The Would-Be Daddy

by Jacqueline Diamond

  The marvel was that Franca sought it as eagerly as he did. Her hands reached for him, her movements encouraged him, and her body invited him into a private dance.

  The scent of her perfume intoxicated him; the touch of her skin thrilled him. Soaring together, they crested a giant wave and roared into free fall. Exultation obliterated the last limits of the familiar world.

  For too long, Marshall had been caged, mistrusting every vulnerability. Now, a fresh vista unfolded, with Franca at its center.

  Marshall held her close as they drifted to a far shore. He barely recovered enough awareness to pull the covers over them before sinking into blissful sleep.

  * * *

  FRANCA AWOKE IN the morning with the sense that she’d forgotten something important. But also that she’d done something wonderful and free.

  Beside her under silky sheets lay the man she’d craved for years. Marshall’s long body curved toward her, his tousled dark hair tickling her shoulder. In sleep, he had the openness of a young man. Had intimacy changed him, or was it her perceptions that had altered?

  An ache at her temples reminded Franca that she’d had more to drink than usual last night. However, she couldn’t blame her actions on the champagne. She’d chosen to sleep with Marshall, whatever the consequences.

  He stirred. “Good morning.” The brightness of his smile rivaled the sunshine glinting between the curtains.

  “Hi.” Now what? She shouldn’t feel awkward, considering how well they knew each other. But in this context, they might as well be strangers.

  “I promised to cook breakfast,” Marshall murmured.

  “That would be lovely.” Franca still couldn’t shake the notion that she’d been negligent somehow. Was it because she’d left her car at the wedding chapel? That didn’t pose a problem; she could walk over to collect it. “Coffee first, please.”

  “You got it,” he said. “I’ll be downstairs in a minute.” After planting a kiss on her nose, he arose, collected his tuxedo and departed. She missed him as soon as he was gone.

  Rising, Franca reflected ruefully on an obvious omission: a change of clothes. She always carried a spare outfit in her car—a habit she’d started after a child client had thrown up on her. No point racing down the block for the clothes, though.

  She took a shower and used a toothbrush and toothpaste from the basket of guest toiletries. Then she put on the same dress.

  Franca was heading for the stairs when she passed a large, nearly empty room whose mint-green walls brought to mind a nursery. Perhaps that was what Marshall planned for it.

  Then it hit her, what she’d forgotten.

  Contraception. True, she’d been sleeping alone for the last few years, but how could she have been so careless?

  “Oh, hell,” Franca said.

  She had to go downstairs and drop this on Marshall. That he, too, had been negligent didn’t make it any easier. Nor was it his fault that she had a troubled family history when it came to pregnancies.

  A remark came to her that she’d almost completely forgotten. After meeting Marshall at college, her mother had commented privately on how handsome he was—and how much he resembled her first husband. “A killer smile and gorgeous eyes,” she’d murmured. “But Belle had better watch out. When he turns cold toward her, he’ll be pure ice.”

  Don’t get ahead of yourself. She’d better focus on one issue at a time, for her peace of mind as well as his.

  * * *

  MORNINGS-AFTER COULD be tricky, Marshall reflected as he switched on the coffeemaker and began fixing cheese omelets and toast. With other women over the years, there’d been the question of whether they’d see each other again, how often and on what basis. He’d never gone for one-night stands, but a few women preferred them.

  Surely not Franca. They belonged to each other now. However fast or slowly their relationship progressed, they were in this together.

  With rising anticipation, he heard the brush of footsteps on the stairs. Swiveling from the stovetop, he stared as slim legs and a swirl of pink skirt appeared. Against the soft colors surrounding her, Franca shone like a beacon. Marshall could scarcely breathe.

  The sizzle from the stove top broke his reverie. “Breakfast’s almost ready,” he said.

  “I’m not hungry.” She scowled.

  Uh-oh. “What’s wrong?”

  Franca crossed to kitchen. “We forgot to use contraception.”

  Oh, hell. Despite the packet of condoms in Marshall’s bedside table, it simply hadn’t occurred to him. Thoughts collided, but logic took command. “Is it the right time of the month for you to conceive?”

  She glared at him. That must have been the wrong response.

  She’s a psychologist. Try to think the way she would. “How do you feel about it?” Marshall asked.

  “I can’t believe neither of us remembered.” Striding to the coffeemaker, Franca poured a cup. “We work at a fertility hospital.”

  All was not necessarily lost. “You could take a morning-after pill.”

  Coffee sloshed onto the counter. “Easy answer for a guy,” she snapped. “Besides, no matter how hard a pregnancy might be, I’d always regret it if I did that.”

  Her anger puzzled him, since Marshall would love to have a child. Still, he resolved to proceed with caution. “I understand why you’re upset,” he ventured. “Pregnancy is a huge undertaking for a woman.”

  “And for a man who’ll get stuck with child support for the next twenty years.” Before he could reply, Franca raised a hand. “Sorry. That was out of line. My head’s throbbing, not that that’s any excuse.”

  Afraid the omelets were getting overcooked, Marshall flipped them onto plates. He served them with a dish of sour cream and chives. “Whatever happens, we’ll both be part of the decision making.”

  Franca splashed milk in and around her cup, adding to the mess on the counter. “I’m sorry, Marshall, but when it comes to my pregnancy, I’m the one who makes the decisions.”

  The baby that might be forming would be his son or daughter, too. “Legally, that’s true, but morally, we’re both involved. Please don’t treat me like a bystander.”

  Franca plopped onto a stool at the island. “That doesn’t give you the right to run my life.”

  “Don’t exaggerate.” This conversation was spiraling out of control. Marshall searched for a way to lower the tension. “It’s not that common for a couple to conceive immediately. We might be worrying over nothing.”

  “Nothing?” Franca poked a fork at her eggs. “For the next few weeks, my entire future is up in the air.”

  This wasn’t how he’d imagined conversing with her this morning. “Why are you picking a fight?” Usually, she was the most reasonable person around. “Let’s not ruin a beautiful night together.”

  Jumping up, Franca carried her plate and cup to the counter. “Thanks for breakfast. I’m just not in the mood for—for whatever.” She grabbed her purse.

  She was leaving? “Let’s not part this way,” Marshall protested. “We should talk.”

  “About what?”

  “You’re supposed to be the expert.”

  “On pregnancy?” she asked.

  “On relationships.”

  “Well, here’s my opinion,” Franca said. “We both know we’re not compatible, Marshall. I wish we were and sometimes...no, I refuse to delude myself. Let’s just leave it at that.”

  She barreled out of the kitchen and he heard her footsteps rap across the tile floor toward the door. He didn’t deserve her anger, Marshall thought irritably, but he still cared about her. “Wait! I’ll drive you to your car.”

  “I’ll feel better if I burn off some energy.” The door closed behind her with a loud click.

  He sat at the counter, bewildered. How could she deny the intimacy they’d shared last night? Yet judging from her words, she didn’t just regret the forgotten contraception; she regretted the champagne, the sex and the night with a man she could never love. Wh
at had seemed to him a transformative experience had been entirely one-sided.

  A knot formed in Marshall’s chest. Well, so what if she rejected you? He could almost hear his father’s voice demanding he shape up and take it like a man.

  True, he and Franca had always been opposites. He’d recognized that fifteen years ago. Why expect things to be different now?

  This pain in his heart would ease. It had to. Meanwhile, in a few weeks, they’d learn whether they were going to be parents.

  And if they were, Marshall had no intention of stepping meekly aside.

  * * *

  AS A COUNSELOR, Franca often advised clients to take things one day at a time. So that was what she tried to do during the next week.

  All the same, her calendar became her foe, announcing that her period was due on the following Friday. It didn’t arrive. Not on Saturday or Sunday, either.

  She’d been late before. Anxiety could cause that, Franca cautioned herself, and redoubled her efforts to focus on her job.

  It had been unfair to unload on Marshall, yet she couldn’t bring herself to apologize. He’d been his usual high-handed self—all right, she conceded, he’d tried to understand her, but every word had rubbed salt into her wounds. She’d lost her daughter and then realized she might not be physically able to carry a child to term—and now she faced the prospect of an unplanned pregnancy. For once in her life, she had no compassion to spare.

  Mercifully, no one appeared to notice her turmoil. Jeanine and Ines, who’d accepted the explanation that she’d left the reception early because of a headache, filled her in on the mother of the bride’s shenanigans. After Franca had left, the woman had tossed a glass of champagne in the face of a waiter who’d accidentally trod on her foot. Lucky and Nick had politely but firmly escorted the miscreant and her complaining husband to a cab.

  Attention in the cafeteria soon switched from the wedding to what was termed the Return of the Twins: Zady from her Las Vegas honeymoon and Zora from maternity leave. At lunch, people gathered to admire Zady’s ring and coo over pictures of Zora’s twins.

  Thank goodness they had missed the juiciest piece of gossip stemming from the wedding. Franca shuddered. What a mess it would be if anyone found out what she and the best man had done.

  Certainly no one would hear it from Marshall, who’d become cold and formal with her. Through the glass doors that separated the cafeteria from the patio where the doctors preferred to eat, she observed his rigid posture and stern expression.

  She missed the warmth he’d shown her, the brilliance of his smile, the ease of his movements. Her anger had driven him into his shell, which she regretted, but she hadn’t been wrong. Their differences were too profound to overcome for more than one night of drinking and dancing.

  So why did she keep wishing he’d seek her out? Her hormones must be running riot. That was probably what had delayed her period, too. No, wait. If her hormones were surging, that might indicate pregnancy.

  A week and a half later, she was still in turmoil. She sat at her desk and buried her face in her hands. Quickly recalling where she was, she straightened her shoulders. No weeping and wailing for a professional, especially since tonight marked the start of the men’s counseling group. She had to project confidence and control.

  In the therapy room, she cleared away the toys and drawing materials and arranged chairs in a circle for the half dozen men scheduled to participate. After communicating solely via email and text, she and Marshall would again be in the same room, side by side. Normally, Franca enjoyed meeting clients and beginning a journey with them. Now she simply hoped she could weather the session without a meltdown.

  Someone tapped on the door. “Am I intruding?” Edmond adjusted the squarish glasses on his nose.

  “Not at all.” Franca gestured for the attorney to enter. “What did you find out?” She’d asked him to check on Jazz.

  He came into the room but remained standing. “Bridget’s moved into a two-bedroom apartment.”

  “Good.” That meant Jazz had a room of her own. There’d be a kitchen, too, and a chance for healthier meals. “Does she want me to bring over Jazz’s stuff?” Most of her clothes and toys remained at Franca’s.

  Edmond gave a regretful head shake. “They’re sharing the apartment with her boyfriend. Axel doesn’t want a bunch of toys littering the place, according to Bridget.”

  They were living with that awful man? “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “There’s more.”

  “More?” Her throat went dry.

  “The district attorney has declined to refile the charges.”

  Franca’s heartbeat thundered in her ears. Despite Edmond’s cautions, she’d drawn comfort from the idea that she could bring her daughter home if Bridget was sent to prison. This development shattered that hope.

  “There’s nothing you can do?” As she stared at the attorney in his impeccable suit, an unreasoning anger tempted her to lash out at his smugness. But he was on her side.

  “I’m afraid not. I’m sorry, Franca. You and Jazz deserve better.”

  She forced herself to politely acknowledge Edmond’s sympathy. It was a relief when he left.

  Despite a prickling behind her eyelids, no tears flowed. This cut too deep.

  After a while, her breathing slowed. It was nearly five o’clock, which left an hour to grab a bite before the six o’clock session. Oddly, Franca discovered she had a ravenous appetite.

  Typical of a mother-to-be.

  In view of this fresh blow, she’d forgotten her other concern. Although it was early for results, she decided to pick up a test kit at the hospital pharmacy. She’d wait until after the counseling session to use it, in case the result was positive. Her emotions were tumultuous enough already.

  Sucking in a deep breath, Franca headed for the elevator.

  Chapter Ten

  The past ten days since he and Franca made love, Marshall had instinctively watched for her everywhere. He’d listened for her voice, while mentally replaying their last scene, trying to figure out how it could have ended differently.

  But he never managed to find the right responses for her. In many ways, she seemed contradictory, fearing a pregnancy yet refusing to consider a morning-after pill. Did that spring from her deep love of children? He wished he understood her.

  Distracted at lunch that day, he’d struggled to join the laughter as Nick related funny incidents from his Las Vegas honeymoon, and been reduced to nodding vaguely because he scarcely heard what his brother said. It was as if Marshall had landed in a foreign country where he more or less understood the language but couldn’t grasp its nuances.

  Had Franca’s period started? Surely she’d inform him. Until then, in view of how touchy she’d become, he decided to wait.

  Meanwhile, he’d had no luck reconnecting with his mother. A few days after the wedding, Marshall had called to invite her to dinner again, but she’d declined curtly, citing prior plans. Much as he hated to abandon his efforts, he didn’t see what else he could do.

  His work had been his refuge. In the examining room, Marshall knew how to evaluate symptoms to reach a diagnosis, while for each operation, he had a carefully mapped-out strategy. At tonight’s therapy group, however, the circle of men left him at a loss. Judging by the uneasy shifting in chairs and folding of arms, the clients were equally uncomfortable.

  Keenly aware of Franca beside him, he scanned her out of his peripheral vision. She’d tucked her reddish-blond hair into a bun and put on dark-rimmed glasses. In spite of the buttoned-down impression, no one could miss the ripe curves beneath her suit or the softness of her lips.

  Especially not me.

  “Let’s get started,” she said. Around the room, the men slouched lower in their seats. Hank Driver, the detective whose vasectomy Marshall had reversed, was checking his phone. “Please mute your electronics.”

  “Sorry.” He tapped the screen. Marshall was glad he’d remembered to put his own phone
on vibrate.

  “Let’s set a few ground rules.” Franca outlined the protocols. Everyone agreed about keeping the discussions private and listening without interrupting. “Do you have anything to add, Dr. Davis?”

  He did. “Like most men, I was brought up to hold my emotions inside. I admire everyone for participating.”

  “Good point.” Her gaze returned to the clients. “Let’s introduce ourselves—first names only—and then you’re welcome to raise any issues related to infertility or treatment.”

  What if no one spoke? However, after the introductions, a man named Cory broke the ice. “How do we tell our in-laws to butt out? That’s our biggest problem. I mean, besides not having a baby.” There were nods of recognition.

  “Would you mind sharing your story?” Franca asked.

  His mother-in-law called daily, advising her daughter to relax and let nature take its course. “After my wife hangs up, she bursts into tears,” Cory said. “She’s been through in vitro twice. Implying that she just ought to relax is cruel.”

  “Has she explained to her mother how hurtful these comments are?”

  “She’s tried,” Cory said. “But her mother insists she’s trying to make sure her daughter is happy. Well, that’s my job, not hers.”

  Since Marshall’s parents had been the opposite of over-involved, he had no idea what to recommend. Franca asked if anyone else had similar problems.

  “We had to cut off contact with my sister-in-law,” said a fellow named Burt. “She had the nerve to suggest my wife hang out with her to absorb her hormones, because she’s pregnant with her third child.”

  Beside him, Marshall registered a wince from Franca. At the sister-in-law’s insensitivity, or at the prospect of being pregnant?

  “Can a woman really absorb someone else’s hormones, Doc?” Hank asked.

  Marshall wished Nick were here, with his experience in obstetrics. However, he was fairly certain of the answer. “There aren’t any pregnancy pheromones that increase other women’s fertility. If there were, I’m sure we’d be providing them to our patients.”