And by July, there might not even be a baby. Don’t worry about that.
They shook hands and agreed that she’d move in the following weekend. Only after Marshall left did another notion strike Franca.
Despite the dismaying news from her lawyer, she’d kept the apartment intact for her daughter in case things changed unexpectedly. Choosing her future baby’s well-being instead felt like she was truly giving up on Jazz.
Any reasonable person would approve of Franca’s decision. But that didn’t dispel the sense of disloyalty that dogged her.
* * *
THE NEXT WEEKEND’S transition went smoothly, to Marshall’s satisfaction. That happened partly because he had hired professional movers, and partly because he worked out a floor plan in advance.
With Franca’s approval, Jazz’s bed and curtains went into the playroom. They could change the pink color scheme later if the baby happened to be a boy. Her brother’s photos brightened the upstairs hallway, while her mother’s crocheted afghan enlivened the family room.
They had a minor disagreement about her habit of leaving appliances out on the kitchen counter, which he preferred uncluttered. This was resolved when Marshall cleared space for the appliances in the lower cabinets. He conceded that she couldn’t reach things higher up, and he certainly didn’t want her climbing on a footstool.
Franca’s acceptance of his invitation and her willingness to compromise should have been gratifying. Instead, her responses made him uneasy. She was treating him as a roommate, and a temporary one at that. No wonder she didn’t bother fighting over minutiae.
How disturbing that she remained cool to him, when awareness of her disturbed his attempts to sleep at night. His skin prickled with longing whenever he heard her stirring down the hall, awakening memories of soaring to the heights with her in the very room where she was sleeping.
During their lovemaking, Marshall had plunged off the emotional deep end, and the resulting cascade threatened his hard-won inner calm. He had to admit, it was wise to withdraw, but not to this extent.
Franca didn’t seem to be experiencing any emotional turbulence. On Monday, Marshall had to wake her as she snoozed in complete indifference to her alarm clock’s jangling.
“Must be pregnancy hormones,” she said over her breakfast cereal.
“You sure you don’t want a ride to work?” To hell with what everyone would say when they arrived together. “We can save gas.”
“It’s only a few miles.” Morning light through the French doors cast a rosy glow over her face. “Besides, don’t you normally have to be in earlier than me, for surgery?”
She had a point. “Every day but Monday.”
“And my Tuesday afternoon counseling group often runs late,” Franca said. “Also, it would be a pain to have to coordinate about every last-minute patient or stop at the supermarket. There’s also the matter of preserving our privacy.”
She was right. But if either of them imagined they could keep their situation secret, Marshall soon learned better.
At work that day, he caught curious glances from Zady. Finally, his nurse poked her head into his private office. “I hope you don’t mind, but Nick mentioned... I mean, congratulations!”
“For...?” he asked.
“Fatherhood,” she prompted.
He’d forgotten his disclosure to his brother. “Oh. Thanks.”
She must have told the other nurses, because he heard them chattering, then fall silent as he approached their station. Marshall was glad to depart for a late-morning meeting to review suite assignments in the new building.
Interior work on the floors would begin soon, with the opening scheduled for late summer. To avoid any further conflict, the administrator had decided that Marshall should represent the urologists and Dr. Jack Ryder speak for the other specialists as they firmed up specifics.
The two men met in a conference room in the administrator’s office. That way, they could call on him should they hit an impasse.
Jack shook hands warily and scanned the tentative floor plan Marshall had prepared on his laptop. The dark-haired obstetrician suggested only one switch, allotting a larger suite to the pediatricians.
“That does reduce the space for urology fellows,” Marshall noted as he visualized Jack’s suggestion.
“They’ll be newcomers,” Jack said. “And the pediatricians are crammed into tight quarters right now.”
Marshall and Cole Rattigan had labored hard to win fellowship money and attract the best candidates to their program. However, he doubted anyone would reject a fellowship simply because it meant accepting a small office. “That’s reasonable.”
“By the way, congratulations,” Jack said when they’d finished. “I hear you’re about to be a dad.”
“Thanks.” Marshall regarded him questioningly. “Where’d you hear that?”
The other man grinned. “Speaking of being jammed together, I’m in the same suite with your brother.”
“Who has a big mouth.” Marshall closed his laptop.
“I’m surprised you aren’t trumpeting the news to all and sundry.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Because parenthood is the greatest experience ever,” Jack enthused. “My daughter, Rachel, just hit the seven-month mark and watching her develop is a high.”
“I’m sure she’s a doll.” The desire for fatherhood that had grown in Marshall these past few years had taken on almost tangible form since he saw that positive pregnancy test. There’d been distractions—mostly his worry over Franca’s health when she feared she was miscarrying—yet day by day, he’d begun to picture his child as a real person, a little boy or girl cradled in his arms. Someone to laugh with, to regale with stories of his childhood and to build a future for.
“It’s hard to believe Anya initially wasn’t keen on keeping the baby,” Jack said. “I had to win her over for Rachel’s sake and mine.”
How amazing that the other man spoke openly about such private matters. Could Jack’s experience help him to overcome Franca’s resistance? “How did you change her mind?”
“She assumed I’d dump the burden of child rearing on her.” The other doctor leaned back with a dreamy expression. “I ran errands to show that I’d be a real partner. What put me over the top was my cooking.”
“I fixed an omelet for Franca. She wasn’t impressed,” Marshall said.
“Think big,” Jack advised. “I prepared dinner for Anya and her housemates on a regular basis. They’re picky eaters, but I won them over.”
“I have no idea how to fix a complicated meal.” Nor could he spare the time to take a class.
“There’s a ton of recipes on the internet, with step-by-step instructions,” Jack said. “Cooking is similar to surgery. If you assemble your tools and ingredients, and follow the directions, you can’t go wrong.”
“Or if you do, nobody dies.”
“Precisely.”
Marshall departed with his head buzzing. For maximum impact, he decided to pick a fancy recipe. One of his favorite dishes was chicken mole, a spicy Mexican dish that combined hot peppers with a dash of chocolate.
At lunch, he found a recipe on the internet, along with the pronunciation—MO-lay. The long list of ingredients daunted him, but he was willing to go the extra mile to dazzle Franca.
She’d mentioned that she’d be home late tomorrow night. What a perfect opportunity for him to experiment in the kitchen.
As Jack had said, if you followed the recipe, you could hardly go wrong.
Chapter Thirteen
The days had no business passing so rapidly, Franca reflected on Tuesday. True, she’d received positive news: the results of her blood test had come back normal, and a recheck of her blood pressure showed it had dropped slightly. She’d also arranged to leave her old clinic as of June first.
But in her sixth week of pregnancy, this tiny dot within her was growing rapidly, and she felt unprepared for what lay ahead. She hadn’t in
formed her family, because that would require dealing with their reactions. She’d simply sent them her new address, noting that this place was closer to work.
At the hospital, however, secrets didn’t stay hidden long. In the cafeteria, Ines and Jeanine flagged her down.
“We heard your news,” Ines said over her sandwich. “Congratulations!”
“Is this our fault?” Jeanine asked.
Puzzled, Franca toyed with her chef’s salad. “How could my pregnancy be your fault?”
“We figure that’s where you went after the wedding,” Ines noted.
“We kept talking about how handsome Dr. Davis was and how somebody ought to—what were the words from Dorothy Parker?” said the taller nurse.
“Somebody ought to be under him,” Ines filled in.
“Oh, that.” Franca chuckled. “Yes, I took your comments to heart. I went right out and jumped into his bed.”
Receiving wide-eyed stares from both women, she realized her attempt at humor had missed the mark. Perhaps because she had done just that.
“How was he?” Ines inquired.
Jeanine poked her. “I can’t believe you said that!”
Franca popped open her carton of milk. “Use your imagination.”
“It’s already running wild,” Ines said.
“This is none of our business.” Jeanine held on to her high moral ground for a few heartbeats before asking, “Are you in love?”
“What kind of question is that?” Heat crept up Franca’s neck. Too bad toning down her red hair hadn’t reduced her body’s tendency to blush.
As for her feelings toward Marshall, she couldn’t have described them if she’d wanted to. She’d moved in with the conviction that it was for her health and safety, and that she’d been armored against her susceptibility to him. Yet watching him arrange toys and picture books in the playroom, Franca had been surprised by the tenderness in Marshall’s expression.
“I never had toys like this when I was a kid,” he’d said when she entered.
“None?” How was that possible in such a wealthy family?
He’d traced a finger down the spine of Goodnight Moon. “Just nonfiction books, a microscope, building sets. I intend to do things differently.”
“For a lot of us, having a baby is a chance to repeat our childhood and make things turn out right.” Immediately, Franca wished she could erase her words. Sometimes a counselor knew too much—and in this case, blurted it out at the wrong moment.
The pain that had flashed across Marshall’s face stunned her. Despite her familiarity with his rigid nature, glimpses of vulnerability threatened to suck her in.
He’ll be devastated if I miscarry. His gentler side would slam shut, and she’d lose him emotionally, even if he forced himself to stick around from a sense of duty. That would almost be worse than an outright rejection, because postponing the process of healing only encouraged the wound to fester.
But she wasn’t going to reveal any of that in this lighthearted conversation with her friends. “How could I be in love with a man who irritates me so much?” Franca countered.
“Dr. Davis may get cranky under pressure,” Jeanine acknowledged. “But no guy is a sweetheart all the time.”
“My husband can be a real pain,” Ines agreed. “He gets over it and so do I.”
Franca was weighing how to end this conversation when the nurses solved the problem by noticing they were due back on the job.
“More details later?” Ines prompted as she arose.
“No.”
“Spoilsport.”
Franca was finishing her salad when Jennifer Martin slipped into the seat opposite her. “Don’t worry. I’m not here to pry,” the public relations director said. “I witnessed something and I wanted you to know about it.”
That sounded ominous. “What is it?”
“We ran into Jazz at the beach on Sunday.”
Black hair, blue eyes and a small, worried face filled Franca’s mind. “Is she all right?”
“Quieter than usual, but after she and Rosalie started playing, she pepped up,” Jennifer said. “They built a sand castle with a little help from Ian. He adores kids.” Jennifer’s husband, who hosted a video blog called On the Prowl in OC, had written several books about fertility treatments and parenthood.
“Did you have a chance to talk to her mother? How’d she strike you?” She feared Bridget might be using drugs again.
“She was with a rough sort of man.”
A knot formed in Franca’s stomach. “That must be her boyfriend, Axel.” Recalling their encounter at the café, she asked, “Did he jerk Jazz around?”
“Not in front of us.” Jennifer swallowed. “But when he ordered her to leave the beach, she jumped up in a hurry, like she was afraid of him.”
Franca wrapped her arms around herself. “Oh, no.”
Jennifer leaned close, shielding their conversation from the busy room. “Bridget was wearing a turtleneck, despite the warm weather. Ian believes he saw a bruise on her neck.”
Abused women often wore long sleeves and high collars to hide their injuries. And if Axel was beating Bridget, he might be hurting her daughter, too. “Was Jazz bundled up?”
“No,” Jennifer said. “I studied her as closely as I dared without being too obvious. I wish you could get custody.”
“Me, too.” Franca shook her head regretfully. “I can’t do anything without proof.” She had to walk a fine line and avoid antagonizing Bridget. If the authorities took the child away from her mother, no matter what the reason, Franca had no legal claim on her.
“I hope I didn’t upset you,” Jennifer said. “You have to take care of yourself and your baby.”
“I will.” Still, if she’d measured her blood pressure at that moment, she feared it would have shot through the roof.
That afternoon, Franca was too busy to dwell on what Jennifer had reported. There were job-applicant screenings, educational sessions for patients and endless paperwork to document treatments. The counseling group that met at four o’clock ran late, and afterward, a participant distressed by the topic needed an extra hour of counseling.
Marshall had texted that he planned to cook dinner. Since Franca had made spaghetti last night, that seemed fair enough. What a joy it would be to come home to such a beautiful house and find dinner waiting for her.
Or so she anticipated, until the smell of burned chocolate hit her as she entered from the garage. Had something caught fire? Despite her exhaustion, Franca flew past the laundry room into the kitchen. “Marshall? Are you okay?”
Dismay radiated from the tall man who swiveled toward her. His apron, his face and his shirt sleeves were smeared with goo, while encrusted pans and bowls littered the counter and stove top. Dark glop filled the blender, while the scents of scorched peppers, cloves and anise augmented the pungent chocolate odor.
“What on earth?” Franca had an urge to grab a washcloth and scrub Marshall like a toddler. She doubted he’d appreciate it.
“I had no idea things would burn so quickly,” he said. “If I’d had nurses to hand me stuff like in the operating room, I’m sure I could have pulled it off.”
“In other words, you could use a sous-chef.” Reassured that nothing was currently on fire, Franca surveyed the mess. It seemed impossible to dirty up this many pots with a single recipe. “What were you making?”
“Chicken mole.” He handed her a printout.
Franca scanned it. “There are sixteen, no, seventeen ingredients. That would put me off right there.”
“If it were easy, it wouldn’t be much of an accomplishment.” Marshall stared bleakly around, apparently too overwhelmed to start cleaning.
Franca did her best to hide a smile. Training her attention on the recipe, she noted multiple steps involving browning and blending to create the peppery sauce. “You must have been at this for hours.”
“Completely wasted,” Marshall said.
“It’s a noble failure,�
�� she assured him. “You aimed high.”
As if taking her words literally, he glanced upward and groaned. A dark brown substance was dripping from the hood above the burners.
“When did you say your cleaning crew comes?” she asked.
He sighed. “I’ll ask if they can schedule an extra visit for tomorrow. Franca, I’m sorry. You must be starved, and I was planning something special.”
“You were?” She’d assumed he was merely experimenting.
“Jack Ryder suggested...” He broke off.
“What does Jack have to do with this?” The obstetrician had a gung-ho personality, she recalled. That didn’t explain this culinary disaster.
“This was how he wooed his wife.” Marshall ducked his head.
“By burning down the kitchen?”
“By cooking for her.”
“You tackled this recipe for my benefit?” The notion gave Franca a fluttery sensation. “What a sweet thing to do.”
“But we have nothing to eat.”
She spotted a platter covered by a clean dish towel. “If I read the recipe correctly, the chicken might have escaped damage. Where is it?”
“Right here.” Marshall lifted the towel to reveal a pile of poached chicken pieces. Pale and bland without sauce, they should nevertheless be edible. “I forgot about them.”
“Is there a salad?” she ventured.
He retrieved a bowl from the refrigerator. “Right here.”
“Perfect!”
“That’s gracious of you.” Marshall stared down at his smudged clothing. “I suppose I should change.”
“Let’s wash our hands, soak the pans in the sink and call it even.”
“You’re sure it’s legal to leave such a mess?” he asked with an uptick of spirit. “My mother would require smelling salts if anyone left her kitchen in this state.”
“It’s your house and your rules.”
“Our house,” he said. She didn’t bother to argue.
They set places at the kitchen island, where the chicken proved reasonably tasty. The only disadvantage was that after dinner they had to face the stove.
The Would-Be Daddy Page 12
