Just Like Em. Marion Ekholm

Why was it getting harder and harder to tow Samantha to family gatherings? “Don’t you want to join the party?”

      He noticed Em then, puffing on a cigarette like a coal-burning locomotive. God, she had the worst habits. You’d think she’d be aware of all the health hazards. He bent down, picked up the discarded pack and handed it to her. “You dropped these.” He used all his control not to crush the pack in his fist.

      While taking the pack from him, Em glanced at Samantha, and he followed her gaze. The girl shook her head ever so slightly. Had he interrupted something? “Thanks,” Em said, then slipped the pack into her skirt pocket.

      She’s probably up to two packs a day by now, he thought, recalling the summer when Em had turned Jodie onto the addiction. Suddenly, a frightening thought struck him, and he turned to his daughter. “She didn’t offer you one, did she?”

      “No, Dad. I offered them to her.”

      Sarcasm. That’s all he got lately. Before making any remark, he paused. It was sarcasm, wasn’t it? His attention turned to Em, who had started a choking fit.

      “You okay?” he asked. He felt as though he should do something, swat her back, as she continued to choke. She moved away, possibly anticipating that he’d do just that.

      She nodded and dropped the butt, crushing it beneath a dainty sandal. Everything about her was delicate. One of her straps had slipped down her arm, and he drew his hands into fists to avoid readjusting it for her.

      “Smoking’s a hard habit to break,” Samantha said.

      Em quickly nodded again. “Yes. I’ve been working at it.” Her voice was hoarse, as though she could barely get enough air to speak. Smoking could do that to a person.

      Vivid recollections of the lectures he’d given Samantha about cancer came to mind. He thought of repeating them to Em, but he had no right to lecture her. Besides, he doubted if she’d listen.

      “So, this is your daughter?” Before he could introduce them, Em offered her hand. “I’m Emmy Lou Turner, but everyone calls me Em.” Except her ex-husband, who never gave in to her preference. All the years they were married, he continued to call her Emmy Lou.

      “Like the alphabet?” Samantha beamed, showing off a set of braces. “Samantha Holden, but you can call me S.”

      “Anything except Sam. She hates that name,” Roger offered.

      “Oh, really? My son’s named Sammy.”

      “How old is he?” Samantha asked.

      “Seven.”

      “Another little kid.” Samantha’s smile immediately disappeared. “Why can’t we have anyone here my age?”

      “How old are you?”

      “Fourteen.”

      Roger didn’t bother to correct her since she’d have a birthday in a few months.

      “I was about your age when I met your father.”

      “Em was a handful,” Roger said, recalling the many times they had fought.

      “Maybe,” she said, raising an eyebrow. “But I never got a tattoo.”

      Samantha covered her mouth and giggled, suddenly acting her age. Once again he wondered how she could do that, one minute the twenty-year-old femme fatale, the next his thirteen-year-old little girl? She licked her thumb and ran it over the pattern, smearing it across her leg. “Daddy won’t let me get the real thing—yet.”

      “Ever,” he said, emphasizing the point. So far she hadn’t defied him on that, but she still threatened to pierce something—a nose, an eyebrow, her navel. Roger shuddered. What got into kids these days? How could he survive the next few years without a clue?

      “You coming Samantha? You, too, Em. They’re about to open presents.”

      “You go along, Dad. We’ll be there in a minute.”

      Roger hesitated. He wasn’t too sure he should leave Samantha alone with Em. She had been everything he didn’t want his daughter to become. Oh, for heaven’s sake, I’m losing it. What possible damage can she do in a few short minutes?

      “Okay. But don’t wait too long. You won’t want to miss all the fun.”

      Em breathed a sigh of relief when he left, although she wasn’t too pleased to be stranded with his daughter. His daughter! Samantha couldn’t be more than thirteen or fourteen if Em’s math was correct. And here Em thought she was bumming cigarettes from someone who could legally smoke them.

      “Fun.” The word came out like a curse. “As if a bunch of little boys tearing wrapping paper is a treat.”

      “I suppose you want your pack back, but frankly, I wouldn’t feel right returning it to you,” Em said as she pushed her strap back over her shoulder. A refreshing breeze began to stir the bougainvillea, and Em moved out of reach of the thorny branches. “You’re not legally allowed to smoke.”

      “That’s okay. You keep it. You need it more than me.”

      “I’ve quit, remember?”

      “Yeah. Right.” Samantha looked down at her feet and whispered, “Thanks.”

      “For what?”

      She looked up and Em noticed the prettiest brown eyes—Roger’s eyes. “For not telling my dad the cigarettes were mine. He’s got this big thing about smoking because my mom died of cancer.”

      “As I recall, you told him they were yours.”

      “Like he listens. He only hears what he wants to hear, even if nobody says it. As if my mother’s cancer had anything to do with smoking. She had breast cancer, not lung cancer or anything like that.”

      “Still, it’s not good for us. He’s right about that.”

      “Well, there’s nothing to worry about. I’m not smoking anymore.”

      “Oh?”

      “Yeah. I don’t want to get so hooked I can’t stop when I’m old.” Samantha paused and a stricken look crossed her face. “Not that you’re that old.”

      She might not rival Methuselah, but Em suddenly felt very old, very old indeed.

      CHAPTER THREE

      “DON’T CALL ME Sammy. It’s a girl’s name.”

      Em didn’t give in to the urge to laugh, because her son looked so serious as they rode home from the party. “Why do you say that?”

      “Chaz says it’s his sister’s name.” He had talked nonstop about the twins he’d met. They would be attending the same school as her son, even though they were first graders, a grade behind Sammy.

      “Oh, his sister must be Samantha. I met her today.”

      That meeting came back in all its clarity. Her embarrassment at learning the girl was Roger’s daughter had sent her into a choking fit similar to her son’s asthma attacks. She’d actually felt sorry for Roger. He showed such love and concern for his children, and hadn’t had the slightest clue what that little vixen had been up to. Nonetheless, Em admired her spunk, even if it did mean Roger had a rough ride ahead of him.

      “Well, I got other names.”

      That he did: Bradley Samuel Turner, Jr. Her husband, Bradley, had chosen to use the baby’s middle name because he never knew if she was talking to him or the baby when she said Brad. She had grown to like the name Sammy. It provided less of a reminder of her husband after he left.

      “What do you want to be called? Brad or Bradley?”

      “I want a nickname like Chaz or Chip. That’s neat.”

      Remembering