Beyond All Dreams by Elizabeth Camden Page B

red-blooded woman who is eager for the end of the day and the sanctity of the marriage bed.” He grinned.
    She couldn’t believe he was saying this. His tone wasn’t the least bit lewd, only blunt and unashamed. “Madam Bovary came to a bad end,” she pointed out.
    â€œWhy must you be such a stickler for details?” His voice was frustrated, but his eyes were laughing.
    They stayed in the park for hours, discussing novels, music, and Mr. Callahan’s irrational dread of technology. “No electric bulb will ever compete with the warmth and beauty of candle flame,” he asserted.
    He was wrong, of course, but so eloquent in his convictions that it was fun to listen to him. Four more streetcars came and went while they laughed and argued about everything under the sun.
    Finally, the five o’clock streetcar approached. “I’ve enjoyed our afternoon, but I have responsibilities back home,” Mr. Callahan said. “My ward is a fourteen-year-old boy who morphs into a rampaging monster when he isn’t regularly fed.”
    He still didn’t make any move to leave, but instead continued staring at her. The moment was broken when the streetcar slowed to a halt, startling them both with a loud rasp of escaping air as the pneumatic pump opened the levered doors.
    A little warmth left as he went to stand in line for the streetcar. Had she really just spent an entire afternoon with a member of Congress without once being ordered about, spoken down to, or feeling even a tiny bit inferior?
    Studying Mr. Callahan from a distance, he didn’t look very different from the others waiting to board the streetcar. His boots were a little dusty, he could use a haircut, and his winter coat was rumpled from being in storage most of the year. He fumbled in his pocket for a coin and boarded right behind a woman carrying a caged chicken. He seemed like an entirely ordinary person.
    The streetcar was already setting off down the street when Mr. Callahan stuck his head out one of the open windows to holler out a final command to her. “Write your book, O’Brien!” Hisshout echoed off the buildings, and she stood at the intersection, smiling like an idiot.
    She watched the streetcar disappear down the street. Maybe he was right, and she should be brave enough to risk writing her book, but how could she write her father’s story if she didn’t know how it ended? If what she suspected was true, the Culpeper was nowhere near Bermuda when it went down, and for some reason the navy didn’t want her to know the truth. It was merely a detail, but accuracy was important. If she was going to write a book, it would be flawless.
    Sooner or later she would find the truth about the Culpeper , whether the navy cooperated with her or not.

    Despite their temporary truce at the McPherson Square trolley stop, five days later the inspiring man who urged her to write an improbable biography was gone, replaced by the annoying congressman barking demands at her.
    â€œO’Brien!” he yelled upon entering the map room. “I need the data on the mollusk harvest.”
    â€œI’m sitting ten feet away; you don’t need to shout,” she said from behind a mound of books. She no longer took offense at his abrupt demeanor. That would be like resenting a locomotive for barreling ahead at full steam. This dynamic, oversized personality was simply the way he was designed. “Here is your report.”
    He skimmed the document before tossing it back at her. “This is only last year’s harvest. I need at least ten years’ worth of data.”
    â€œThen why didn’t you say so in the first place?” she asked in exasperation.
    â€œBecause I didn’t realize I needed it until just now. Thesenumbers look low. I want to know if this is a trend or just a bad year. Please have it by tomorrow.”
    It rankled her the way he was so dismissive. “That’s