AN: woo, this is the first story for this book! Um...this is just something I dreamed up one day...it's about Sam and Jemimah ...if you haven't read the book it probably won't make sense!
Sam had lived all those years without her - and yet he hadn't. He had and he hadn't, at the same time, the two feelings existed alongside each other - and yet neither of them did. There was a version of Sam which had never known the loss of her, had never felt the emptiness when the Spanish Flu took her from him. There was a Sam who'd never lost a friend because he blamed him for her death. Who'd never visited the twelve year old boy, in the hospital, his brain damaged beyond repair, who'd never bandaged the legs and arms of a man who'd never walk the same again. That Sam was the real Sam, but he hadn't been.
Before things had changed...and they had changed - they'd changed for everyone, for himself, for Archie, for Colin, for Fred, for his granddaughter Joni-Philipa - before all that, he'd learned to live without her for nearly thirty years. Thirty years was a long time, even for a man his age, who'd seen nearly seventy. He'd learned to survive without her, had almost forgotten what it felt like to hold her - but never to love her. He could never forget that.
But now it was as if he'd never lived those thirty long years - well, he had, but he'd lived them with her. The boy in the hospital was marrying her daughter, he loved his friend like a brother again, the man he'd bandaged never gained the limp he'd had to remind him of the accident. And most of all, he had her back. Jemimah. His Jemimah. His Mimi.
She was in the kitchen, preparing lunch. He went to the doorway and just stood there, watching her. Wanting to savour every moment with her because somewhere, at the back of his mind, was the thought that things could change, drastically, all too quickly, and beyond his control.
Sam had never lost Jemimah. He didn't remember losing her. But he had. And he hadn't.