Beyond All Dreams (10 page)

“All I need is a little practice.”

“They've got dozens of the horrid machines in the Capitol. They echo all over the building. Can't you practice there?”

She wrinkled her nose. “I don't want to get caught. Using a typewriter isn't part of my responsibilities. I have a friend in the Patent Office who says the government has a technology where they can see fingerprints and trace them to the exact person. It's safer not even to touch the machines.”

He looked amused. “Miss O'Brien, do you honestly believe the government is so fascinated by your daily activities that they'd bother to monitor your fingerprints?”

Maybe he never needed to fear for the security of his job, but she didn't have that luxury. “They might.”

He made good-natured jibes the entire time she practiced with the typewriter, but she didn't care. This was too much fun. When the shopkeeper moved to close up the store for the lunch hour, she reluctantly surrendered her spot at the machine and headed outside.

Mr. Callahan followed. “All right, O'Brien,” he said as he strode alongside her on a path crowded with Saturday shoppers. “Time to confess. Why do you want the typewriter? And don't give me that silliness about admiring technology. It's more than that. You were drooling over that machine like it was your firstborn child.”

A flush heated her cheeks. Was she so obvious? She stopped to pretend interest in the pumpkins mounded on a street vendor's cart. “Haven't you ever wanted something for no good reason? Just to have it?”

“Me? Of course, but I expect the world to bow down and kiss my ring, so I'm entitled to whatever I want. You're far too practical for such indulgences.”

His good humor was contagious. Maybe she could tell him why she really wanted that typewriter. For as soon as she completed his research requests, they would go their separate ways and never see each other again. He wouldn't be there to witness her humiliation if she failed in the lofty goal she had set for herself.

“Do you like reading biographies?” she asked.

He picked up a gourd from the vendor's stand and tossed it from palm to palm. “In the past year I've read biographies of
Lafayette, John Milton, and Ferdinand Magellan, so yes, I enjoy reading biographies. Why?”

“I've noticed that only famous people have biographies written about them. Warriors and kings and princes. Not that they don't deserve to have their stories told, but there are other people who get overlooked.” The waxy skin of the pumpkin was cool as she pressed her fingers into its ridges . . . anything to avoid looking at him.

“Who do you want to write about?”

No, she couldn't tell him. She set the pumpkin back down and brushed the grit from her palms. “I don't know, just a biography. Maybe about an ordinary person who made the world a better place, but who would never be remembered otherwise.”

“So what's stopping you? And don't say it's because you don't have a typewriter. John Milton wrote
Paradise Lost
without a typewriter, and he was blind.”

“It would be a big gamble,” she said with a frustrated breath. She turned to walk toward the streetcar stop on the corner. She'd never been one to take risks, and the odds of her realizing success were small. Minuscule, really.

“Life is a gamble. What other excuse have you got?” he said, then fell into step beside her.

“My idea isn't a practical one,” she admitted.

Soon they arrived at McPherson Square, one of the dozens of small parks dotting the city. This one was dominated by the imposing statue of a Civil War general atop his mighty horse.

Anna sat on the low stone wall encircling the statue. “The odds are good I would pour my heart and soul and every minute of my free time into writing a book and then no one would publish it. It would probably be a colossal mistake even to try.”

“There are worse things in life than a few mistakes, O'Brien.” He braced a foot on the space beside her, smiling down at her.
“If you don't ever make mistakes, it means you aren't dreaming big enough, and something tells me that behind those prim clothes you've got the mind of a dreamer.” She ought to take offense, but he wasn't teasing. He was smiling gently, and the tenderness in his eyes felt strangely comforting.

“Making mistakes means you're learning, growing, pushing . . . that you yearn for something and aren't afraid to chase after it. You're being creative and contributing to this world, even if it doesn't work out as you hoped. Go ahead and make mistakes. For once in your life, quit playing it safe and make some spectacular mistakes,” he said with relish. His voice rose to a pitch that started attracting attention. “Make glorious mistakes that will echo through the ages. Make mistakes that no one has ever
thought
of! Don't limit yourself, no matter how outlandish. Reach out and strive for something beyond all dreams.”

Pedestrians turned to stare at him, but oh, what she wouldn't give to be the sort of confident person who could stand on a street corner and shout to the world. To be the kind of person who chased the wildest of dreams, no matter how improbable.

“Be brave, O'Brien!” he went on. “Write your book. Write it even if no one will ever publish it and you have to roll it up in a bottle and throw it in the sea so someone will find it on the other side of the world.”

“You're insane,” she said with a giggle.

He calmed down and took a seat beside her on the wall. “You're only saying that because you don't believe me yet. There's no shame in making mistakes or failing. Heaven knows, I've done both.”

It was hard to believe this brash, self-assured man could have failed at anything, and it aroused her curiosity. “Tell me when you've failed.”

“I'm a failed poet. I have a stack of atrocious poetry six inches thick back home in Bangor.”

“Really? I don't believe it.”

“Don't believe I am a poet or that my poetry is bad? Come on, don't spare my feelings.”

“I don't believe someone like you would waste time scribbling bad poetry.”

“Miss O'Brien,” he said in a low, purring voice. “If you read my poems, your eyes would bleed in pity and despair.”

“That bad?”

“That bad.” He nudged her foot with his boot. “Come on, I've told you my secret. What kind of biography do you want to write?”

Why did she feel so comfortable with this man? She couldn't afford to relax around him in the Capitol, but out here everything seemed different. A sense of affinity was blossoming between them, and it felt as though there was nothing she couldn't tell him.

“You read a biography of Ferdinand Magellan,” she began hesitantly, “but did you know that a cartographer named Estêvão Gomes sailed with him to the Far East? He risked his life right alongside Magellan on those dangerous voyages, but no one remembers him because all he did was make maps. I'd like to change that. I'd like to write a big, fat book documenting the lives of the great mapmakers. I know it sounds foolish, because no one ever thinks about the people who draw maps.”

A streetcar headed toward them. She glanced at him. “Do you need to catch that streetcar?”

He shook his head. “I'll wait for the next. I'd rather hear about your book.”

She gathered her thoughts while the streetcar stopped and passengers boarded. She didn't like talking about her sad childhood as an orphan. It inevitably brought looks of pity, and she didn't want that from him. But it was impossible to discuss
her dreams unless he understood about her father. When the streetcar departed, she drew a breath and outlined her plan.

“My father was a mapmaker,” she said proudly. “His ship went down at sea when I was twelve, but I would love to include a chapter about him in the book. He was one of the first cartographers to start mapping the bottom of the ocean. He sank test tubes and measures down to the ocean floor, trying to figure out the mysteries of what no one could see. It was amazing work, and he deserves to be remembered.”

She stared into the distance, trying to find the words to express why this was so important to her. “Maybe someday, a hundred years from now, someone will pull my dusty old book off a library shelf and read about my father and be amazed by all the things he did. I dream about that possibility all the time. I just don't want him to be forgotten.”

“Is that why you became a map librarian? To be closer to your father?”

“Yes,” she admitted quietly. “I used to stare at maps and trace his voyages, daydream about the places he'd seen. I know it sounds foolish, but when I study maps I hear my father's voice in my head, helping me interpret what I see. The love of maps is something we can share, even now. It's a way for me to be close to him.”

She held her breath, praying he wouldn't laugh at her. It was risky to expose such deeply rooted longings and hard to guess how he would respond.

“I envy you.”

She looked up to see if he was mocking her, but there was no meanness in his countenance, only a gentle sort of wistfulness. “It's clear you admired your father, but I feared mine.” She blanched at the appalling statement, but he then explained, “Oh, I loved him too. It was complicated. Your admiration
seems pure, and I envy that more than you can imagine. My father was a decent man at heart—loving and passionate, and his laughter could shake the rafters. But when he was under the influence of liquor, he was like Janus, the Roman god of two faces. War and peace. Hope and destruction. Even my mother was afraid of him. I think he would have respected her more if she stood up to him, but she always battened down the hatches and prayed for the storm to pass. The rest of us were left to fend for ourselves.”

In that instant, Anna knew that she and Luke Callahan were more alike than she could have thought possible. On the surface he was outgoing and confident, while she was quiet and reserved, yet they both knew what it was like to feel abandoned in a world of uncertainty. How fascinating to feel this unexpected surge of communion with a person so different from herself. Thrilling, even.

“I need a wife who isn't afraid to stand up to me,” he continued, “someone who can challenge and inspire me. I want a woman who can weep at the beauty of a splendid poem, but can also spot blarney when she sees it. I want an honest, God-fearing wife, but also a woman who can set my blood on fire and wouldn't be afraid to dash stark naked into the ocean with me.”

“Mr. Callahan!”

“Don't turn into a schoolmarm on me,” he teased. “You've read
Madame Bovary
, you know what I'm getting at. I'm not interested in a marriage without passion. I want a wife of good sense and sound values, but also a red-blooded woman who is eager for the end of the day and the sanctity of the marriage bed.” He grinned.

She couldn't believe he was saying this. His tone wasn't the least bit lewd, only blunt and unashamed. “Madam Bovary came to a bad end,” she pointed out.

“Why must you be such a stickler for details?” His voice was frustrated, but his eyes were laughing.

They stayed in the park for hours, discussing novels, music, and Mr. Callahan's irrational dread of technology. “No electric bulb will ever compete with the warmth and beauty of candle flame,” he asserted.

He was wrong, of course, but so eloquent in his convictions that it was fun to listen to him. Four more streetcars came and went while they laughed and argued about everything under the sun.

Finally, the five o'clock streetcar approached. “I've enjoyed our afternoon, but I have responsibilities back home,” Mr. Callahan said. “My ward is a fourteen-year-old boy who morphs into a rampaging monster when he isn't regularly fed.”

He still didn't make any move to leave, but instead continued staring at her. The moment was broken when the streetcar slowed to a halt, startling them both with a loud rasp of escaping air as the pneumatic pump opened the levered doors.

A little warmth left as he went to stand in line for the streetcar. Had she really just spent an entire afternoon with a member of Congress without once being ordered about, spoken down to, or feeling even a tiny bit inferior?

Studying Mr. Callahan from a distance, he didn't look very different from the others waiting to board the streetcar. His boots were a little dusty, he could use a haircut, and his winter coat was rumpled from being in storage most of the year. He fumbled in his pocket for a coin and boarded right behind a woman carrying a caged chicken. He seemed like an entirely ordinary person.

The streetcar was already setting off down the street when Mr. Callahan stuck his head out one of the open windows to holler out a final command to her. “Write your book, O'Brien!” His
shout echoed off the buildings, and she stood at the intersection, smiling like an idiot.

She watched the streetcar disappear down the street. Maybe he was right, and she should be brave enough to risk writing her book, but how could she write her father's story if she didn't know how it ended? If what she suspected was true, the
Culpeper
was nowhere near Bermuda when it went down, and for some reason the navy didn't want her to know the truth. It was merely a detail, but accuracy was important. If she was going to write a book, it would be flawless.

Sooner or later she would find the truth about the
Culpeper
, whether the navy cooperated with her or not.