Beyond All Dreams by Elizabeth Camden

you got?” he said, then fell into step beside her.
    â€œMy 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.”
    â€œThere 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.
    â€œMaking 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.
    â€œBe 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.”
    â€œYou’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.”
    â€œI’m a failed poet. I have a stack of atrocious poetry six inches thick back home in Bangor.”
    â€œReally? I don’t believe it.”
    â€œDon’t believe I am a poet or that my poetry is bad? Come on, don’t spare my feelings.”
    â€œI don’t believe someone like you would waste time scribbling bad poetry.”
    â€œMiss O’Brien,” he said in a low, purring voice. “If you read my poems, your eyes would bleed in pity and despair.”
    â€œThat bad?”
    â€œThat 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.
    â€œYou 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