Just Like Em. Marion Ekholm

Karen, what should I do? His silent query went unanswered.

      The moment Em’s car pulled into the driveway, Roger ran off the porch and opened her door. “I want to get this clear from the start, Em. I’m hiring you in a consultant capacity. Name your price.”

      “Fine,” she said, stepping from the car.

      Fine? No argument, no negotiations? Roger closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead.

      “Headache?”

      He opened his eyes. Em stood inches away. He took a deep breath and drew in her scent. Wrong move. “No,” he said, barely able to get the word out. “Can I take that for you?” As he reached for her bag, he brushed her hand and nearly dropped the computer.

      “Whoa, let me take that.” Em pulled it away from him. About to put his hand on Em’s back to direct her, he turned toward his house. The moment he saw Samantha standing at the door, looking every bit like her mother, he dropped his hand to his side.

      “Oh, I need your help desperately, Em,” Samantha said. She clasped her hands prayer fashion under her chin. “Dad won’t take me shopping, and I don’t have anything but rags to wear to school.”

      “Samantha, stop being so dramatic and get to bed.” Why was she still up? He pushed past her into the house. “I told you I’ll take you next weekend.”

      The girl uttered a strangled cry, shook her hands in the air and looked heavenward for help. How was he to deal with such antics? Couldn’t she cut him some slack? He faced a few more important crises than her lack of wardrobe.

      Em turned to him and said, “Why don’t I go upstairs with Samantha while you get me a drink? Iced tea if you have any.” She followed his daughter before he could offer a protest.

      “Okay, what’s going on?” Em asked when they reached the bedroom on the second floor. The room, decorated in frills and lace, seemed too immature for someone who had given up smoking at thirteen.

      “Look at these.” Samantha picked up an armload of clothes that had been strewn across her bed and tossed them in the air. “They’re all out of style. I’ve grown two inches in the last year, and Dad hasn’t even noticed.”

      Samantha lowered her voice and glanced toward the open door. “Besides,” she said, pulling the bulky men’s shirt out at the bust line, “My boobs are getting bigger and nothing looks right.”

      “Um, well...” Em cleared her throat, and glanced around the room in an attempt to gather her thoughts. This was way beyond what she’d expected. This weekend. What plans had she made this weekend? She turned back to the girl. “I can take you shopping Saturday, but you have to clear it with your father, first.”

      Samantha threw her arms around Em and nearly strangled her. “Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you. I’ll see if I can get Daddy’s credit cards.”

      “My what?” Roger asked from the doorway. He held out a tall glass of iced tea to Em.

      While sipping the drink, she watched the adult and child move into their separate camps. She had no business interfering. Why hadn’t she gone straight to the computer and avoided this scene?

      “I told you I’d take you next week. You are not dragging Em away from her busy life.”

      The past few weeks of strain showed clearly on his face. A muscle twitched in his cheek as he spoke in hushed tones to his daughter. The whites of his eyes were no longer white but sunset pink. From Em’s perspective, he looked overworked, overtired and emotionally overextended.

      “Oh, but you can?” Samantha scowled at him, hands on her hips. “It’s eleven, Daddy. Why did you drag her over?”

      Em tried not to react to the innuendo. After all, Samantha was using every means possible to get her way. But Roger turned red as fury washed over his face. His jaw tightened. Had Samantha hit a nerve?