Beyond All Dreams (25 page)

“They're drunken idiots,” Luke said.

Philip shook his head. “They're men, real men. I want to cut ice too. I want . . . I want something
more
in life. I'll cut ice during the day and paint at night.”

Luke recoiled. Philip had no idea what he was talking about. He was just a fourteen-year-old boy responding to an outpouring of sentiment and camaraderie.

“Believe me, working out in the ice fields is lonely, grueling work. I can show you a better way.”

But Philip couldn't tear his eyes away.

Luke leaned on the opposite side of the pillar, watching sparks ascend heavenward every time one of the revelers threw something else into the fire. Every muscle in his body ached as the surge of bittersweet joy summoned by Gabe's eulogy began to fade.

He didn't belong here anymore. There was a time when logging and mining were all Luke knew, but then he opened the pages of a book and the axis of his world shifted. He started longing for more. He learned to restrain his impulses, play by the rules, and work hard when other men abandoned the quest. He wanted more and he got it. He
earned
it.

Bangor no longer felt like home. Not that he fit in at Washington either, but he was working on it. He could adopt the charm and polish of a congressman with ease, attend formal galas, make conversation with diplomats and senators. But he wasn't one of them, not really.

With Anna O'Brien he felt like he belonged. For a brief few weeks he'd known someone he could show this piece of his soul to, without embarrassment or apology. She had the same wild dreams as he, yet she was grounded, sensible. Their strengths and weaknesses were mirror opposites, which combined to make them almost invincible. They would have been so good together.

He thought about rushing back to her, even though she'd
rejected him for a life of safe predictability. Would that ever change?
Could
it ever change? He stared at the fire and yearned to turn back the clock.

Anna represented a beautiful, perfect dream, like something out of an epic poem. A blight like Jason's death shouldn't have intruded to tarnish it. He prayed for the strength to triumph over the destructive thoughts and emotions roiling within, but he feared the tragedy of his brother's death would forever taint the perfect dream.

J
ANUARY
1898

B
usiness in the city slowed as congressmen returned to their districts for the holidays and government employees stayed home with their families. Back in early December, a huge Christmas tree was erected in the great hall of the new library, filling the first floor with the crisp scent of pine.

The new director for the Library of Congress arrived to replace the aging Mr. Spofford, a man appropriately named John Russell Young. With a full head of dark hair and a brisk step, Mr. Young projected the modern era, the man qualified to lead the library into the twentieth century.

He was also a cold fish. Aloof and businesslike, he had none of Mr. Spofford's friendly demeanor or comforting love of books.

Anna had yet to hear back from Mrs. Zanetti, but that was to be expected. The village Mrs. Zanetti lived in was so isolated that their mail was probably delivered by dogsled. The weeks passed, and Anna held her breath each evening when she returned to the boardinghouse and checked her mailbox.

Nothing.

Neville was a little skeptical about a grand conspiracy too. When she'd shown him the photograph of Mrs. Zanetti, he'd studied the face of the gaunt man standing beside her. “He looks pretty different from the Silas Zanetti I knew,” Neville said.

“Of course he looks different; he's fifteen years older. But is that not the same nose my father used to tease him about?”

Neville bit his lip. “Maybe,” he said, but he didn't sound sure at all.

She'd heard nothing from Luke in the weeks since he'd left for Maine. Did he think of her at all? She ought to be relieved he hadn't contacted her. It meant his bizarre infatuation with her was surely gone by now. Even so, there was a void whenever she thought of him, which was almost constantly. For a while it felt so nice to have a man in her life. Neville was a brother, not a man to her. For the first time in her life, Anna knew what it felt like to come first with someone. She'd never been first with anyone, and it had been an exhilarating thrill while it lasted.

She shared Christmas dinner with Aunt Ruth. Knowing how difficult Anna found these dinners, Neville usually joined her. This year, though, he begged off without explanation. She wished he would have come but couldn't really blame him. It was awkward and stilted being around Aunt Ruth, whose eyes regularly strayed to Uncle Henry's coat still hanging on the peg beside the door.

Anna's Christmas gift to Ruth was a bolt of sprigged blue calico and a few yards of lace. Her aunt's face lit with genuine pleasure when she saw the lace. Anna opened her package from Ruth, a brand-new collection of short stories from Nathaniel Hawthorne.

“It's not nearly as fine a gift as your lace,” Ruth conceded.

“Nonsense,” Anna replied. “There's no better gift than a book.”

But in the pocket of her skirt she felt the weight of a large tourmaline. With its spectacular layer of emerald-green crystal overlaying a deep pink center, she'd never be able to look at it without recalling the strange mingling of bittersweet sentiment on that tragic, chilly night.

The following week, Anna and Neville made their annual pilgrimage to the top floor of the War Department to watch the lavish celebrations at the White House directly across the street. The president always held a reception for Congress on New Year's Day, and Anna loved watching the pageantry as fancy lacquered carriages wheeled up to the circular drive in front of the White House. Even the horses were gussied up, with feathers on their bridles and bells on their reins. Senators and congressmen took over an hour to arrive, the carriages backed up all the way down Pennsylvania Avenue. Servants in their finest livery opened the carriage doors and helped the ladies alight. The wives wore furs and jewels, often with tiaras that glittered with real gemstones. Anna would be too shy to wear anything like that, even if she could afford them. Those women looked like royalty.

She didn't want to admit it, but she held her breath as each carriage arrived, wondering if Luke would appear. Neville had a pair of binoculars he let her use to study each carriage as it rolled to a stop. If Luke came, would he be escorting anyone? Most of the congressmen were married, but the few bachelors always had companionship for such events.

When the last of the carriages departed with no sign of Luke, she passed the binoculars back to Neville, uncertain if she was relieved or disappointed.

“Remember, I'm not letting you back down this afternoon,” Neville said as he took the binoculars back.

Anna pursed her lips, wishing she had never made this silly
deal with Neville. In the afternoon, the White House doors were thrown open to ordinary people who wished to wait in a crushing line to file inside and shake the president's hand. Anna had never mustered the courage to do so, even though last year she'd waited in line for an hour before losing her nerve at the last moment. She always lost her voice when she got nervous, and what if she stared at the president like a mute dolt?

This year Neville promised to let her have the prototype of a battery-operated torch if she found the courage to shake the president's hand. The Ever Ready Company had just received their patent on the portable torches, and the company planned on calling them
flashlights
when they went to market in a few months' time.

“You're going to shake the president's hand or you're not getting the new torch,” Neville said.

“You go ahead,” she urged. “What would I do with it anyway?” A line of visitors was already forming outside the White House, and she really didn't want to put herself through the misery of waiting just to embarrass herself like last year.

“Don't be such a sissy,” Neville said in exasperation. “Let's go.”

She folded her arms. “Calling me names won't change my mind. I don't need to go tromping through the White House or mingling with fancy people to feel good about myself.” She had long ago quit trying to be someone she was not. Her life was fine just the way it was, and she didn't need to shake the president's hand for some fleeting brush with fame.

Luke had teased her about never daring to venture outside the library walls. There might be some truth to it. It was easy to mistake complacency for contentment. On some level, she did want more out of life, and would never get it by staying safely ensconced inside her library.

She looked at the line, then back at Neville. “Oh, all right,” she said.

The afternoon's crush of people waiting to get into the White House was different from this morning. Instead of carriages, hundreds of people arrived by foot, wearing commonplace coats and shoes. Anna wore her dark wool coat, quite a change from the fur coats she'd seen earlier in the day. Rather than a diamond hair clip, she had a red bow tied to the side of her head. The ribbon came from the wrapping on the present Aunt Ruth gave her and was the only festive item she could think of to wear.

Anna adjusted the ribbon. Had she been silly to wear it? Her toes were frozen by the time the line delivered her to the front door, and it wasn't much warmer inside. Whatever heating system the White House used wasn't adequate to offset the front door hanging open for three solid hours.

President McKinley stood at the far end of the lobby, wearing an overcoat and gloves and looking almost as chilly as the throngs of people there to shake his hand. But, oh, what a man! He had stern features and deep-set blue eyes that looked like they could see all the way to Europe. She shouldn't have come. She'd never have the nerve to shake his hand.

Neville bumped her from behind, nudging her forward and blocking her opportunity to bolt out the door like she wanted to. There was no escape. Neville kept propelling her forward along the red carpet. At last it was her turn, and she stepped forward to meet the president.

“Happy New Year, sir,” Anna said, staring at the stickpin in the middle of his satin tie.

“And to you, ma'am,” President McKinley said, his handshake firm and dignified.

Ma'
am! The president of the United States had called her
ma'am!
A buzzing rang in her ears, and she was so excited that
she couldn't even hear what Neville said to the president. They were then moved along quickly by the Secret Service men lining the halls, who pointed them toward a side exit.

She'd done it. Neville elbowed her in the side as they walked out the side door of the White House.

“Well done,
ma
'am
,” Neville teased.

She elbowed him back with a reluctant smile. Maybe she didn't have any family to speak of, or a husband or children to share the holidays with, but she had the world's best friend, who would never let her down. If it wasn't as exhilarating as her short-lived flirtation with a dashing congressman from Maine . . . well, that was okay. Loneliness was something she was accustomed to, yet as long as she had Neville, she'd never be truly alone.

Luke arrived back in Washington the second week of January, Philip in tow. It had been an ugly scene getting him to leave. Philip wanted to escape the rules and restrictions of city life. Both Gabe and his mother concurred, while Luke was adamant that he could do better by the boy in Washington. Luke dismissed his mother's vote. She'd never had the backbone to stand up to their father when he was drunk and driving their family over a cliff; what made him think she could stand up to Gabe?

Only Julia was undecided. She loved her son, but during the years while most mothers formed deep bonds with their children, Julia had lived in a fog of alcohol and depression. Luke had watched her closely for the entire month he'd been in Maine. He saw no indication she'd returned to drinking, and the way in which she oversaw the tourmaline mines indicated she had a sound head on her shoulders, but he still couldn't be certain she could handle Philip. Gabe was going to be a bad influence,
and he doubted Julia could insulate Philip from their audacious older brother. Worse, Philip was becoming increasingly dazzled by Gabe. Luke was bland and boring in comparison.

In the end it was Julia's decision, and she decided to send Philip back to Washington with Luke.

His first day back at the Capitol was depressing. Normally, Luke was deluged with work when he returned to town, but not this time. His suspension from the Fisheries committee still held, and he'd been left with no official duties or responsibilities. He spent a dull day at his desk in the nearly empty House chamber, reading the newspaper and trying to think of some way to resurrect his political career.

Luke took the long way home, walking down Constitution Avenue and up Fourteenth Street, passing acres of shiny black lampposts, their glass orbs glowing in the night sky. These avenues were lined with stately white marble buildings that mimicked the order and rationality of ancient Greece. It seemed like a completely different universe from the deep woods of Maine.

A uniformed doorman snapped to attention as Luke mounted the stairs outside the Willard Hotel. Inside the lobby, there was a subtle difference in the way people looked at him. Their glances slid away when they spotted him, as though he carried a contagious disease that could be transmitted by looking at him. Luke's climb to power had been dramatic, but so had the swift way Cornelius Jones kicked him into the gutter. Ignoring the looks, Luke passed the ornate elevators and headed to the staircase. He never took the elevator unless he was with Philip, who was fascinated with new technology and never missed an opportunity to use it.