“Capri is out there in that direction.” Sean pointed in the distance. “The sunsets are spectacular. You’ll see why old Tiberius Caesar moved his headquarters from Rome to Capri.”
“The Hyannis of his administration,” Nora joked.
“Or the Johnson City,” said Paul cynically. “I hope he had more comfortable beds in those days than we do in our rooms here.”
“Signor Cronin?” The proprietario of the hotel leaned discreetly over their table. “A telephone call from America.”
Paul scrambled up, as though eager to get away from the table, and quickly walked out of the dining room. He had been jumpy the past few days, barely able to hide his desire for the vacation to be over.
Sean looked at his brother’s back uneasily. “I wonder who could be calling?” He would not meet Nora’s eyes, afraid even to look at her while they were alone together.
Paul was back in a few moments, his eyes and his face glowing with happiness. “It was the Mayor’s office. Daley’s offering me the job of aviation commissioner.”
Sean shook Paul’s hand enthusiastically and Nora hugged him. Paul ordered a bottle of Nebbiolo, a sparkling Italian red wine. He accepted their toast with a smile.
“I don’t want this to be the end of the vacation for you two,” he said. “Daley only wants me home for a press conference. I’m sure I’ll be able to fly right back. Do you think you can take care of Nora while I’m gone, Sean?”
“I’m sure she can take care of herself,” Sean said. “I’ll stay around until you get back, though.”
“Wonderful!” Paul drained the Nebbiolo in his glass and filled it again. “It’s a tremendously important job—three airports, one of them the busiest in the world. His Honor wants to expand operations at Midway again and thinks we may need a fourth airport. It’s a terrific challenge.”
Nora knew that she should protest. She ought to be at her husband’s side at the press conference. The European vacation should come to an end. She should not stay at the Bay of Naples with Sean. Instead, she said, “You have to promise to hurry back.” She felt like a hypocrite.
* * *
Nora had not been surprised when Paul called that morning to tell her that he would not be able to rejoin her, after all.
“I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news.” Paul hadn’t sounded as if he felt it was bad news. “The Mayor wants me to start tomorrow. He promised me a vacation afterward. He said he hoped you wouldn’t be too angry.”
Nora, barely able to hide the disappointment in her voice, told him that she would catch the first plane into O’Hare. To her relief, he insisted that she and Sean continue on without him.
Now she walked over to the vanity table and considered the woman in the mirror. Her thoughts were clinical. “You know what you’re doing,” she said to her reflection. “You know exactly what’s going to happen, and you want it to happen.”
She removed a container of pills from her travel case and flipped open the lid. The pills seemed to be watching her, each one in its carefully appointed daily place. This was the time each day when she took one out and swallowed it.
She shrugged her shoulders, flipped the lid closed, and tossed the container in the trash basket underneath the washbasin.
She unbuttoned her blouse and slowly removed it, then untied her hair and let it cascade over her shoulders. The day had been difficult. The electricity between her and Sean was crackling back and forth just as it had that summer when Paul had been reported missing in action. Sean had kept up the pretense of being a tour guide, lecturing on the history of the Amalfi, the reason why a small town like Amalfi had a cathedral, the religious difficulties that Catholicism had faced in Italy.
She had listened dutifully and sympathized with the problems of the Italian Church. Yet in the back of her mind she was aware of what she knew was going to happen. Even if Sean did not yet know.
She made sure the door between their two suites was unlocked on her side. She willed him to come through it. She waited on the bench in front of the vanity table.
* * *
Sean wrapped the soft robe around his wet body. The shower had not helped either his headache or his tension. The vacation had been hellish. Paul’s well-meaning cheerfulness and Nora’s paralyzing attractiveness were driving him out of his mind. Now he was alone with her.
He would not permit anything to happen. She was his brother’s wife, his childhood sister. She was lonely and frustrated in an unsatisfying marriage.
But he wanted her. He wanted her laughter and her wit, her quick intelligence and her cool self-possession, her astonishing blue eyes and her mobile, generous smile. He wanted every inch of her superb body. This … this need for Nora was something very different from the desire he had felt for Sandra in Vail.
He shook his head to drive out the rationalizations. He would not succumb. He sat firmly in the chair by the window and opened a doctoral dissertation on sixth-century marriage customs. If he could only last until morning, there would be no problem. Anyway, he was an inexperienced virgin. He knew nothing about lovemaking. He would make a fool of himself. He would not be able to satisfy her.
He probably wouldn’t do any worse than Paul.
He turned a page of the Latin text. Paul is her husband, you damn fool, and you’re not, he said to himself.
Fifteen minutes later he threw the book aside and walked across the room. He opened the connecting door and entered Nora’s room, his robe pulled tight around his long, hard body.
Nora stood up, uncertainty showing on her face as he approached her. He stopped, when their two bodies were almost touching, and stroked her cheek, his fingers light and gentle. He could feel her relax. She wanted to be his.
His hands traced the outline of her face, her shoulders, her arms, her body; slowly, as if he were unveiling a statue, he undressed her until she stood naked before him. He lifted her long auburn hair back over her shoulders so that nothing hid her from him. Again, his fingers gently outlined her body.
He untied the belt on his robe, pushed it off his shoulders, and let it fall to the floor.
Then they came together in the overwhelming love they had felt for each other since she had come into the Cronin family long ago, a lonely, frightened orphan.
As the first light creased the black waters of the Mediterranean, they were still clinging to each other, their bodies sweat-soaked. “You’re a wonderful lover, Sean,” she said.
“A rank amateur, I’m afraid.”
“That doesn’t matter. You’re more concerned about me than you are about yourself.”
“Who else would I be concerned about?” Sean asked. He was surprised that the tenderness of his passion would be thought remarkable. There was so much he had to learn.
* * *
They were on a beach at Capri, having walked a mile from the hotel and around several headlands to a sheltered cove. Nora spread the blanket on the beach. As she finished, she felt Sean’s arms around her waist. He could not look at her, touch her, caress her enough. His fingers undid the straps of her halter.
“Sean, not in public,” she said.
“Nonsense.” He laughed. “This beach is reserved for nude bathing. By custom, anyhow. It’s just our luck to be here this morning by ourselves.”
The bottom of her suit joined the top in the sand.
They lay on the blanket holding hands. They shared a sense of freedom enhanced by the soft sea breezes and the warm sun penetrating their bodies.
Nora felt Sean turn on his side. She opened her eyes and met his stare. She could not remember a time in her life when she was happier than she was at this moment.
He brought his face down to hers. “Will this be the first time a man has ever made love to you on a beach?” he whispered against her ear.
It was naive perhaps, Nora knew, but it meant a great deal to Sean that their lovemaking have a purity about it. If Nora could not be a virgin in fact, then this would have to substitute.
They ma
de love slowly, exploring every secret of each other’s bodies. Later, they swam in the Mediterranean. Nora did most of her half mile before she returned to the beach. Walking out of the water naked and dripping wet, her feet crunching in the sand, she looked at Sean, lying on the blanket, and she was filled with joy. He was so handsome. She did not give him a chance to take the first step in renewing their lovemaking. This time it was her turn.
* * *
On their last night together, Sean’s groans of pleasure turned into sobs. “Oh, God, what have we been doing, Nora? What terrible things have we been doing?”
“Don’t go turning guilty on me now,” she commanded. “I refuse to think that any of this is wrong. We’re not committing sin, and I won’t have you stirring up your goddamned conscience.”
“We both have commitments. Solid ones.”
She covered herself with the sheet as if protecting herself from his weakness. “Neither one of us is going to give up our commitments, Sean. I’m going back to Paul. You’re going back to your Church. This is just an interlude. Paul doesn’t own my body, and the Church doesn’t own you.”
“But we made promises—”
“Promises that we are going to keep. It’s not our fault that we couldn’t go through life without showing our love for each other. I’m sure God doesn’t think it’s wrong. You know that yourself, Sean. It’s just your clerical conscience that won’t let you admit it.”
“Are you saying that there are special rules for us?”
She wrapped more of the sheet around her. “No, I’m not saying anything about rules. This has been a time when the rules don’t apply. They’ll start applying again as soon as I leave for Chicago. This has been a good thing for both of us and I won’t let you say otherwise.”
“I wish to God I could believe that.”
He would have a hard time afterward, Nora knew, on the one hand proud of his successful conquest, and on the other, burdened with guilt because of a love that he thought was sinful.
“You know I’m right,” she said soothingly. “Otherwise neither one of us would have done it.”
“I don’t know, I just don’t know. I’m too confused to figure it out.”
“Then stop trying and enjoy the time we have left,” she said.
And to emphasize the command, she reasserted her control over his body with her fingers and then with her lips.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
1966–1967
Sean Cronin and Eamon McCarthy were shown into the summer office of Castel Gandolfo in the cool hills south of Rome. Outside the window of the tall uncomfortable old room there was a garden of flowers. The aroma, soothing and tantalizing, reminded Sean of Nora’s scent. He tried to banish her from his mind. He was about to have an interview with the leader of more than 700 million Catholics. He must concentrate on other things besides a woman’s body.
The Pope was even shorter than he appeared in his public audiences, a frail old man in white, with nervous hands and glowing eyes. He was relaxed and calm, a compassionate and sensitive man.
“So, Monsignor Cronin,” he said, “you dissented from both sides. It seemed important to listen to your position, too.” The Pope gestured tentatively and smiled disarmingly, almost diffidently.
Sean took a deep breath. “I dissented, Santità, because I think both sides are wrong. Any public reaffirmation of the old teaching is bound, after all these years of delay, to offend the married laity who already think we do not understand their position. On the other hand, I do not believe the Church is ready for change. We have not developed a theory of human sexuality or human nature that provides a context for such change. A decision either way will simply postpone indefinitely the development of such a theory. Either way the Church loses.”
“This is very interesting, Monsignor Cronin,” the Pope said thoughtfully. “However, I am the Vicar of Christ and it is my duty to defend the teachings of Christ. I do not have many years left to live, and I do not know how I would explain to my God if I failed in my responsibilities. The Catholic people all over the world live in uncertainty. Does it not seem to you that as Vicar of Christ I must end their doubt?”
“With all respect, Santità,” Sean said, “I think most of them have very little doubt any more. You will simply create new doubt about the papacy if you decide with the minority. And if you decide with the majority, without a fully developed theory to support such a decision, you will create chaos.”
“Will there not be more chaos if I postpone a decision indefinitely?” The Pope was literally wringing his hands.
“I sympathize with your problem, for you must steer a middle ground between going too fast and too slow.”
“If we change, many of the simple laity will be frightened.”
“I disagree, Holiness,” Sean insisted. “The simple laity like the new Church; they like it, in fact, I think more than I do. Hence, my recommendation to get a few steps ahead by developing a new Catholic theory of sexuality—rooted in the past, of course. Before the laity are ready for it, not after.”
The Pope smiled. “Ah, Monsignor Cronin, perhaps you are right. You are a perceptive young priest. And I’m an old man, perhaps pope at the wrong time. I do not know what should be done. I promise you, however, I will remember very seriously the things you have said.”
Then there were medals and pictures and the usual ceremony at the end of a papal audience.
* * *
As Sean and Eamon McCarthy were walking from the entrance of the old castle to the Cardinal’s Oldsmobile, Eamon shook his head. “You are a constant source of amazement to me, Sean; I think of you as a conservative, yet you have a private audience with the Vicar of Christ and read him a stern lecture about his failing as a leader of the Church, something that not even the most radical of liberals would dream of doing.”
“I’m sure I didn’t do that.”
“Moreover, not only did you do it and get away with it, you actually earned the Pope’s admiration. There are not too many men whom Giovanni Battista Montini admires.”
Sean opened the door for the Cardinal and then walked around to the driver’s seat. After he was inside, he said, “The Pope would make a very grave mistake if he admired me.”
* * *
The bored priest who heard Sean’s confession in St. Peter’s muttered only a few words about stern discipline and then gave him a disgracefully light penance—two rosaries—and a hasty absolution. Such quick mechanical absolution did not even begin to reach the depths of Sean’s pain. Worst of all, even though he was ashamed, he did not feel guilt. He was both confused and dismayed, but he could not escape from a sense of enormous satisfaction and complacency.
Angèlica seemed to be the only one to turn to for understanding. She listened intently as he poured out the story, occasionally nodding her head sympathetically.
She sipped her espresso at a corner table at the sidewalk café just off the Piazza del Populo where they had met. “For once in my life I will be absolutely serious. I think it is surely a good thing for you. You have loved her all your life and she has loved you. What could be more natural than that you express your love for each other? For an Italian priest, it would not be sinful at all.”
“You mean that a romp in the hay is occasionally useful for a priest?” he asked skeptically.
Angèlica made a face over her espresso. “Bah, you Americans are such terrible prudes. A romp in the hay, indeed! No. I mean, it is good for Sean Cronin to learn that he does not control himself completely. You cannot escape being a man, Sean, simply because you are intelligent and have an answer for everything and a rule or a principle or a theory to apply to every situation. Welcome into the human race.”
This was a very different Angèlica from the casual temptress of the Palazzo Alessandrini. Sean felt grateful to her. “Maybe you’re right, Angèlica. This morning, out at Castel Gandolfo, I told off the Pope. I would not ever have thought of doing that three weeks ago.”
“Did he mi
nd?” She raised a delicate eyebrow.
“No, as a matter of fact, he seemed to like it.”
* * *
Nora gave birth to Michael Paul Cronin, the long-awaited Cronin heir, in May. He was baptized by his Uncle Sean in early July of 1967 in St. Titus Church. Mayor Richard J. Daley was the godfather, and his wife, Eleanor, was godmother. Michael Cronin, the proud grandfather, glowed happily. The baby’s three sisters watched the ceremony as their uncle performed it with awe and wonder, although the youngest of the three, Noreen, was concerned about whether her little brother would cry when the water was poured on him. She had been assured that she herself had not uttered a single wail of protest.
Paul Cronin seemed pleased to have a son at last. Dr. Thomas Shields, who brought Mickey into the world, smiled contentedly as the ceremony progressed. Maggie Martin Shields, as usual, seemed distracted and sad.
Mickey was the picture of health, a golden child cut from the same cloth as his sister Noreen and his Uncle Sean. He accepted all the attention as though it was his as a matter of right.
However, the one who was most serene during the baptismal ceremony was Mickey’s mother. Nora was still pale and thin two months after the difficult birth of her son, and sat through the ceremony instead of standing. But the glint was still in her eyes. No one in St. Titus Church had any doubt that in a month or two her golf handicap would be back where it ought to be.
At the end of the ceremony, Sean poured the water over the infant’s head, saying the time-honored words: “Michael Paul, I baptize you in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.”
Noreen Cronin was greatly disappointed. Her little brother not only did not cry, but he licked the water with his tongue, just as legend said she had done.
* * *
At the party afterward at Glenwood Drive, Sean had a moment alone with Nora. “Whose is he?” he asked her bluntly, after months of avoiding the question.
“I don’t know, Sean, I don’t know. There’s no way I will ever know. He’s a Cronin, isn’t that enough?”
“Whose do you wish he was?” He could have chopped off his tongue as soon as the words were out.
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