It Wasn't Always Like This by Joy Preble Read Free Book Online Page A

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. Emma liked that about her. But Charlie’s dad would go on talking, even as Charlie shook his head, embarrassed.
    “Fountain of Youth, my ass,” was Art O’Neill’s usual response, but he would laugh with the rest of them. “Do you ever see any of these folks? No. Whatever the truth is, it’s dead and buried with them.”
    None of this made Emma want to kiss Charlie any less. Charlie was not his father, any more than Emma was her mother, and thank goodness for that. But Frank Ryan always seemed stumped by one particular detail. He didn’t mention it much. Emma wondered if he’d add any details tonight in honor of her birthday. According to his grandmother, the secret of the location of this mysterious Fountain of Youth had been passed on only to Montoya girls. At some point, one of them bore only a son.
    So the chain was broken. The family secret died. If there really were a Fountain of Youth, none of them would be f inding it anytime soon. Emma hoped that this impossibility would one day make Charlie’s father shut up. That hadn’t happened yet, and she doubted it would happen any time soon. Certainly not tonight.
    “ONCE UPON A time,” Frank Ryan began, keeping his voice low and ominous, “there was a man named Juan Ponce de León.”
    Charlie edged his chair closer to Emma’s. Under the table, his hand slid over hers. His skin was warm, and she felt a tingle. Across from them, Mrs. O’Neill stopped bouncing Simon on her lap and arched a brow. Emma pointedly ignored her. Charlie’s f ingers laced with hers.
    “And King Ferdinand of