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  “And King Ferdinand of Spain sent him on a mission,” Frank was saying. The tale of Juan Ponce de León was one of his favorites, especially the parts that took place right here in St. Augustine. “It was a long and dangerous sea voyage. Juan Ponce de León was only thirty-eight years old.”

  Emma rolled her eyes. Only thirty-eight? That was ancient.

  “No wonder he wanted the secret to youth,” Emma muttered under her breath.

  Charlie squeezed her hand. His thumb wandered to the center of her palm, making gentle circles.

  She whispered in his ear, “If Grandma Ester was alive, she would die from boredom right now. You know it’s true.”

  “Es verdad,” she and Charlie both said at the same time.

  Charlie bit his lip, trying not to laugh. He turned beet red.

  “Es verdad,” she breathed again in his ear, teasing.

  “Shh,” Charlie whispered furiously. But he leaned in. His soft earlobe met her lips.

  Something in Emma’s tummy went f izzy. He was a bold one underneath all his quiet, that Charlie Ryan. His father was still yammering away.

  “Juan never found the fountain . . .”

  This part of the story always made Emma sad. That a man would risk life and limb to travel across the ocean for something that he never achieved, never could achieve—because of course, what he was after didn’t exist.

  “Everyone thinks they know Juan Ponce de León. But they don’t.”

  Emma straightened in her chair. This was new. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Charlie’s jaw tighten.

  “Juan Ponce de León didn’t f ind the fountain because he never planned on doing so.”

  “But wait, everyone says—” Emma began, and then shut her mouth as everyone turned to her, even Charlie. But it was true. Everyone did say that the whole reason Juan Ponce de León sailed to the New World—bringing the Ryans’ supposed ancestor, Hernando de Escalante Fontenada, with him, only to get shipwrecked and wind up with the Calusa tribe—was to f ind the Fountain of Youth. That’s why their families had a business! Tourists f locked in small clumps to the small, burbling stream by the river a few miles from the center of town. The huckster who ran it swore it was the real deal: the one Juan Ponce de León had discovered. People dipped cups in the water and everything.

  Charlie’s father waved a hand dismissively at her.

  “It’s the girl’s birthday,” her own father protested.

  “The world remembers Juan Ponce de León for something he didn’t do,” Frank Ryan said, suddenly speaking in his normal voice. “For a place he didn’t visit. Yes, that’s right. He never came here to St. Augustine. Not ever. That was King Ferdinand’s dream, not his. You can’t f ind a dream that isn’t yours. You have to want it enough, and Juan didn’t. He’d found the Gulf Stream, not that those royal bastards gave a damn.”

  Maura O’Neill narrowed her eyes at the salty language.

  Emma frowned. “But the Fountain of Youth?” She couldn’t help herself.

  “It’s here,” Charlie’s father concluded. “I know it is. I just have to f igure out where.”

  “Careful, Frank.” Emma’s father laughed. “Wouldn’t want a Calusa to put a poison arrow in your leg.” This, they all knew, was how Juan Ponce de León had actually died. A poison arrow, care of the local Indians, the very ones that had supposedly spawned Frank Ryan down the ancestral line.

  “Hell, they’re my own people,” Frank Ryan conf irmed, and poured a glass of whiskey. “I’m not worried.” He toasted the tribe that, according to his own legend of himself, had given him and Charlie their sharp, broad cheekbones. He held his glass high. “Here’s to eternal life!”

  He winked at Emma. She pretended she didn’t see. Life—and the shortness of it, in particular—was no joke these days; there’d been a polio epidemic the previous summer. Lots of people had died. The threat still hung in the hot, humid air. It was like the smell of salt: always present, f illing the adults’ conversation when they thought the little ones weren’t listening.

  Now, his face f lushed with more whiskey, Frank Ryan was smiling at Emma’s mother, the way he had in the past. Even with little Simon bouncing on her knee.

  Next to her, Charlie f idgeted, tapping his foot on the f loor, looking peeved.

  “Juan Ponce de León actually sailed here in a giant teacup,” Emma whispered, trying to distract him.

  But just as she was about to add, “Es verdad,” Charlie tightened his hand around hers.

  “C’mon,” he said. “They won’t even notice we’re gone.”

  She stayed in her seat—she hadn’t even f inished her cake yet—but he tugged her hand again and announced loudly, “Emma and I are going for a walk.”

  He said it as though daring someone to tell him no.

  “Me, too,” said Charlie’s sister Katie.

  “And me,” said his brother Hugh.

  “It’s Emma’s birthday,” her sister Lucy added. Her brother Jamie was too busy eating cake.

  “Just me and Emma,” Charlie said, and then they were gone, and her life changed.

  At f irst she f igured he was going to show her something about the birds, because that’s where his conversation usually went. And all this under-the-table hand-holding, and those words he whispered to her . . . well, if Charlie meant anything serious, he had yet to let her know.

  “This way,” Charlie said. He led her down the path under the trees, hand resting gently on the small of her back, the scent of the ocean and bougainvillea and their own sweaty skin mingling in the heavy air.

  “I missed dessert,” she said.

  Not that she cared. It felt nice to be walking, to be alone with this boy, to be away from the suffocating commotion of so many people in one tiny kitchen. Charlie shrugged, so quick she barely saw, but said nothing. Instead, he guided her toward the dock that looked out on the tiny island where Emma’s dad had found so many of the gators for the museum. He was so close she could feel his breath warm against her neck.

  Now she couldn’t even pretend to be annoyed anymore.

  They slipped off their shoes and settled themselves on the edge of the dock, shoulder to shoulder, feet dangling over the side. She shivered, not from cold, but from the tingle of having him so close. She looked up, hoping he hadn’t noticed.

  He hadn’t. The night was clear and the sky was studded with bright stars. It was the one thing she never tired of, this difference between the home in Brooklyn that was starting to fade from memory and the Florida swamp: the night sky was so clear and close it felt like you could fall right into space itself. No wonder Charlie was always looking toward the sky.

  “That one’s Orion,” he said, pointing. She knew he was showing off but couldn’t care less; she loved how he knew so much about the sky and its constellations. “And there”—he gently reached out and tilted her chin so she could follow his gaze—“Gemini. The twins. Half-brothers in the myth. Castor and Pollux. Remember that story, Emma?”

  She did remember, particularly the part about Pollux, that he had been conceived when Zeus appeared to Leda in the form of a swan. Greek myths had always been a little hard to swallow—even more than the Fountain of Youth—but that one had struck her as more absurd than most. Why would people believe something like that? Then again, why would people believe anything, other than what they could know for certain?

  “I do,” she said.

  He turned to her, his eyes glittering in the moonlight. “I want to f ly up there someday. And I’ll be able to, I bet. Be able to go everywhere in this country and over to Europe, too. In aeroplanes and airships. It’s already happening. Just like the birds. Imagine, Em. Just imagine!”

  She shrugged, trying to focus on his words but distracted by his eyes, his lingering f ingers on her face. “Maybe.” She’d seen pictures of the Wright brothers’ exhibition. She co
uldn’t say that f lying like a bird was something she wanted to try.

  “Make a wish, Emma,” Charlie said, letting go of her. He swept his hand across the swath of stars. “What do you want? I mean truly? Close your eyes and wish, Emma.”

  Hearing him say her name made her heart beat faster, the way those two simple syllables dropped from his lips. Emma. Emma . . . That f izziness in her belly surged. And then Charlie Ryan tucked a long f inger under her chin, and dipping his head, kissed her full on the mouth.

  “Mmmph,” Emma said, trying, and failing to collect her thoughts—airplanes? Had they been talking about airplanes?

  Her eyes f luttered open to see him, but he was so close, so immediate, so much, that she had to squeeze them shut again for fear she’d faint. His breath seemed part of hers, and oh! Was this what it was like? Kissing a boy, the right boy. This boy. Yes. This. This. He had been a part of her life every day since she was ten. Now she was seventeen, off icially, and the entire world, her entire world, shifted. Until that moment, Emma had not understood all the possibilities of kissing. She had not understood anything.

  His lips were warm and he tasted like lemon f illing and mint.

  “I love you,” Charlie whispered in her ear. “Be mine, Emma. If you want to.”

  The way he said the words made her feel powerful and giddy. His skin was hot and fragrant and musky. He nibbled her lower lip again and Emma wriggled and sighed.

  “I want to,” she said. “I love you, Charlie.”

  Later—Emma wasn’t sure how much later—they were sitting on the dock, the stars above them. Her lips were tender from all the kissing, and her mind f lying because he loved her. He had pressed his lips to hers, and now everything was different and Charlie said, “I have something for you, Em.”

  He slipped a small box from his pocket, his eyes f irm on hers as he placed it in her hands.

  “For me?” she said, and they both laughed.

  Her f ingers trembled just a little as she opened the box, pushing the lid with her thumbs. No wrapping paper or tissue, no bow, just a square black box. Her breath caught in her throat because no matter what was inside, this was the most perfect moment in her life, the most perfect she could imagine. Her f ingers reached in and pushed aside the cotton batting to f ind what was underneath.

  It was a pocket watch: gold case, held by a long gold chain, long enough to slip over her head like a necklace. On the front side, it was etched with a hawk in f light, wings spread wide, soaring toward an etched sun. Beneath the hawk, the print was so tiny she almost missed it, a series of numbers. 1706254.

  “It’s a serial number,” Charlie explained as she ran her f ingers over the bird and the numerals. “So you know it’s authentic. Authenticity is important, Em.”

  She wondered if this was a dig at his father. But she nodded as though it was the most crucial of truths, as though a serial number was what made the gift so special—its authenticity.

  “Look on the back,” he said.

  She f lipped the watch over in her palm. Their names graced the back, also etched in the same delicate script: Emma and Charlie. Her f ingers fumbled with the clasp, and then she found the secret, and the watch clicked and opened. The timepiece’s face was white, with black roman numerals and two black hands, straight as arrows. And somehow—how had the watchmaker done it?—another hawk, tiny and graceful, drawn onto each hand.

  It was beautiful. She should have said so.

  Instead she said, “It’s heavy,” because it really was. She sensed it would weigh on her neck if she wore it, and wasn’t that just like a boy, even this boy, to not realize the practicalities of the matter? Boys were practical in such different ways.

  Charlie blinked. His lips turned down.

  Oh, dear. She hadn’t told him she hated it. How could she hate anything he gave her? But it was heavy. Was she not allowed to say the truth? Was that how it worked between them now? He had kissed her and so she had to just smile and not say all of what she was thinking? But no, she knew him better than that, because they thought the same things at the same time in the same way.

  “It’s the perfect weight for what it is,” Charlie said. “I mean, Emma, look at it.”

  She looked. It was lovely. But it still weighed a ton. And that was f ine.

  His cheeks were f lushed right up to the tips of his ears. Her eyes lingered on his lips, the ones that had kissed her until she was breathless and giddy.

  “If you don’t like it,” Charlie began.

  “I love it,” Emma interrupted, because she did. So very much. But if she had designed it, then she would have taken into consideration—

  The big hand clicked to twelve. From inside the heavy thing came the miraculous sound of rushing wind, making Emma feel as if she were f lying high up, with Charlie next to her, and then faintly, the call of a hawk, so f ierce that her arms and legs prickled with goosebumps.

  “Oh!” Emma gasped. “Oh that’s wonderful!”

  Thankfully, Charlie’s frown melted away. “There’s a sound mechanism,” he explained once the hawk had gone quiet. “At the hour and half hour. That’s what makes it so special.”

  She nodded again. He took it from her, slipping it over her head. Against her skin the weight no longer bothered her; it felt as though Charlie had transferred a part of himself to it, a protective gesture, like when he placed his hand on the small of her back. Authenticity. She suddenly loved that word. Because that was Charlie. He was incapable of being dishonest.

  “You really—?”

  “Love it?” she f inished at the same time, emotion welling in her throat. “Oh, Charlie. It’s the most beautiful thing ever.”

  His smile was as bright as the stars in Gemini. He pulled her to him, holding her close, then closer, pressing his mouth to hers, and as she melted into his kiss, she imagined the watch keeping time with their thoughts and heartbeats.

  Chapter Six

  St. Augustine, Florida

  1913

  Not many days later, as Emma was remembering the feeling of Charlie’s lips against her skin, his hands—oh, his hands!—she f irst heard the news. A traveling preacher had set up a tent revival just outside of town. Soon everyone was talking about Glen Walters.

  He was “tall and silver-haired and f leet of tongue,” or so Emma overhead at the gift shop. “A true wonder,” one lady said. “An American treasure,” said another.

  When Emma brought it up at supper, her mother snapped at her. “We’re Catholic. We don’t believe in that kind of thing.”

  Emma almost felt like snapping back, Then what do we believe in? The last time they’d been to mass was years ago, back at St. Agnes in Brooklyn, where apparently she’d been baptized. She didn’t remember that, of course; she’d been a baby. And at that last mass, Emma had been f ive years old; she remembered only the pungent incense and the life-size crucif ix that hung from the ceiling: Jesus on chains, and those bloody nails in his hands and feet. She’d stare up most of the time, wondering how much it had hurt. Faint fascination—that’s what she remembered about being Catholic. And now, out of nowhere, it was important to her mother?

  Emma wasn’t even sure what a revival meeting was. She’d rarely seen her mother so upset, nor had she seen the other people around here so af lutter about things. Normally life—and enthusiasm—moved so slowly here. But now she had to f ind out what the fuss was all about.

  Like kissing, she thought. And everything that came after kissing. She knew about that—yes, she did!—though it was probably best to keep religion and kissing separate in her brain.

  But Charlie would be at the tent revival. Maybe he would look at her while this Glen Walters preached. Maybe Charlie would hold her hand. Maybe they would sneak out again, and he would kiss her some more. She would wear the pocket watch he gave her even though it made her neck hurt because it really was so very heavy.


  “We won’t be attending, Emma,” her mother declared f irmly. But Emma’s father had his own ideas about Glen Walters and the Church of Light.

  “What we believe or don’t believe is no one’s business but our own,” he said at supper. “So if it’s good for business to be seen there like everyone else, why not?”

  Emma craned her neck as Glen Walters strode up the wooden steps to the stage, his hair as silver and perfect as the ladies had said it would be, his skin weathered and tan, his eyes bright blue. But when he stalked to the middle of the platform, those eyes turned hard as slate.

  Emma shifted on the bench, wedged tight between her father on one side and Charlie on the other. Their families stretched down the length of the row in either direction. Her skin was beading with sweat that dripped down her back. She already wanted to get up. Too many people. Too little room. Florida was so vast and empty, but she never remembered Brooklyn feeling so crowded, even though it was.

  “Heaven is real!” Glen Walters cried, startling her enough to take a good look at him. Now those blue eyes had gone wild, lit with some internal f ire. His voice boomed through the overheated night. “But you can’t get there through good works alone. The Lord doesn’t care about that. The Lord doesn’t want sinners. But He forgives them.”

  The audience leaned forward. Her father muttered something ungentlemanly under his breath.

  “Hush, Art,” Mother whispered. “I told you we shouldn’t have come.”

  “Man is a sinful creature,” Glen Walters continued.

  Someone to Emma’s far right hollered, “Amen!”

  Charlie linked his f ingers through hers, and she gripped his hand like a lifeline.

  Take me out of here, she silently begged him. Take me out of here.

  The “tent” meeting wasn’t in a tent, of course. Emma had stupidly expected happy things like the circus and cotton candy; she’d expected to feel seven years old again. Instead it felt like that last mass, but without the hanging Jesus. There was no ceiling because they were in the park. Every available bench had been crammed in front of the Church of Light’s makeshift stage; almost every person in town was huddled here. The air felt more humid and thick than ever, an unwanted blanket she couldn’t toss aside.