It Wasn't Always Like This - Joy Preble Page 0,29

anything, his gaze was more intense.

Was he going to ask for lemonade? He usually did, though why he insisted on drinking it here, which inevitably cleared the shop of costumers, was as much a mystery as anything else about him. There was just something about the careful, exacting way he stared at her—at everything and everyone, even more, she thought, since he convinced them to drink that tea—that made her skin crawl.

“Do you know that lobsters don’t age?” he asked.

Emma stared at him. “Pardon me?”

“Well, technically, we can’t f igure out their age. They just seem to, um, get bigger. But not any older.”

Emma managed a polite nod. Where was he going with this? There weren’t any lobsters in the swamp. She knew what lobsters looked like, but she had never eaten one. She had never thought about them in any particular way. But she was not a stupid girl. She knew he was trying to tell her something, maybe teach her some sort of lesson. But what?

Kingsley Lloyd’s broad mouth stretched in a lopsided smile. He shifted his gaze to the window. Simon was lumbering around outside in his white sailor suit, clinging to his mother’s hand, mouth red and probably sticky from peppermint candy.

“People can be like that, I think,” Lloyd said, looking back at Emma.

People. She tensed. For the f irst time ever, someone had spoken of . . . it. This thing that Emma kept feeling, this thing she feared was somehow keeping Simon from growing. This thing that neither her parents nor Charlie’s would talk about. Emma’s heart skipped a beat. She lowered her voice. “Are you saying we’re like lobsters, Mr. Lloyd?”

He gave a brief laugh. “Perhaps I am. You’re a clever girl, Emma.”

Goosef lesh rose on Emma’s arms, and the hairs on the back of her neck prickled.

Every day she looked into the mirror, and every day, the same girl stared back at her. But what, exactly, was she seeing? It was easier to pretend it wasn’t happening. Or not happening.

“Have you ever heard of the Fountain of Youth?” Lloyd asked her suddenly.

Now it was Emma’s turn to laugh. She almost answered, “Of course I’ve heard of it—every time Charlie’s dad has too much whiskey.” Lloyd had never joined them (thank goodness) for family dinners—not yet, at least. So she said instead, “You know Juan Ponce de León didn’t ever f ind it.”

She hoped that might send him on his way. She wanted to end this conversation. Kingsley Lloyd didn’t want lemonade, so what did he want? Emma wished Charlie would walk in, but he was putting the hawks and other birds through their paces for the tourists. For business. For family. For their families’ survival.

“I know,” said Lloyd. “In fact, I know that he never wanted to f ind it. He was a noble sort. But think, Miss O’Neill. Eternal life. An endless rebirth. Renders conception almost obsolete, no?”

Emma blushed at the word “conception.” The heat on her skin made her think of Charlie and the way he . . . What would Charlie think about this man and whatever it was he was talking about? Did Charlie think that his own face was exactly the same? They hadn’t talked about it, not ever. As though giving the fear words would break the spell of this wonderful thing between them. But sometimes when she looked at him, when she watched his brows pucker as he looked at her . . .

“We’re mostly made of water, we humans,” Lloyd went on. “Did you know that? That’s the key.” His voice rose. “The Knights Templar thought to drink from the Savior’s chalice. The Druids saw eternal life in the Evergreen tree. Our Indian friends here . . . they’ve got their own ideas.”

He leaned closer. His breath smelled herbal and strong, something oddly unpleasant. There was a splatter of something greasy on the collar of his white shirt. “Everyone wants to get back into the Garden,” he said in a quiet rasp. “Make it last forever, you know. There’s power in that. Big power. And we modern folk don’t even believe the fountain exists.”

Emma frowned. “Because it doesn’t,” she said.

Kingsley Lloyd withdrew and straightened himself. “You know better, my dear,” he said. “But be careful. No one else knows. Not a single soul. Not even the ones who keep searching.”

Emma’s heart gave a sharp stutter.

“I needed to be sure. We scientists, that’s how we work.”

“Sure of what?”

He didn’t answer. Instead he f inally took