“Not bad news, I hope?”
“He has lot of a nerve!” Father Donovan said when he recovered his power of coherent speech. Since the newspapers had already broken the story about the identity of the father of Kate’s baby and his sudden arrival in Chicago to pay the ransom, Father Donovan had no compunction about telling Father Mackey the contents of the letter in his hand. “Mitchell Wyatt apparently took my niece and her son, Danny, to Italy, and now he is summoning me there to perform their wedding in a little village near Florence the day after tomorrow! That man has b—gall,” he corrected himself.
Snatching up the telephone, he dialed the operator. “I need to place a call to Rome, Italy, immediately,” he said, and then he read her the telephone number printed on the bottom of Mitchell Wyatt’s personal letterhead. “Is this going to be an expensive call?”
“Excellent,” he replied when the operator quoted him what seemed an exorbitant per-minute rate. “Make sure it’s a collect call. Really? … A collect call is even more expensive? Excellent!” he replied vengefully.
“What’s that?” Mitchell asked Kate as she began unwrapping a package that had just been delivered to her by overnight international mail.
“I don’t know, but it’s from Gray Elliott,” Kate said.
“Be careful, it’s probably bugged.”
“It’s a wedding gift,” she said, reading the card.
“We should call the bomb squad.”
Ignoring that, Kate lifted the lid off the inner box and folded back the tissue. It was a beautiful antique photograph album. Carefully, Kate lifted the album’s cover; then she looked up at Mitchell with shining eyes. Inside the album were enlargements of some of the photographs taken by MacNeil and Childress.
The first one was of Kate and Mitchell on the balcony of the hotel in St. Maarten. They were standing very close, smiling at each other, and a kiss was just a moment away.
“Mr. Wyatt?” Mitchell’s secretary said as she walked into the living room of his apartment. Out of deference to Kate, who was sitting beside him on the sofa, she explained in English, “The collect call you’ve been expecting is on your private line. He sounds … upset.”
Mitchell took his arm from around Kate’s shoulder. “This will be your uncle,” he said mildly as he stood up and walked over to a large, comfortable upholstered chair that was positioned in front of the windows overlooking Via Veneto. He sat down in the chair, glanced out the windows at one of his favorite views, and lifted the receiver of the phone next to it. “Good morning, Father Donovan. I assume you’ve gotten my letter?”
Father Donovan focused his gaze on the young priest he was trying to coach while he launched his opening verbal salvo at Mitchell Wyatt in an angry, no-nonsense voice. “Mitchell, do you honestly think for one moment that I would bind Kate for the rest of her life, with the sacred vows of holy matrimony, to a man who won’t allow her to have children?”
“No.”
“Then what is the purpose of sending me this—this outrageous ‘invitation’ to perform the ceremony in Italy?”
“I have promised Kate that she can have as many children as she wants whenever she wants to have them.”
Father Donovan nodded encouragingly to Father Mackey, but in his enthusiasm over his success thus far, he pressed for added assurances instead of accepting what was already a clearly worded assurance from Mitchell. “And you won’t oppose her in any way?”
“On the contrary—I will take the greatest pleasure in helping her conceive them.”
“If that was intended to be a lewd, provocative remark, I am disappointed but not shocked.” At that statement, Father Mackey leaned forward worriedly in his chair, but Father Donovan smiled and dismissed the young priest’s concern with a silent wave of his fingers; then he moved on to the next skirmish he faced with the man on the telephone.
“Are you Catholic? … Yes, being baptized as one qualifies as being Catholic. … Have you been married before in a religious ceremony? … Well, if you haven’t been in a church, or near a cleric, in fifteen years, then I guess it’s safe to assume you haven’t been. However, I cannot make assumptions about anything as important as this, so I have to ask you to answer that question with a yes or no.”
Father Donovan repeated Mitchell’s curt negative answer for Father Mackey’s benefit, and then he braced himself for a major skirmish, but first he offered a little reassurance—in order to soften Mitchell up a little. “In that case, Mitchell, I see no insurmountable obstacles to my participating in your wedding to Kate. I gather from your note that you’ve already made arrangements for the ceremony with the local village priest and that he’s rushing the paperwork through proper channels. Is he willing to let me participate?”
Father Donovan nodded at Father Mackey, indicating that Mitchell’s answer to the last question was yes. “Well, that’s very good,” Father Donovan said delightedly; then he smoothly added, “If you haven’t been near a priest in fifteen years, then it’s been at least that long since you went to confession. Naturally, you’ll need to take care of that matter before the ceremony—”
He stopped because Mitchell cut him off with a clipped, annoyed question; then Father Donovan responded in a tone meant to convey understanding and patience—but slightly strained patience: “No, Mitchell, I assure you I was not ‘joking.’ When you and Kate stand before me in God’s house on your wedding day, prepared to take your sacred vows, I want you to have souls as clean and shiny as you had when you were babies. That means you will both have been to confession beforehand. That is not a request, it is a requirement.”
After a pause to let that sink in, Father Donovan said much more kindly, “Children frequently dread going to confession because they associate it with guilt and embarrassment, but the sacrament of confession is actually intended to offer forgiveness and understanding, to help us feel truly absolved.”
He paused again, waiting for a reaction, but the line was dead silent, so he forged ahead. “If there’s a language barrier, or some other reason you don’t want to make your confession to the local village priest, then I’ll hear your confession myself if you’d like—”
That offer got an instantaneous response from Mitchell, one that made Father Donovan’s shoulders shake with laughter. Clamping his palm over the phone’s mouthpiece, he whispered to Father Mackey, “He just told me I could take that fantasy with me all the way to hell.”
Recovering his composure with an effort, Father Donovan said almost gently, “Mitchell, I’m not going to hell and neither are you. You may confess to any priest you like, so long as you’ve taken care of the matter before the ceremony. Now, please put Kate on the phone. Your future wife and I need to have a little talk.”
In Rome, Mitchell jerked the phone away from his ear and handed it to Kate, who had perched on the arm of his chair. “It’s your turn,” he said irritably, and got up to fix them both a cocktail. As he listened to Kate’s end of the conversation, however, a little of his ire began to transform into amusement, because she apparently wasn’t getting off any easier than he had. In fact, whatever her uncle was saying to her caused her to frequently murmur, “Yes, I know,” and “Yes, you’re right,” and “Yes, I will.”
It was at least five minutes later when she finally said, “Good-bye, we’ll see you in a couple of days,” and hung up the phone.
Mitchell handed her the drink he’d fixed her, then sat down beside her and pulled her onto his lap. “Your uncle is a self-righteous, pompous, sanctimonious, petty tyrant—” he announced irritably.
Smiling softly into his eyes, Kate pressed her fingers to his chiseled lips to silence him. “He was giving me a lecture on the need to give you the benefit of the doubt in the future and reminding me about my part in what went wrong with us before. He was telling me that you’re a man of tremendous character and personal integrity, a man who is capable of loving Danny and me deeply and forever with gentleness and strength.”
“As I was saying a mom
ent ago,” Mitchell replied with a grin, “your uncle is a man of surprising perception as well as an excellent judge of character.”
Father Mackey was not so confident of that. In fact, he had serious misgivings about the wisdom of Father Donovan’s willingness to support Kate’s marriage to Mitchell. He stood up, started to leave, then turned back. Father Donovan was leaning against his desk, smiling with satisfaction at the outcome of his phone call, when be he noticed the young priest’s worried expression. “You look troubled, Robert. What’s wrong?”
“I just don’t see how you can feel any confidence about marrying two people who only knew each other a few days and who have the kind of unpleasant history they have.”
Folding his arms across his chest, Father Donovan contemplated his reply for a moment, and then he said, “I’m going to answer that with the same question I posed once to Mitchell: How is it possible that two people who knew each other only a few days could end up being so agonizingly disappointed in each other that neither of them was able to forget about it after almost three years?”
“There could be psychological undercurrents, unresolved parental issues; who knows what the answer is?”
“I know what the answer is,” Father Donovan said with certainty. “The answer is that when they were together during those few days, those two people loved each other so much that neither one of them could come to terms with the suffering they inadvertently inflicted on each other later.”
“You could be right, I suppose. But even so, a man and a woman—”
“Please don’t quote to me from another book on the sanctity of marriage that you read in the seminary. In fact, I want you to read a book that may actually help you grasp the spiritual reality that can exist between couples who truly love each other. You won’t find it on the usual reading lists.”
“I’ll be happy to read whatever you suggest. What’s the title?”
“It’s called The Prophet by Kahlil Gibran.”
Father Mackey looked dubious but willing. He walked over to Father Donovan’s desk and wrote down the book’s title and the name of the author on a piece of paper. Then he stopped and stared, openmouthed, at the older priest. “Didn’t we excommunicate Gibran a century ago?”
Father Donovan shrugged. “Yes, and we excommunicated Galileo, too, for daring to claim that God’s earth actually circled the sun and not the reverse. Just look who’s laughing now.”
Chapter Fifty-eight
ANY WEDDING WAS A SOURCE OF CURIOSITY AND A REASON for celebration in the village near Florence where Mitchell had lived with the Callioroso family. Mitchell had chosen this village to be married in because he said it was the place of his innocence, his childhood.
On the day of Mitchell and Kate’s wedding, the back of the small church was occupied by several local people who simply enjoyed weddings. These individuals did not recognize Matthew Farrell and his wife, or Stavros and Alex Konstantatos, but they had an unexpected thrill when they saw the famous American film star who escorted his wife, Julie, up the aisle. They had a second thrill when he walked past them again on his way to escort a tiny, elderly woman who smiled proudly on her way to her seat at the front of the church.
The front of the church, where the invited guests were seated, was occupied by people who were very special to Mitchell and Kate, including Holly and the Callioroso family. It was exactly the kind of small, intimate wedding that Kate and Mitchell both wanted.
The day before, Mitchell had dutifully gone for confession to Father Lorenzo. He emerged from the church with a bemused expression on his face and joined Kate, who was waiting for him on a bench in the village’s square. “How did it go?” she’d teased him, linking her arm through his.
“Actually,” Mitchell replied, “I had the feeling Father Lorenzo may have been a little disappointed in my lack of imagination. Although, considering how many Our Fathers and Hail Marys I have to say as penance, I think he may have been impressed with my tenacity.”
“How many Our Fathers and Hail Marys did he give you as penance?”
“If I start praying right away, there’s a chance I may be on time for our wedding.”
Kate had burst out laughing.
Now, as she stood in front of the altar, with Father Lorenzo and her uncle both officiating and Mitchell smiling into her eyes, she felt truly blessed. She said her vows clearly and proudly. Mitchell said his vows the same way, answering in Italian for the benefit of the Callioroso family, while Father Donovan looked on approvingly. His expression faltered, however, near the end of the ceremony when Mitchell was asked if he promised to love, honor, and cherish Kate.
Instead of replying “Lo giuro,” Mitchell replied, “Con ogni respiro che prendo.”
For a brief moment, Father Donovan wondered if Mitchell’s answer had been perhaps a little indefinite, but Father Lorenzo looked very gratified, which allayed Father Donovan’s concerns.
At the reception after the ceremony, however, Father Donovan sought out Father Lorenzo, who was bilingual and who was chatting with the American guests. “Father Lorenzo,” Father Donovan said, “what did Mitchell say when you asked him if he promised to love, honor, and cherish Kate?”
The Americans were obviously as curious as he was, because they turned attentively to hear Father Lorenzo’s reply.
“When I asked Mitchell if he promised to love, honor, and cherish Kate, Mitchell did not merely say ‘I do.’ Instead, he replied, ‘With every breath I take.’”
Like all the women in the group, Kate found her eyes misted with tears when Father Lorenzo said that, but Kate had already known at the altar what Mitchell was saying. It was the same phrase he’d had inscribed inside her wedding band.
Can’t Take My Eyes Off of You
Judith McNaught’s next spellbinding novel of breathless suspense and breathtaking romance—read on for a preview.
The wedding of Mitchell Wyatt and Kate Donovan took place in a little village near Florence, Italy, where the wealthy American bridegroom spent the first five years of his life, being raised by the Calliorosos, a simple family who knew as little about his true origins as Mitchell did. The bride was a Chicago Irish girl who owned a successful restaurant—and the bridegroom’s heart.
The entire Callioroso family was at the church, where the groom spoke his vows in Italian for their benefit. Two priests officiated at the wedding: Father Lorenzo, the local padre, and Father James Donovan, the bride’s uncle. When the groom was asked if he promised to love, honor, and cherish his bride, he answered solemnly in Italian, “With every breath I take.”
Father Lorenzo accepted Mitchell’s unusual vow with a grave nod and smiling eyes, while the other Italians in the church exchanged teary smiles and grabbed for handkerchiefs. The other guests spoke no Italian, so they had to wait until later to ask Father Lorenzo what the groom had said.
Among those guests were an American industrialist and his wife; an American film star and his wife; two Greek tycoons; an elderly lady who was a scion of Chicago society; and a young woman named Holly Braxton—the maid of honor and daughter of one of the wealthiest families in New York.
I was there, too, standing by the altar near my brother, Father James, watching my little Kate be wed to the man who fate meant her to have. No one saw me there, but Kate suddenly sensed my presence. I know exactly when she did, because she looked up a little and then she smiled at me, and in her shining green eyes there was a hug.
My name is Daniel Patrick Donovan. I am the proud father of the bride, and the fact that I’ve been deceased for three years doesn’t change a thing. She’s still my Mary Kate, and I’ve been watching over her since I drew my last earthly breath. I was there the day she sang “Danny Boy” at my wake, and I was there, three days later, when she sang it in the rain for me one last time, and made all my mourners weep. My Mary Kate has a fine voice, by the way.
I was also there the day she met Mitchell Wyatt. In fact, I brought them together, and when my headstrong girl let
Mitchell get away, I brought them back together. In life, I was a successful restaurateur, and a better father than I thought—Mary Kate is proof of that. She’ll have Mitchell to look after her now, though, and you’re probably thinking my work is done. I was feeling that way, too, as I watched Mitchell slip a wedding band on Kate’s finger—but just then, Kate’s maid of honor looked away from them and straight at me while she brushed tears off her lashes.
I saw something in her eyes, too. It wasn’t a hug. It was longing.
She is Holly Braxton, formerly a rich young aristocrat, and now a dedicated veterinarian.
I am Daniel Donovan, former restaurateur, and now—matchmaker extraordinaire!
It isn’t necessary for you to remember my other credentials. From now on, you may think of me simply as … Fate.
Every Breath You Take is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2005 by Eagle Syndication, Inc.
Excerpt from Can’t Take My Eyes Off of You copyright © 2006 by Eagle Syndication, Inc.
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
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