Beyond All Dreams (35 page)

Over the next hour they visited with the art librarian, who pulled books on modern techniques for replicating the ancient process. All it would take was a thin veneer of fresh plaster laid atop the existing wall. It would be cheaper, easier, and far less likely to fall like it did when Philip experimented last autumn.

Julia stood by Philip as he wrote down the process for mixing the plaster and preparing the wall. Anna fetched art books with examples of famous landscapes Philip could draw upon for inspiration. The boy's enthusiasm was contagious.

“When are you planning the grand event?” Anna asked.

“Tomorrow,” Philip said. “I want it finished before Uncle Luke returns from Florida. He's supposed to be back on Monday, so I have to move fast.”

“Can I help?” Anna asked impulsively, then almost bit her tongue. Just because she was lonely didn't mean she ought to barge in and invite herself to spend time with Luke's family when she was still a stranger to them.

“Would you?” Philip almost sounded relieved at her suggestion. “Just don't tell Uncle Luke. I want it to be a surprise.”

She and Julia spent the weekend helping Philip mix plaster, carry water, and clean brushes while a garden scene of amazing beauty was quickly painted onto the fresh plaster. How wonderful to watch a boy so young and full of talent as he transformed the blank wall into a transcendent work of art.

Even as the country struggled beneath the threat of war, God still graced them with glimpses of beauty, new friendship, and happiness.

Anna was startled to see Neville waiting for her when she arrived at the map room on Monday morning. He hadn't come around so much since announcing his engagement, and he must have arrived very early given the way he was slumped over a newspaper spread open on a worktable.

“Hello, stranger,” she said.

“Anna!” Neville folded the newspaper and pushed to his feet, swallowing hard. His ticks were out in full force, and he looked pale. “I'm so sorry.”

“Sorry about what?”

“Haven't you seen the newspapers?”

“You know I never read the newspapers. Especially now, when all they report is bad news about Cuba.”

His shoulders sagged. “You don't know then.”

Now he was starting to frighten her. She glanced at the newspaper folded under his arm. With trembling fingers she held her hand out. Neville unfolded the paper so she could see the headline. “I'm so sorry,” he repeated. “I didn't know.”

The headline blared in two-inch type:
Spain Murders Crew of the USS
Culpeper
.

“Oh no,” she breathed. The strength drained from her legs, and she sank toward the floor, Neville catching her just before she landed.

“You knew?” he asked.

“Luke told me,” she said through bloodless lips. Neville guided her into a chair, but she felt too sick to look up as she curled over. “He swore me to secrecy. He knew if it got out, it would be like pouring kerosene on a fire.” Could there have been a worse time for this to hit the newspapers than while Luke was trying to walk a delicate balancing act with the Spanish diplomats?

Although perhaps it shouldn't be surprising this story had
been leaked to the press. With tensions so high, all it took was a single person who wanted to fan the flames of war by releasing the story to the press. There were dozens of people in the government who knew the secret of the
Culpeper
, and it looked like one of them was anxious to tip the scales toward war.

Neville offered her the paper, but she turned her head away. She didn't want to know the terrible details of her father's execution. All she knew was that the only thing to stop the country from plunging into war was a handful of pacifists desperately trying to stave off the vote for war until tempers cooled. This news made that even more unlikely.

“All the newspapers are coming out with late editions with more details,” Neville said. “The war hawks are delighting in the story. It's fifteen years old, but they're shouting their outrage from the mountaintops. This is going to be bad.”

And Anna knew it was true.

Anna was squeezed between chattering women on the bench at the boardinghouse dinner table. As usual, the volume in the room was deafening. One of the girls was caught wearing lip rouge to work and was ordered by her supervisor to stop. The other women at the table were outraged and discussed techniques for wearing cosmetics that could escape detection.

Anna stared at the cooling plate of mutton stew, the predictable meal served every Monday evening. She wished her only problem was the surreptitious use of cosmetics. Politics were almost never discussed at this table, and no one brought up the subject of the
Culpeper
, even though the news had triggered a flurry of outrage in the afternoon newspapers. No one here knew her father or his role on the
Culpeper
, and she wanted to keep it that way.

One of the girls produced the illicit pot of lip rouge, and another girl lunged across the table to grab it, almost knocking Anna's water glass over. Anna pursed her lips as she moved the glass to safety, wondering if she should take her plate of stew upstairs to escape this inane conversation.

A booming voice sliced through the chatter. “Anna!”

It was Luke, bellowing down the hall. He burst into the dining room, Mrs. O'Grady close on his heels.

“You can't come in here, sir. This is a women's house!”

Luke ignored the landlady as he held out a rolled-up newspaper, glaring at Anna. “Did you do it?” he asked, his voice vibrating with barely leashed anger. “Did you spill the news of the
Culpeper
to a journalist?”

Every muscle in her body tensed, and she fought the temptation to run away. The old Luke was back. The snarling, angry man with rage in his eyes. Shocked silence descended on the room. Anna stood, bracing her hands on the table to keep them from shaking.

“What do you think?” she challenged.

A muscle bunched in his jaw, and he struggled to contain his breathing, but he didn't break eye contact as he held the paper aloft. “I'm asking you, Anna. Politely and clearly. Did you talk to a journalist?”

He was barely in control of his temper, and she could put his mind at ease with a simple word, but then what? There would come a time when she would disappoint him for real, and would he then feel entitled to let his temper have free rein? She would never willingly put herself in the hands of a man who used violence to control those around him, and she needed to know if Luke was such a man.

“You knew I wanted the world to know the truth about the
Culpeper
” was all she said.

He flinched as if he'd been struck. The newspaper fell to the floor. He hung his head. Everyone waited, holding their collective breath as though a bomb were about to explode.

“Okay,” he finally said, his voice heavy with disappointment but drained of rage. He kept his eyes averted. “Okay,” he said again, “we'll figure this out. It will be all right.”

He'd never sounded so defeated, his voice choked with regret. Anna climbed out from the bench and rushed to his side. “Let's take this outside,” she said quietly.

He nodded and followed her from the room. He clasped her hand as she led him down the hall toward the alley behind the boardinghouse, where they could be alone. She tugged the door closed.

Luke looked beaten down and discouraged as he stared sightlessly at the empty vegetable crates mounded by the wastebins. “Oh, Anna, I wish you hadn't done this,” he said, his voice ragged. “You let us both down, and there are going to be consequences. We'll figure a way to deal with them and find a path toward forgiveness, but I wish you hadn't done it.”

“I didn't,” she said softly. Luke's head shot up, and he looked at her with the beginnings of hope in his eyes. She placed a hand on his arm. “I swore I wouldn't tell, and I would never betray you like . . .”

Her voice choked off as he dragged her into his arms. “Thank God,” he breathed.

She tightened her arms around his back, the tension draining from his body. If ever he had cause to vent his rage against her, she had just handed it to him on a golden platter, and he didn't rise to the bait. She'd never been so proud of him.

“When did you get back from Florida?”

“About twenty minutes ago.” His voice was muffled, yet exhaustion weighed on every syllable.

“How did it go?”

His arms dropped away, and he lowered himself to sit on the back stoop. “Badly,” he said. “The little hope we had going into the negotiations has now burned out.”

Her heart squeezed. She still felt conflicted about this war, but she hated seeing him so defeated. “What happens now?”

“Spain has broken diplomatic relations with us. Cornelius Jones will try to delay the war vote until tempers have cooled, but there's not much left we can do. The House will vote for war in a landslide. So I failed.” His voice was hollow, his eyes haunted. She joined him on the stoop, sitting and taking his hand between hers.

“I have no doubt you worked to the very best of your abilities,” she said, “and that's all God asks of us.”

“All my life I've had this idealistic image of a lion lying down beside a lamb. They're in a green pasture by a stream, and it's a perfect, cloudless day. I wanted to believe it could be real and held that image in my mind every day, hoping to find a path to that peaceable kingdom.” He traced a pattern on the back of her hand, his blunt fingers weathered and darkened by the sun, while hers were smooth and white. “Now it will never happen.”

She laid her hand over his. “I'm not so sure about that,” she whispered. Maybe Luke couldn't solve peace between the nations, but he had tamed the wildness inside him. Trying to pretend his stormy passion did not exist would be hopeless and a waste of one of his greatest strengths. But he could tame it and turn it toward worthy goals.

“I'm sorry I barged in on you like that,” he said. “You deserved better than to have me tear into you the second I got back.”

It hadn't escaped her notice that when she let him believe the worst of her, still he vowed to stand beside her and work toward forgiveness. This time he'd wrestled with his temper and had won the battle.

“Have you had a chance to go to the Willard yet?” she asked.

“No, I came straight here after I saw that headline. What a thing to see the minute I stepped off the train.”

“Because Philip has been eagerly awaiting your return.”

He looked at her quizzically. “How did you meet Philip?”

She explained how Julia came to her with a reference question, but refused to supply any details. The fresco wasn't her surprise to share.

“I know you're exhausted, but Philip is going to want to show you something. Tonight probably. It would be good if you could find the energy to indulge him.”

He sighed, but nodded his assent. He was so worn out, she had to help him stand. She walked him to the streetcar stop and waited on the bench beside him.

“I almost forgot,” Luke said, reaching into the breast pocket of his coat. He pulled out a twig laden with extravagant fuchsia blossoms, a few of the limp petals scattering onto the pavement. “It's bougainvillea. From Florida. I stole it from the breakfast table at the hotel.”

“You
stole
it?”

“They throw them out each morning, but I knew it would look better on you.” He gently tucked the stem of the flower into her hair.

She reached up and touched the velvety petals. “I'm not the type to wear flowers in my hair.”

“You ought to, O'Brien. The world can be a tough and gritty place. We need to seize beauty wherever we can find it.”

“You mean
steal
beauty?”

He smiled and nodded. “If you'd like. Those blooms were so spectacular I couldn't resist bringing one to you. It's not going to last much longer, maybe not even till morning.”