her otherwise. She tried to listen to her gut, because unlike her brain, it was seldom mistaken. On the other hand, there were those tacos last night. But if she’d listened to her gut years ago, then maybe she and Charlie—
The thought was interrupted as Melanie Creighton stood and swept Emma into a teary hug. “Welcome to the Fellowship family!”
Chapter Five
St. Augustine, Florida
1913
The f irst time Emma kissed Charlie Ryan—really kissed him the way a girl kisses a boy she loves, and who loves her back—was on the night of her real seventeenth birthday, her f irst seventeenth birthday, the one that counted.
Both families had just sat down to a specialty of her mother’s, vanilla cake with lemon f illing. Emma was wearing the new skirt that showed off her shapely ankles and a blouse with a v-neckline her mother thought was scandalous. So did Emma. Not that she’d ever say such a thing out loud, but it made her want to wear the blouse every day. By that time, she had given up taking her mother’s advice on most things.
Seven years had passed since the day of the hawk.
It was Saturday, a relatively cool February night, and the Alligator Farm had done good business. The tourist population swelled in the winters. Even the gators had seemed to enjoy themselves while on display. The O’Neills and the Ryans weren’t rich, not yet, but tonight their coffers were full of admission fees. Emma had sold out of the alligator f igurines and commemorative postcards in the gift shop by the entrance.
Now that they were closed and the tourists had all gone back to their hotels and rented cabins, it was just the O’Neills and the Ryans. Tonight they’d crowded into the O’Neill kitchen for roast chicken and potatoes and then the cake—all Emma’s favorites. Well, everyone except Baby Simon, who toddled around the house and occasionally out the door like a miniature drunk. He was not quite two, his birthday still a month away at the end of March.
Emma had been surprised by Simon’s arrival, but then they all had; Maura O’Neill was close to thirty-eight when she’d conceived. But one thing was for sure (and thank God for that): Simon was the spitting image of his daddy. Emma was grateful for something else, too. Ever since Simon had swelled up in her mother’s belly, Frank Ryan had stopped leering at Maura O’Neill. Now Simon kept her mother so busy she barely had time to look up. Still, she always managed to hang on Frank Ryan’s every word.
“A story!” Art O’Neill demanded as they shoveled dessert into their mouths. The grown-ups had consumed most of a bottle of Irish whiskey, too, reserved for this special occasion. “Let’s have a good one, Frank. It’s Emma’s birthday, after all.”
No matter the occasion, Charlie’s father always told a story. And he always made a big point of starting every story with how he’d inherited his “gift of gab” from both sides of his family, as though everyone here in this kitchen might forget this fact if he didn’t repeat himself a hundred times. As he told it (and told it and told it), the Ryan men hailed from County Mayo in the “auld sod” of Ireland—hearty farmers and f ishermen and craftsmen, proud stock who had earned a living from the work of their hands. Proud of their stories, too. Or so Emma added in her head. He certainly was.
At night, his paternal ancestors would gather around peat f ires and talk of fairy forts and Tír na nÓg, the land of the eternally young. On his mother’s side, the Montoyas, a mix of Spanish and Indian blood, also spun fabulous yarns at night—Frank knew them all. There were tales of a Calusa woman who fell in love with a Spanish shipwreck survivor named Hernando de Escalante Fontenada. Of a Calusa city that sprang up and then disappeared. Of a Fountain of Youth and its exact location. The tales were passed down to the children who came after her, and their children and their children’s children.
Frank’s maternal grandmother, Ester, swore she was a direct descendant of Hernando de Escalante Fontenada, swore that every word of what she told him was true. She barely spoke any English, apparently. So Frank would always quote her aff irming the truth: “Es verdad.”
Here Charlie’s mom would always scoff, chiding her husband not to be ridiculous. Mrs. Ryan frequently scolded her husband when the others were around to hear.