Beyond All Dreams (13 page)

Mr. Callahan's voice vibrated with tension, and she noticed his hands were clenched into fists. For whatever reason, this conversation was upsetting him.

“Honesty is very important to me,” he said. “I grew up in a difficult household where lies were commonplace, and I vowed that when I became a man and had control of my life, I would
never tell a lie again—no matter how difficult or what the personal price.”

“I understand.”

His smile turned skeptical. “I'm not sure you do. Most parents raise their children to be truthful. My parents taught me to lie. When my father was too drunk to attend an important meeting at the mine, we lied about where he was. I lied when I went to school and the teacher wanted to know how I got a black eye and a split lip. To the outside world, our family looked like the image of hard-won success, but inside? It was a rudderless ship, and we created a smoke screen to lie, deceive, and evade. If people really knew my father, no bank would loan us money to build the tourmaline mine. No jewelers would contract to sell our gems. Lying was essential to maintaining our way of life, and we were good at it.”

Anna shifted in her seat. “I'm not sure why you're telling me all this.”

“Because I like you, O'Brien.”

Her corset suddenly felt tighter, and it was hard to breathe. Surely he'd meant that in a friendly fashion, not anything more.

“I like you, and I want you to understand why I'll always be honest, even when it's awkward or inconvenient. Politicians have a reputation for glossing over the truth to suit their needs, but my constituents know that if I look them in the eye, they can rest assured I'm telling them the truth. No matter what, I will
always
tell the truth.”

Realizing she'd been holding her breath, Anna shook herself. The attraction she felt for him was growing, like a sponge expanding in water, and this sort of fascination was dangerous.

She stood and began stacking the Cuban newspapers, anything rather than to look at the dazzling man sitting next to her. The faster she could gather the newspapers, the faster she
could get away from this dangerous attraction. She'd worked hard to get to where she was in her profession and wasn't about to let it be spoiled by a reckless flirtation with a man who was off-limits to her.

He snatched her hand. “Don't go. It's Saturday. Stay and spend the day wallowing with me in Shakespeare and Byron. A kingdom built by words and verse, an ocean of sentiment . . .”

She tried not to laugh. “Oh dear, you really are a terrible poet after all.”

He grinned, but didn't let go of her hand. She tugged it away and scooped up the newspapers. She'd sign them out and spend the weekend reading them in the privacy of her boardinghouse, because lingering with this man was putting both her heart and her career teetering on the brink of disaster.

Luke set off for the hotel, wondering what to do about his fascination with Anna O'Brien. He wasn't accustomed to spilling mortifying stories of his family, but he felt comfortable with her. She was soothing merely to be around. Practical, level-headed, and priggish . . . but enchanting. He needed someone like her to steady him. His entire
family
needed someone like her. Ever since taking Philip under his wing, Luke had been trying to teach the boy what it meant to lead a sober, responsible life, but it seemed the streak of recklessness had already taken root in Philip's soul. His spoiled fresco was on par with Jason's and Gabe's stunt with the judge's sheep. Luke shouldn't be laughing about the incident, for Philip's stunt was just another example of the grandiosity typical in his family.

Luke tried not to smile as he dashed up the front steps of the Willard Hotel. The grandeur of the main floor was in stark contrast to the sweltering laundry room attached to the back
of the hotel, where Philip had been working all day. As Luke headed toward the laundry, he pulled a battered copy of
Romeo and Juliet
from his coat pocket. There was no reason the boy couldn't soak up a bit of culture while working off his debt.

Heat engulfed Luke the moment he set foot inside the laundry room. A row of irons were balanced on a rack before the fire, keeping hot as Philip cycled through them.

Philip looked up, his shirt soaked and his face glistening with sweat. “Thank heavens,” he said, sagging a little as he pushed a lock of dark hair back from his face. At fourteen, Philip was shooting up like a weed, but was still skinny and unaccustomed to manual labor.

“You've got another thirty minutes,” Luke said. Though he could see that Philip was beyond exhausted, the boy couldn't shirk his obligation. Luke ambled over to the far corner to catch the faint breeze filtering through the single window.

“You could help with the ironing,” Philip grumbled.

“Could. Won't.” Philip shot him a glare, but Luke merely waved the worn copy of
Romeo and Juliet
in the air. “I've brought this so you won't fall behind on your schoolwork. Keep ironing while I read aloud.”

Philip's feet dragged as he carried the iron to the heating rack, then plopped onto the hearth and hung his head. “Everyone at school heard about what happened. Senator Kobler's son lives here and saw me collecting the laundry from the lines and told everybody. I just feel so
stupid
. No real fresco painter would be so brainless. I'm a failure, and now everyone at school knows it too.”

Luke's heart went out to the boy. “So what? All great men fail.”

Philip tilted his head a little, confusion in his eyes.

“Failure is a necessary part of the journey,” Luke added. “It takes a long time to develop mastery in anything, and there will be times when you doubt yourself and you'll start wondering if
your critics are right. But your biggest critic right now is
you
, Philip. So what if your first attempt at a fresco was a disaster. You'll probably fail a dozen more times before seeing any success, but you've got what it takes to stand up, brush yourself off, and keep trudging forward until you become great at it.”

And he did. Philip's artistic talent was raw, but unmistakable. A surge of energy blossomed inside, and he pushed away from the wall, passion filling his voice.

“You have so much potential bursting inside that it compelled you to get up in the middle of the night to resurrect the frescos of the grand masters. Do you think I'm embarrassed about that? I love you for it!” Luke could hear his voice echoing down the hall, but he didn't care. “I
love
your passion and commitment and the fact that you weren't scared to make mistakes.”

Philip started laughing, and it was good to see a smile on his face for the first time in over a week. “I want to see you soar, Philip,” he continued. “You're going to stumble and fall at times, but that's all right. You've got what it takes to learn from your failures and keep pushing forward. You are unstoppable, and that's what makes the difference.”

He leaned back against the wall, folded his arms, and looked Philip straight in the face. “But I'm still not going to help you with the ironing. Get moving, boy.”

Philip grinned as he picked up the next iron on the rack and attacked the bed sheet. Luke took a chair by the window and began reading from
Romeo and Juliet
. The room was sweltering, yet there were few things he enjoyed more than Shakespeare. Would there ever come a time when Shakespeare would lose the power to make the earth shift beneath his feet? He savored the splendor of the verses, the pure distillation of longing and joy.

Across from him, Philip seemed equally mesmerized as he listened to Romeo's impassioned soliloquy. It was ten minutes
past the time the boy was due to stop work, but Luke was reading the balcony scene and he could no more stop before the end of the act than he could stop his next breath of air.

At last Luke came to the end of act two. Philip set the iron aside as Luke closed the book. “This is a really good play,” Philip said in an awestruck voice.

“You know love at first sight is for fools and idiots,” Luke said. He stood, welcoming the chance to stretch his legs.

“Uncle Gabe said you fell in love at first sight once,” Philip said with a knowing look.

“That's how I know it's for fools and idiots,” he said lightly. It was easy to laugh about it now, but Luke had been hit hard by his infatuation for Violet Desjardins. At first it was a purely physical attraction. Luke was eighteen years old, and Violet was stunning, with dark red hair and a figure that would put an hourglass to shame. The moment they locked eyes, the air sparked with electricity. Violet seemed as spellbound as he.

At the time, he thought it was love at first sight. Now he knew it to be infatuation mixed with lust, but nothing in this world had been quite as glorious as those reckless, hazy days of summer when every ounce in his body felt alive. It was impossible to adore a woman so passionately, so completely, and not have it leave a scar that would last until his dying day. In all honesty, Luke didn't want that scar to fade. The memory of that blazing, ruined paradise would forever hold a cherished place in his memory.

He vowed long ago never to marry until he found a woman who sparked his passion the way Violet had. And although Anna O'Brien was the complete opposite of Violet, he was feeling the same impulsive attraction, the same blissful ache. He'd been trying to ignore it, but she was getting harder to dismiss.

And why should he? There was no impediment between them. He and Violet were a hopeless combination . . . but Anna? The
more he thought about it, the more he realized she could be exactly what he'd always hoped to find in a wife.

Nonetheless, he would be sensible about this. No shouting on the rooftops like he'd done in Bangor. No endless stanzas of overwrought poetry or pleas to elope in the middle of the night. No, Anna O'Brien was a very different sort of woman, and he would need to court her carefully.

“Come on,” he said. “It's getting late.”

“I'd rather hear about the woman you fell in love with at first sight,” Philip said.

Luke picked up the boy's jacket and held the door, savoring the rush of cool air in the hall. “Brace yourself for disappointment.”

Philip pestered him the entire way up to their room, yet he didn't want to think about Violet. He wanted Anna.

Perhaps he would send her something. Not something boring and predictable like flowers or chocolate. Or anything that could be mistaken as a token of appreciation for all the work she'd been doing for him. He needed to come up with something truly unique.

He knew three things about Anna. She liked maps, she had a vivid imagination, and she was going to be hard to win.

Two days later, he walked into an antiquarian shop near Georgetown and found exactly what he was looking for. It was so perfect it was as if providence had guided his footsteps to the quaint shop. Satisfaction rolled through him as he carried it to the counter and paid for the charming, whimsical piece of nonsense.

It was time to start storming Anna O'Brien's fortress walls.

When a congressional page delivered the package from Luke Callahan, Anna assumed it contained more research requests. Snipping the string and carefully peeling the brown paper aside,
she caught her breath, stunned to see the colorful antique map inside.

It was fantastic! The map was undated, but judging from the ragged outlines of the western part of the Americas, it probably dated from the late eighteenth century. An artist had painted a frost monster hovering over the North Pole, and a dragon in the Caribbean blew a mighty bellow to symbolize the Gulf Stream. An angry sea god lurked off Cape Horn, stirring up turbulent waters.

Her heart raced and she caught her breath. It was the most unique and personal gift she'd ever been given. And so thoughtful. To imagine that Mr. Callahan had spotted this map and thought of her! It was . . .

She stopped herself. It was a donation to the map room, nothing more.