65. Roman
The archbishop’s home was nested on a hill overlooking the ocean. Steven and I shared a knowing glance as we turned up the long driveway.
“The God-business is good,” he mused.
My hope of finding a man who’d be ecstatic to meet the daughter he never knew, suddenly dwindled. The archbishop had a lot to lose, even if it remained a secret. As Benjamin Franklin once said, Three can keep a secret, if two of them are dead.
There was now the real possibility I might not tell this man about Isabel at all. The last thing she needed was a nervous cleric of the Catholic Church treating her like a dirty secret.
Obviously I’d have to find another reason to meet with him, if it wasn’t to talk about Isabel and Marie. I could always pretend to be seeking redemption for my many sins. Money might even exchange hands for the privilege.
Steven’s eyes ransacked the vicinity. His features eased into a relaxed grin. “I see he has his own security. I’ll wait out here, unless you want me in there.”
I couldn’t detect the security myself. Even after all these years, Steven’s brief assessment of our immediate surroundings was to be revered. I stepped from the car and buttoned my jacket. “I’m fine. No idea how long this will take but I suspect it will be short.”
Steven nodded and exited the vehicle himself. Not a man to be caught sitting in a car and taking a moment to relax. He probably felt it appropriate to find the archbishop’s security and scrutinize their subpar procedures just for fun.
I barely had to ring a bell before the door opened. What I took to be a houseman stood there, just as haughty as one might imagine an archbishop’s houseman to be.
“Mr. Roman Belmont, I presume?” he said, knowing very well who I was.
I indulged his formal greeting with a nod. “Yes. Good afternoon.”
“Please follow me. His Excellency is expecting you.”
I chuckled inwardly. Of course the archbishop was expecting me. No doubt he had someone research every breathing soul who crossed his threshold. And I suspect an ordinary member of the flock wouldn’t get through that door as easily as I had.
Quick research would have told him that I was the heir to the vast Belmont empire. My resignation was not yet public. Perhaps the prospect of a generous donation to the Church gave him a reason to grant me an interview.
The house was tastefully furnished and if I’d anticipated an assortment of religious paraphernalia, I was sorely disappointed. There were none, and I could have been in any one of the homes in this exclusive neighborhood.
When we finally reached the end of a hallway, the houseman let me into an office. And there it was, a crucifix on the wall, a poignant portrait of Jesus suffering for our many sins. If you were believed in all that. In front of it was a small altar with a couple of flickering candles.
“His Excellency will join you in a moment,” were the houseman’s parting words. I was left alone to wander the premises. There were no pictures on the walls, only certificates of the archbishop’s academic accomplishments, of which there were many. His desk, however, looked familiar and if I wasn’t mistaken, it was a Chippendale.
The only reason I knew this was because my father had a fondness for 18th-century Chippendale furniture. In our few moments of non-business conversations, he would talk about the wonders of the Chippendale craftsmanship. Those moments with my father were the ones I treasured most, and I wondered if he ever knew that.
“An 18th-century Mahogany desk made by the master, Mr. Thomas Chippendale himself,” a resonant voice said behind me. “It was a gift. Quite an indulgence I know, but I have already atoned…if you were wondering.”
When I turned around, nothing was more surprising than meeting the archbishop himself. He didn’t look like the pompous prick I’d imagined him to be. At a guess, he was my height and in his early sixties. He wore a clerical suit, tailored perfectly to fit his tall frame, a Roman collar and a pectoral cross.
There was no second-guessing as to whether this was Isabel’s father. Even though she was the mirror image of her mother, she shared this man’s grace, his curious stare, and the way he walked toward me as if the air made way for him.
“Mr. Belmont,” he greeted me with a firm handshake and a warm smile. “How nice to meet you.”
I returned his smile as we shook hands. “Your Excellency.”
“Call me Francis,” he said. “Please have a seat.”
It only hit me then. Francis. The name of Isabel’s bear. The one she put with my father to comfort him. The one her mom gave her when she was three.
The archbishop took a seat across from mine, in front of his desk. We both allowed a few seconds to take each other in. He was the first to speak.
“You have me extremely curious, Mr. Belmont.”
“By all means, call me Roman.”
He continued without missing a beat. “There are only two reasons the very wealthy ask for a meeting with me. One is to offer me tons of money to be present at a wedding as the token archbishop, the other is to buy their way into Heaven with a donation large enough to choke a giraffe. For some reason, I don’t see you as being here for either.”
So this was how it was going to be. It was difficult not to like this guy. I smiled. “A woman once said to me that the only way to reclaim your immortal soul is to simply ask for redemption.”
“She sounds like a very wise soul.”
If only he had an inkling.
Then he waited for me to explain the reason for my visit. But my curiosity about the man wasn’t sated yet. I needed to know more before presenting him with what I knew.
“Do you accept these large donations people offer you?” I asked.
“No, I don’t,” he said simply. And I believed him. He’d be happy to know his daughter practiced the same doctrine in her moral values. Francis uncrossed his legs and leaned forward. “I can see something is troubling you, Roman. If you need to talk, be assured, it will never leave this room.”
His tone sent a chill down my spine. It was exactly the same tone Isabel used to soothe me when she thought I had something troubling on my mind. This was a man who was generous with his kindness. At that moment I decided to leave it up to him, where things went from here.
“Francis, do you remember Sister Marie?”
Somewhere in the home, a clock chimed, emphasizing the sudden silence befalling the room. And before me, Francis transformed from archbishop to an ordinary man who wore his heart on his sleeve, hope and expectation searing his eyes.
“Marie... Do you know where she is?” He asked softly, urgency in his tone.
It was not so much a question as it was a plea. And I realized this man was about to get devastating news.
“I’m afraid Marie has passed away…three years ago of cancer,” I said gently.
Twenty-six years of anguish unfolded before me in slow motion. I watched a man who was suddenly flayed by a storm of grief and pain. Francis rose and went to stand before the crucifix and the altar, head hanging, his face in his hands. He was praying, and he was weeping, his grief crawling across the walls like a thing that wanted to devour the house and everything inside.
I was frozen in my seat. To the archbishop, I didn’t exist at that moment. Which gave me time to think. I understood what I needed to do. This was not a man who would reject Isabel. This was a man who would embrace her, and help give her life the meaning she needed.
After a while, Francis became very still and looked up at Jesus. He crossed himself, snuffed the burning candles, and lit a single one which I assumed was for his Marie. He returned to his seat, composed, and made no apology for his grief.
“You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t know the story,” he said eventually. “Perhaps you know more. Perhaps you know why Marie left Abbey Chatoise without telling me, and why it was impossible to find her again.”
“Marie found a letter saying you’d been appointed bishop by Pope John Paul. She didn’t want to make the decision difficult for you.”
He groaned, years of despair still lodged deep inside him. “It would not have been a difficult decision. Not at all. There were opportunities for both her and myself to serve God without the restrictions the church had placed upon us.”
He looked at his lap, trying to keep his grief contained. “All these years I was looking for her… Where was she?”
“She lived in Newport, Rhode Island.”
A gasp escaped Francis. “She was in America all this time?”
“Yes, she left the church and used her mother’s maiden name… Marie Le Roche.”
“She was so close, so very close, my Marie.”
A short time ago, I would not have understood this man’s grief, his incredible pain or the enormous love he felt for Marie. But now I did, and not only did I understand it, but I also felt it. I now grasped the kind of love that fused with your marrow and became a part of your soul.
“Now you have me more curious, Roman,” Francis said. “A man in your position taking the time to relay this news to me. How do you know so much about Marie and me?”
“Twenty-six years ago, Marie gave birth to a girl. Her name is Isabel. She’s your daughter, and she is the woman I love.”
Francis stared at me, the messenger who’d disrupted his orderly life, bringing him news of loss and hope. Again he rose from his chair, but this time he didn’t go to stand before the crucifix. Instead, he strolled toward the window and watched the restless ocean rolling in wave upon wave.
Inside of me, a little dread burgeoned. Had I made a mistake in telling him? Did I overvalue his reaction?
He swung around, hands in his pockets. “Your patience is appreciated. Please understand, you’ve just told the head of an archdiocese that he has a daughter, and that the woman he was prepared to give all this up for is dead. Even with God’s grace, there’s only so much one person is able to fully absorb in such a short amount of time.”
“Of course,” I said, standing up. “I could leave you my contact information…”
“No, sit, please,” he commanded. “I would like to get to know the man who loves my daughter.”
I sank back into the seat.
“Would you like something to drink?” he asked. “My houseman makes the most delectable Irish coffee.”
“Please ask him to make mine with a double shot of whiskey, if you would.”
Francis laughed as he texted his houseman. “Your nerves must be raw, Roman. What you did today took some backbone. You must love Isabel very much.”
“Isabel doesn’t know of your existence,” I said. “I wanted to know what kind of man you were before telling her I found her father.”
“And do you find me to be the kind of man you’d like to introduce to Isabel?”
“Yes. I didn’t expect to like you, but I do. I see so much of Isabel in you.”
“Do you have a picture of her?”
I pulled out my phone. There were plenty of pictures of my honey badger. Some were a little more risqué than others, and I chose the ones you’d show a father.
As he looked at her pictures, Francis’ wall of grief allowed for a sliver of hope to seep through, his eyes glistening with tears. “She looks so much like my Marie. This is extraordinary. What a beautiful girl she is. And she’s mine.”
By the time our Irish coffees arrived, Francis had taken his seat again. “We have a lot to talk about, don’t we, Roman? But first, you look like a man who needs to unburden his soul. As I said before, nothing you tell me will ever leave this room.”
Over several Irish coffees, beef sandwiches and a bottle of wine, I did exactly that. I unburdened my soul and told the archbishop of the path that had led me to this moment. And how his daughter had became the woman I couldn’t live without. I told him what a talented dancer she was, how incredibly smart she was with her never ending curiosity about the world, and the incredible capacity she had to love. I also had to add that the nymph had a will like steel, and that her temper was something to be revered.
“She sounds exactly like Marie,” Francis said, smiling fondly. “Like mother like daughter. How I wish Marie had known I would have chosen our little family over the Church.”
“Would you like to meet Isabel?”
“I would like nothing more.”
“Acknowledging her as your daughter could lead to you being dismissed from the Church.”
Outside, the sun had started to disappear behind the ocean, the last vestiges of light like shimmering gold on the water. Francis smiled. “That is where you and I are similar creatures, Roman. No position in life would stop me from acknowledging Isabel as my daughter. The Church that punishes a man for loving his daughter, is not a Church that serves the same God I do.”