The Would-Be Daddy Read online

  Moreover, miscarriages could be not only heart-wrenching but dangerous for the mother. During Gail’s last miscarriage, she’d suffered heavy blood loss and passed out. If her husband hadn’t arrived home in time to summon paramedics, she might have died.

  Franca struggled to avoid going overboard with her fears. A glance at her watch showed she had only a few minutes before her appointment, and Marshall was frighteningly punctual. “I’m sure Gail’s as delighted for you and Kerry as I am. Thanks for calling and not just emailing.”

  “I love you,” Glenn said.

  “I love you, too, bro.”

  As she clicked off, a tall figure filled her door frame. Oh, damn. Despite an urge to run to the privacy of her car, where she could scream and cry and beat on her steering wheel again, she had to pull herself together fast.

  “Good morning,” she told Marshall, and assumed the most professional smile she could manage.

  Chapter Six

  Marshall respected Franca’s cool manner—that was the right touch in this work setting. Yet he missed her usual warmth. At their meeting, she sat behind her desk, scarcely meeting his gaze. Was she angry at him for some reason?

  Briskly, she began outlining protocols for the men’s group. The first protocol was to state the group’s goal: addressing issues that arose from male infertility and treatment.

  “I agree.” A mission statement would position the operation on a businesslike basis, which in his experience should appeal to men.

  “Good.” She’d tucked her hair into what Marshall believed was called a chignon. The style enhanced the heart shape of her face, while escaping twists of reddish-blond hair added an appealing touch. He just wished she’d chosen one of the comfortable chairs beside him rather than keeping a barrier between them.

  Clearing her throat, Franca proceeded to item B on their list of protocols, designating the sessions as a safe zone where each participant could speak without interruption, without criticism and without receiving visual negativity such as eye rolling.

  The subject of their meeting seemed straightforward, yet there was an edge to her voice that hinted at tension. Marshall wished she’d explain why. But he’d resolved to avoid personal discussions, hadn’t he?

  “I’m on board with declaring a safe zone.”

  As item C, Franca proposed a guarantee of privacy for anything that was disclosed in a group session. “No sharing case histories or anecdotes, even with their spouses.”

  “Absolutely.” While that might be difficult for the patients, they’d appreciate not having their personal details bandied about.

  He also accepted her suggestions that they restrict participation to six to eight members, allow an hour and a half for each session, and schedule meetings on a weekday evening or on Saturdays. “Wednesday or Thursday nights are fine for me,” Marshall said. “I reserve Saturdays for overflow surgeries.”

  Franca nodded. “I have a standing appointment at my private office on Wednesdays. Thursdays it is.”

  He entered the information in his calendar. “Anything else?”

  “We should encourage a minimum of three sessions.” Franca steepled her fingers. That, coupled with the fact that she’d worn glasses today rather than contacts, added to her remote air.

  “Okay.”

  She closed the file in her computer. “May I ask you a question?”

  Maybe they’d finally discuss something other than rules and schedules. “Shoot.”

  “What persuaded you to go ahead with this?” Her amber gaze skimmed his face. “Was it Dr. Tartikoff?”

  While he’d hoped to learn what was bugging her, Marshall responded gamely. “A patient requested a surgical follow-up, not for medical reasons but because of personal concerns. When I mentioned this group, he expressed interest.” To be candid, he clarified, “Guarded interest.”

  Franca smiled for the first time that morning. “How precise you are.”

  “And you, today.” Marshall decided to press on. “Is everything all right?”

  “What do you mean?”

  Her defensive tone signaled him to back off. Instead, he said, “You were understandably upset when we ran into your...” How should he refer to a child who was no longer in her care? “Into Jazz. Is she okay?”

  Franca’s hands formed fists on the desk. “I’m not privy to that information.”

  A surge of protectiveness spurred Marshall to continue. “I’m glad you don’t have to deal with that lout, the boyfriend. Although I suppose dealing with unsavory characters goes with the territory.”

  “Which territory?”

  “Getting involved with dysfunctional families.”

  “I suppose it does.”

  Marshall had never seen her this frosty, nor experienced such a strong desire to push past another person’s boundaries. “Surely there are experienced foster parents in a better position to deal with people like that. And group homes, although I don’t suppose those are appropriate for such a young child.”

  “Marshall.” Franca’s eyes narrowed. “I’m well aware that you never approved of my plans to be a foster mom. There’s no need to beat a dead horse.”

  “That’s not my intent.” He hated being misunderstood, especially by her. “I’m trying to...” Marshall stopped. He’d been about to say, “protect you.”

  What right did he have to do that? Judging by her current anger, he gathered her answer would be “none.”

  “To do what?” Franca prompted.

  “Never mind.” He rose, towering over her. “I can’t expect to get through to you.”

  She leaped up to her full height, which was eight or nine inches shorter than his. “You’re the most infuriating, arrogant man I ever met.”

  “Seriously?’ he retorted. “As bad as all that?”

  “Worse.”

  They glared at each other for about five seconds.

  Marshall wasn’t sure which of them crumbled first, but suddenly they were laughing. He had no idea what struck him as so funny, except that this was a ridiculous argument between two people who’d always known they were opposites.

  “Well,” Franca said when she regained control of herself. “That cleared the air.”

  “Are you sure you can work with such an infuriating man?” Marshall quirked an eyebrow.

  “Guess I’ll have to.”

  “Suits me. Oh, I’d appreciate if you’d email me a rough draft of our proposal,” he said.

  “Will do.” Franca’s mouth twisted ruefully. “I’ve heard that once Dr. T gets a bee in his bonnet, he expects results pronto.”

  The notion of Owen Tartikoff wearing a bonnet brought another chuckle. “Let’s not provoke the great man any more than necessary.” Marshall reached across the desk, and they shook hands. It felt strange, as he wanted to give her a hug. Perhaps it was fortunate she’d kept a barrier between them.

  On his way out, Marshall caught a speculative glance from Franca’s assistant in the outer office, who must have heard their loud voices.

  An unusual-looking woman with black hair and dramatic bone structure, she was named Maggie Mejia Majors, according to her nameplate. “How alliterative,” he said.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Your names all start with the same letter.” What was wrong with him? He never joked with strangers. “Have a nice day.”

  “You, too, Doctor.”

  If he weren’t careful, Marshall reflected, he might soften his edges and become less arrogant. Then what would he and Franca quarrel about?

  * * *

  SHARING A LAUGH with Marshall might have eased their friction, but Franca remained wary of him. In any area other than their professions, they were impossibly far apart.

  As if she weren’t upset enough already, her attorney stopped by a few days later to report that he’d received a disturbing call from Bridget.

  “She claims you influenced Jazz against her.” Edmond Everhart’s shirt was neatly pressed beneath his tailored suit, a
nd his tie was smoothly knotted, as usual. A family attorney, he consulted at the medical center twice a week, advising patients and staff in areas outside the expertise of the regular hospital attorney. She’d also hired him as her private counsel to deal with the adoption.

  “I did no such thing.” Franca bristled at the accusation. “After she consented to the adoption, I naturally began treating Jazz as my own child, but I never spoke ill of her mother.”

  “I believe you.” Normally, Franca found Edmond’s calm manner reassuring. Today, she wasn’t sure anything would have eased her temper. “The issue seems to be her boyfriend. She contends that Jazz is rude to him.”

  “Rude? He was yanking her around!” At the attorney’s startled expression, Franca explained about running into them at the café. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s an ex-con or a gang member. Or both.”

  “You’re probably right.” Edmond studied her sympathetically. The father of four-month-old triplets, he also had custody of his eight-year-old niece, Dawn, while his sister served a prison sentence for robbery. His expertise with children of prisoners had been extremely valuable. “If Bridget were on parole, fraternizing with a felon would be a violation. But since her conviction was thrown out, she can associate with anyone she chooses.”

  “I’m not trying to send Bridget to prison, anyway,” Franca said. “What specifically did she say?”

  “That Jazz throws tantrums and refuses to call him Daddy,” Edmond replied. “I have the impression she’s torn between protecting her daughter and pleasing her boyfriend.”

  “What did you tell her?” Franca asked.

  “That it’s normal for a child to act up when she’s removed from her usual care provider. She cooled down when she heard that. Mostly, she probably just wanted to vent.” When his cell jingled, Edmond checked the readout. “I have to take this. But I wanted to inform you that I’d heard from her.”

  “Thanks for keeping me posted.”

  During the next few weeks, there was no further word about Jazz. That didn’t relieve Franca’s anxiety, but she struggled to steer her mind to other subjects so she didn’t drive herself crazy.

  With Marshall’s input, she polished the therapy group proposal. The administrator and the directors of the fertility and men’s programs approved it with minor changes. After Jennifer put out the word in the newsletter, referrals began arriving. The start date was set for late April.

  Concerned about her older sister, Franca called Gail. Her sister commiserated about Jazz, inquired about Franca’s new job and chatted about her husband, an electrician, whom Gail assisted in his business. She didn’t bring up any medical issues, and Franca was too tactful to ask. Best to let Gail choose what and when she was willing to share.

  Mid-April arrived, and with it the day of Zady and Nick’s wedding, scheduled for 4:00 p.m. on a Saturday. It dawned cloudy with a chance of sprinkles, but the weather cleared by the afternoon.

  Franca chose a pink dress with a matching print jacket. As she finished applying her makeup, her gaze fell on the last remnant of the blue bridesmaid’s gown draped over the sewing machine table. Funny, she’d felt through Belle’s entire wedding that Marshall was an unseen presence on the sidelines.

  He’d be part of his brother’s ceremony today, of course, but his best-man duties ought to keep him busy. There’d be little risk of personal interaction.

  Just consider him a casual acquaintance. He wasn’t involved in Franca’s struggle to figure out whether she dared risk a pregnancy. Although the possibility of remaining childless haunted her, common sense warned her to be realistic. Then there was just plain fear. She’d gone so far as to scan Safe Harbor’s computerized material on sperm donors, but whenever Franca started to schedule a consultation, her mind tortured her with scenarios of collapsing in agony, alone in her apartment.

  For heaven’s sake, she was about to attend a celebration. Relax and have fun.

  The Seaside Wedding Chapel was perched on the bluffs above the harbor. Inside, a smiling woman handed Franca a printed program. The hum of voices and the tinkling of piano music greeted her as she stepped into the chapel.

  Zady had kept the floral arrangements modest, preferring for guests to bask in the glorious view from the arched windows. The sight of colorful sailboats and, beyond the harbor, the blue sweep of the Pacific Ocean refreshed Franca’s spirit.

  While she was debating where to sit, two women gestured to her. She recognized them as nurses in Marshall’s office who worked with Zady. The tall, thin one was Jeanine, Franca recalled, and the short, round woman was Ines.

  She slid into a chair beside them, happy to join their banter. They volunteered that they’d leaped at the chance to leave their spouses home with the kids.

  “My husband finds weddings boring,” Ines said.

  “Mine, too,” Jeanine added. “Even our wedding, I suspect. Not the honeymoon, though.”

  “Speaking of honeymoons, any idea where Nick and Zady are going?” Franca asked.

  “Las Vegas,” Ines piped up.

  “For a long weekend,” Jeanine said.

  A movement near the altar caught Franca’s attention. The groom and his brother had emerged, a pair of strikingly handsome men in tuxedos with a mini look-alike trailing solemnly in their wake as the ring bearer.

  A murmur ran through the crowd. “Isn’t that boy cute?” Ines said.

  “He’s a doll,” her fellow nurse agreed.

  “Here we left our kids at home and we’re drooling over someone else’s child,” Ines observed.

  “Yes, but my sons don’t wear tuxedos and resemble little movie stars,” Jeanine said.

  “I’ll bet you a box of doughnuts he’ll spill something on that tux at dinner.”

  “You’re on. Any excuse for doughnuts.”

  Their banter barely penetrated Franca’s awareness. It wasn’t Caleb, darling as he was, who transfixed her.

  Despite the resemblance between the brothers, Marshall stood out, with his erect stance and chiseled features. Everything about him evoked memories of his tenderness, his annoyance, his humor and his vulnerability.

  She’d missed him these past weeks, more than she’d been willing to admit. Since he’d reappeared in her life, he’d become increasingly important to her. And her feelings had only grown stronger because of the recent distance.

  Franca realized with a start that she was perilously close to crossing a dangerous line. She had to keep in mind, especially with a man as stiff-necked as Marshall, that however close you might become, ultimately you could only depend on yourself.

  Chapter Seven

  Marshall envied Nick’s easy manner as they stood in front of the assembly. Any public appearance was uncomfortable for him, even accepting an honor. He couldn’t escape the notion that he had a stain on his jacket or was about to blurt something idiotic.

  You’re here to support the groom, not obsess about your appearance.

  Staring toward the far wall, he reviewed his ideas for the obligatory toast later this evening. He hadn’t decided whether to bring up the fact that they’d recently discovered they were brothers, which would upset his mother. Yet he could hardly refer to Nick as his cousin.

  When Marshall’s gaze shifted toward his mother, Mildred Davis averted her face. It hurt that she refused to acknowledge him, for her sake as well as his. At seventy-two, she had few friends or relatives. It wasn’t healthy to be so isolated.

  Abruptly, he became aware of Franca. Wedged between two nurses from his office, she appeared to be listening intently to their conversation. Just knowing she was among the guests helped him to relax.

  Marshall wasn’t sure why she’d rigorously kept her distance over the past few weeks while they finalized plans for their group, communicating only by email and text. The loss of her daughter was obviously painful, and he supposed his tactless comment about foster parenting still rankled. But she’d always handled their differences with composure in the past.

 
The pianist finished her rendition of “We’ve Only Just Begun” and segued to the traditional wedding march. At the entrance appeared a little girl of about three, wearing a rose-colored dress tied with a gold sash and carrying a basket. Marshall smiled at the bride’s goddaughter, Linda, whom he’d become fond of during the weeks she’d stayed with Zady.

  Linda trotted forward, tossing handfuls of rose petals at the crowd, until she reached the halfway point. There she stopped, panic spreading over her features as if she’d suddenly noticed all the people staring at her.

  Where was Zora, the matron of honor? She should have been right behind Linda, prepared to take her hand if needed.

  The groom frowned toward the empty doorway as if willing Zady or her sister to appear. Naturally, he didn’t want to risk spoiling the bride’s big moment by intervening, but someone ought to act.

  In the middle of a row, Linda’s parents leaned forward uncertainly, also reluctant to intercede. Marshall whispered a request to Caleb, since the child was a natural choice to fetch his fellow Lilliputian, but the boy shook his head.

  Might as well make a fool of himself for a good cause, Marshall mused. Up the aisle he strode and bent to take Linda’s hand.

  “Uncle Marsh!” With a cry, she flung herself into his arms and buried her face in his shoulder. Amid sympathetic chuckles from the crowd, he carried her to the altar.

  As he lowered her to the ground, Marshall glimpsed Franca staring longingly at the child. Tears glittered on her cheeks.

  She must be thinking of Jazz. It hadn’t occurred to him what emotions the sight of a little girl might evoke. Then Franca gave him a shaky, approving smile that warmed him right down to his uncomfortably stiff shoes.

  At the end of the aisle, the matron of honor entered belatedly in a swirl of dark pink. Judging by Zora’s limp, the cause of the delay must be a hurt foot or ankle.