Beyond All Dreams (4 page)

“I won't quit. You can beat me to a pulp, I don't care. I'm not quitting.”

“Come on, Dad,” Gabe said. “Let's go finish cutting down that elm tree by the creek.” Gabe tugged at Edgar's raised fist, trying to pull him off Luke. Edgar let Gabe pull him up.

“Why don't you ask your mother to sew you a dress if you want to write poetry like a girl,” Edgar said before storming out of the kitchen alone. They waited until the front door slammed before any of them moved.

Gabe helped Luke into a sitting position, his ribs hurting too much to stand. He stayed propped against the kitchen wall, blood streaming from his mouth. A few moments later,
his mother brought a damp rag as Julia went to pick up the bits of paper that hadn't burned. Their little brother, Jason, wept in the corner.

Julia brought him the fragments of paper, only a few words visible in the center of the blackened pages. The stench of bacon filled the room, and Luke couldn't bear to look at the remnants of his poems. He'd spent over a year writing those poems. They had meant the world to him. The ashes Edgar had kicked in his face made tears stream from his eyes. He scrubbed them away with his cuff, hoping no one thought he was crying because of the poems. It was just the ash in his eyes.

Ignoring the ache in his side, he struggled to rise. “I'm all right,” he said when his mother tried to keep him sitting. The room tilted and swayed, but he clenched his teeth, determined not to let the pain show on his face.

“Don't be foolish,” his mother said. “You're dripping blood everywhere.”

“I'm all right,” he repeated.

And he was. He smothered the turbulent emotions, locking them away until the anger would wither and die if he didn't think about it. All he had to do was stuff the anger down until everything quit hurting. Learning to master his temper was his salvation in a world of chaos and brutality. Tomorrow wouldn't be the first time he'd gone to school with a black eye and a swollen lip, but he'd walk in with his head held high and dare anyone to ask why he'd taken a beating.

Luke pushed the memories away. His father was long dead, and reliving old memories was a pointless waste of time. He gave a sad smile as Philip wolfed down the remaining slices of bacon with relish. Luke had abandoned his dream of becoming a great poet long ago, but he still hated the scent of bacon.

“Finish quickly,” he said. “Your mother will be waiting for us to call.”

The telephone office was tucked into a corner of the immense mail room in the Capitol's basement. Maybe someday the Capitol would have telephone service with more privacy, but for now, anyone wishing to make use of the telephone needed to place their call alongside the hundreds of clerks who sat at long, narrow tables as they sorted bags of mail sent from all over the country.

“Let me speak with your mother first, then you can have the line,” Luke told Philip as they walked toward the switchboard.

He loathed telephones, which he saw as annoying and soulless machines. Talking to someone you couldn't see was awkward and impersonal, whereas letters gave him the luxury of choosing the perfect phrase to communicate exactly how he felt.

The switchboard operator patched the final connection and gestured Luke over. He pressed the polished wood receiver to his ear and grasped the mouthpiece close to his lips. “Julia?”

“Yes, I'm here.” Even from seven hundred miles away, the anxiety was plain in her voice.

“Tell me what happened.”

Luke closed his eyes, bracing himself for the news. Apparently, Jason's debts had gotten so great that his creditors tried to seize two of his prized horses. He put up a fuss, and deputies were called, something that further riled Jason, who managed to land a solid right hook on the jaw of a Bangor deputy. And it would cost four hundred dollars to get Jason released from jail.

“Is there anything you can do?” Julia pleaded.

“No.”

He wasn't going to pay this time. If giving money could solve
Jason's problem, Luke would gladly take out his wallet. Four hundred, four thousand, whatever it took. But money couldn't cure Jason; it would only add more fuel to the fire destroying his brother's life.

“Please, Luke, if you could have seen him. His right eye is swollen shut, and he's so ashamed of what he did. He started crying when he saw me. I think he may be ready to change this time.”

Luke flinched at the image, but he couldn't be soft about this. Jason had always been the kindest of them all. He rescued injured birds and set the fish he caught free. He was gentle and loving, except for when he drank. Then he turned into their father.

“Let him change from inside a jail cell.” It hurt to say it, but jail might be the only way for Jason to get thoroughly dried out. The biggest mystery was how both Jason and Julia could have turned to drinking after witnessing what it did to their father. Gabriel drank too, yet never to excess. While Luke was revolted by the smell of rum, Jason and Julia were captivated by it. It was one of the reasons she couldn't be trusted to raise Philip.

“Where's Gabriel?” Luke asked.

“He finished building that racing skiff and is trying to sail it to Canada. I've sent men out looking for him, but it will be days before he gets back, and even then . . .”

Julia didn't need to finish her sentence. Gabe had the raw talent to be an architect, a shipbuilder, or anything else he wanted, but he craved the life of a gypsy. Even if he could be found and hauled back to Bangor, Gabe wouldn't be much help taming the dragon that was destroying their youngest brother.

Perhaps it was the curse of sudden wealth. For generations the Callahans had been simple yeoman loggers, but then a large deposit of gemstones was discovered on their land. Luke's family was a classic case of what can happen when a fortune got
dumped into the hands of those not expecting it, who were naïve about what wealth could do to a person.

“Philip is here,” Luke said. “He wishes to speak with you.”

Julia's quick indrawn breath could be heard from seven hundred miles away. As hard as the separation had been on Philip, it was even harder for Julia.

“Hi, Ma,” Philip said into the mouthpiece. “Uncle Luke got into a fight with the Speaker of the House. Did you hear about it?”

“It wasn't a fight,” Luke said, leaning again toward the mouthpiece. “It was only a war of words.”

Although it was true he'd been charging toward the rostrum to confront the Speaker when the sergeant at arms rushed to intervene and separate the men. Who could say what might have happened had it not been for that.

He wandered farther into the mail room to give Philip some privacy. While Luke had inherited a hot temper from his father, he'd always been able to control it. Why was it becoming so difficult these past few months? He was starting to snap at insults and frustrations he'd always been able to tamp down and ignore before.

Which was terrifying. The long chain of drunkenness and aggression that polluted his family was going to stop now. Someday he would find a wife, then settle down and create the perfect family. It would be ruled by reason, order, and Christian compassion. His children would know he loved them. His wife would never cower or flinch when she heard him coming home. At all costs, he would hold the line against the curse of alcoholism tainting the next generation.

He could tell by Philip's face that the conversation with his mother wasn't going well. Luke walked over, and Philip eagerly gave the receiver back. Julia was weeping on the other end.

“We're doing the right thing,” he said. “You know that, right?”

Julia's sigh was ragged. “I know. It's just so hard.”

This was another reason he hated telephones. They were nothing but a torture device for his beautiful sister's already-punished soul.

“I love you,” he added. “And you're doing the right thing by giving Philip a decent shot in this world. I won't let you down.”

He turned the receiver back to the telephone operator and envisioned his ties to Bangor lengthen and snap. Bangor was the past. His future lay in Washington—with rules, reason, and order. The scandal of his fight with the Speaker of the House was going to make him vulnerable in the next election. He needed to begin rebuilding his reputation, and it was going to take work. And information. If he could find proof of the Speaker's corruption, it would help Luke regain his footing in Congress.

The image of a lively, sharp-witted librarian popped into his mind. He suspected Miss O'Brien had the mettle to wade through the quagmire of data in search of what he needed to knock the Speaker off his perch.

A smile curved his mouth. He would control the reckless impulse that temporarily blinded him yesterday and from now on behave like the perfect gentleman. But he needed Miss O'Brien's help, and he intended to get it.

I
t was a chilly morning, and Anna was still freezing from the streetcar ride to work. As soon as she stepped inside the map room, she tugged off her gloves and reached for the small oak box near the door. Her hands were numb as she skimmed the questions printed on the stack of cards that had been funneled to her. This was her favorite part of the morning. These questions would dictate how she'd spend her day, and she pondered various angles to solve each of the problems.

“Hello, Miss O'Brien,” a voice said from the far side of the map room.

Anna was so startled she dropped the cards. The last thing she expected to see was a man casually sitting in her chair, his booted feet propped on her desk.

It was that obnoxious congressman from yesterday. With sunlight flooding in from the window, his hair looked more gold than brown. She blushed furiously and reached down to collect the scattered cards.

“What are you doing here?” It didn't sit well to have her
sanctuary invaded this way, and she hid her unease by shuffling the cards back into order.

“The clerk at the front of the library let me in.”

He was breaking the rules by asking for the map room to be opened early, but it was hard to decline requests from members of Congress. She replaced the cards in the box and forced a polite smile.

“What can I do for you, sir? If you need the maps of the oyster beds, I'll be happy to bring them to you.”

He simply stared at her, the oddest expression on his face as he rose from behind her desk and sauntered toward her.

“You have a very unusual voice,” he said. “It reminds me of . . . well, I'm not sure
what
it reminds me of. I've never heard a voice like yours. Keep talking. I want to hear more.”

Every muscle stiffened. “Which maps do you need, sir?”

She spoke as few words as possible. It was petty, but she didn't want to feed his morbid curiosity for how an esophagus with third-degree burns sounded. The day her throat was burned was the most awful memory of her life, and she tried never to dwell on it. Even so, Mr. Callahan cocked his ear and closed his eyes in a great show of studying her speech.

“You could go on the stage with a voice like that. Rich and throaty, like woodsmoke on a chilly autumn day. All the mysteries of Eve and Guinevere and Venus in one magnificent voice.”

Her voice sounded like gravel. She turned her back on him and stalked to the case holding estuary maps, kneeling down beside a drawer a few inches from the floor. The drawer clattered on metal wheels as she pulled it open, jerking out charts of New England oyster beds. He wandered across the room until he was standing above her.

“Apparently I've said something to offend you, and that wasn't my intention.”

Maybe she was a little thin-skinned. She
did
have a peculiar voice, and perhaps she shouldn't take offense just because he'd commented on it. Then again, the last time she saw him, he'd summoned her by snapping his fingers. Maybe peasants in Maine came to heel at such a gesture, but she didn't appreciate it. She stood and set the charts on the broad surface of the map case.

“I think these are the maps you need.” What was he doing in here? Usually members of Congress submitted requests on note cards at the front desk, and then they were given to the appropriate librarian. But he obviously felt entitled to bypass the system.

He made no move to touch the maps. “The committee needs a written report on the delineation of offshore oysters, mussels, and clams inhabiting brackish waters. As the junior member of the committee, that happy task has fallen to me.”

“Ah.” She tried to hide the guilty pleasure at seeing him assigned to such a menial chore.

“I'm delegating it to you.”

“No you're not.”

His brows rose in surprise. “What exactly is your role if not to perform research for members of Congress?”

Honestly, the arrogance. She maintained a calm expression while she enlightened him about the realities of life. “Sir, although you may consider yourself to be the blazing center of the universe, for me you are merely one of over four hundred people I serve. We have limited time for research requests during the move to the new library.”

“You mean that monstrosity next door?”

“Yes. The one you've repeatedly voted against. The most beautiful library in the world. A tribute to the human endeavor against darkness, savagery, and ignorance.”

“A spectacular gold-plated waste of taxpayer funds.”

She tried not to smile. He wasn't the only person to criticize the extravagance of the new library, but he was the most vocal member of Congress to complain about it.

“Like any other member of Congress, you may file a research request with my supervisor, and he will let you know when to expect an answer. Mr. Spofford is in the front office, although I'll warn you that he is a distinguished old gentleman and probably won't appreciate it if you snap your fingers to summon him.”

“You mean like this?” The congressman raised his arm, flicked his wrist, and
snap, snap
, snap
.

“Yes, like that.”

“I gathered from your response yesterday that you took it amiss. I shall do my best never to . . .” He held his fingers out—
snap, snap
. “Never to do
that
again in your presence.”

When he snapped his fingers, emerald cuff links flashed in the bright light streaming from the window. He was laughing, and it was contagious. With a smile like that, she could see why he was one of the most popular men in Congress.
She
was even starting to like him, despite herself. She glanced down at the gems on his cuff links.

“Emeralds? Usually you wear amethysts.”

“Nonsense. I only wear the finest Maine tourmalines. Anything else would be gaudy in a government office.”

She looked with new curiosity at the gems. “Tourmalines?”

“Pulled from the Callahan mine in the rocky soil outside Bangor. They come in purple, green, red, even black. Sometimes we find stones that are green on the outside and pink on the inside. We call those watermelons. See?”

He pulled a key ring from his pocket. A stone the size of a robin's egg dangled from the brass ring, and sure enough it had a cutaway section that revealed a pink center surrounded by a
layer of green crystal. He tossed it to her, and she caught the set of keys in her hands, still warm from his body.

“How is this possible?” she asked, turning the gemstone in the light. It seemed as dazzling and outrageous as the man himself.

“The color depends on the ratio of iron and magnesium in the stone. I promote the tourmaline industry wherever I go, as the best tourmalines in the world are found in Maine. My family owns a fine tourmaline mine, if you'd like to acquire a few pieces.”

Anna would be more likely to sprout wings and fly than to wear sparkly gemstones. She returned the key ring and directed the conversation back to the business at hand.

“Sir, if you wish assistance, this card needs to be filled out and put on file.” She handed him a card and a pen.

“What's this? Don't you have anything decent to write with?”

“It's a pen with a roller ball to dispense the ink. They're new.”

“I'm not writing with that newfangled nonsense. Don't you have a decent fountain pen?”

Many people were leery of new technology, but Anna's best friend worked at the Patent Office, and she had access to the amazing flood of inventions even before they reached the popular market. These new ink pens were still a little globby, but Anna loved the chance to use prototypes of new inventions.

“I can bring you a chisel and a clay tablet if you'd prefer. I believe they have some in the museum.”

He set the pen down and fastened that enigmatic gaze on her. “Yes, please.”

“Yes please . . . what?”

“I'd prefer a chisel and a clay tablet. You see, Miss O'Brien, I like old things. I prefer the challenge of a time when men went out and killed something when they were hungry, rather than opening a tin of processed meat. I don't want perfumed soap and a trickle of water from a copper pipe. I want a healthy blast
from a frigid New England waterfall. I don't want the tinny noise from a gramophone. I want the thunder and vibrations of a real orchestra pounding out a Beethoven symphony. Technology has made us soft. I like hard muscle and loud voices and the satisfaction of a sweaty day of labor.”

“You wear sparkly jewelry,” she countered.

“I wear rocks hauled out of the land I own. Trophies, if you will.” His eyes gleamed, and he looked flushed with health and vigor. Standing this close to him, she barely reached his shoulder, and his enthusiasm was palpable.

She held up the slim pen. “This is a trophy of modern times. If you'd like to fill out a research request, it is the device you will need to use.”

“Miss O'Brien,” he said in a long, slow drawl. “You don't think I intend to fill out that ridiculous slip of paper, do you?”

“I'm going to assume that was a rhetorical question and you aren't really expecting an answer.”

“Very bright, you are. I wish I had you on my staff. Oh, wait . . . that's exactly what I intend to arrange. Don't get too comfortable. I'm on my way to file the proper requests to get you reassigned to the fascinating world of oyster taxation.”

“Please don't plan on it,” she said sweetly. “We are very busy with moving to the new library, and the director is quite stingy in assigning research assistants. You can't get your way all the time.”

He leaned in with a devilish smile and a conspiratorial gleam in his eye. “Actually, Miss O'Brien, I usually do.”

He whistled as he left the room.

Luke strode to the library director's office with renewed determination to usurp Miss O'Brien's time. She was as smart as
he'd suspected. She'd have to be to land a position in this place. She had an alluring voice and a winsome face, with a sharp chin and a slim little nose. Yet it was her eyes that had captured his attention. Lovely, almond-shaped eyes that sparkled with wit and intelligence.

Not that it mattered what Miss O'Brien looked like. He'd happily work with a three-eyed troll if it meant getting enough information to launch his attack against the Speaker of the House. He suspected Speaker Jones was guilty of corruption, and it was going to be a challenge to wade through decades of budget data to find the necessary proof. In the meantime, he wouldn't neglect his new position on the Fisheries committee. He would perform every task flawlessly. Submit every report on time and in detail.

Or rather, Miss O'Brien would do it for him. He'd merely sign his name on each report and consider the mission accomplished. The Speaker had an army of research assistants, so why shouldn't Luke?

He followed directions to the office of the library director. What a mess it was up here, with crates of books stacked along the walls and dust heavy in the air. The director looked old enough to have been there when the Declaration was signed, with a gray beard and a tall frame bent with age. Luke ought to feel guilty pestering a man so ancient, but he needed the research help and was determined to get it.