thought for a minute. “It has its moments.”
She smiled. “I heard you today on the phone a few times. You sounded like you were enjoying yourself … sort of throwing your weight around.”
He snorted. “I haven’t got any weight-particularly where those pastors are concerned. It’s the archbishop’s weight that can get thrown about.” As he let his arm fall to his side, his hand landed on hers.
She waited for him to take his hand away. When he made no move to do so, she opened her hand and held his. Both their hands trembled slightly.
After a few moments, she said, “It’s just possible that that job might be opening up.”
“Huh?”
“It’s been noised about in the chancery … Monsignor Shanahan has mentioned it to me. He’s getting tired of the job. He may ask for a change … back to parish work. From the position he’s in now as secretary to t
he archbishop, he probably could get just about any parish he wanted-provided it was open.”
“No kidding! It never entered my head-I mean, continuing after Shanahan recovers.” He looked thoughtful. “That’s interesting. But”-he shrugged-”I’m there only as a temporary substitute-very short-term. And even that’s only because I’m low man on the totem pole. If they wanted a permanent replacement, they’d look for someone way higher on the ladder …” He looked at her. “… don’t you think?”
“You’re going to have quite a bit of experience by the time Monsignor Shanahan gets back. It’s just as possible that they would favor your experience over chronology.” She smiled. “I have it on good authority that when Monsignor Shanahan gets his annual cold, it usually takes him a good two to three weeks to get over it and go back to work.”
She lifted her hand from his so she could gesture. “What if the rumor that Monsignor Shanahan wants to retire from the chancery is true? And what if someone”-she emphasized the noun-“were to get word to Monsignor that you wouldn’t mind taking over his job?” She smiled again. “I could imagine that Monsignor might extend his sick leave as long as possible to let you get really familiar with the work …
“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.
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