The Would-Be Daddy

by Jacqueline Diamond

  “From here, it reminds me of a volcano eruption,” Marshall observed.

  “I’ll bet you blew up a few science experiments with those kits you got as a kid.” Franca poured herself a second glass of white grape juice.

  He flexed his shoulders, no doubt stiff from hours of chopping and stirring. “I nearly demolished the garage once.”

  “How old were you?”

  “Ten or eleven.” He grimaced at the memory. “I wasn’t sure my folks would ever forgive me.”

  “It was their own fault. They should have given you a teddy bear,” she said.

  “I’d probably have dissected it.”

  “Like any proper future surgeon.” She raised her glass. “Here’s to surviving our childhoods.”

  He clinked with her. “But I’m sure yours was happier than mine, not that this is any sort of contest.”

  “It was happy,” Franca said. “Except that... No, I shouldn’t complain.”

  “Complain away.” Marshall’s steady gaze encouraged her to continue.

  “I was the infamous middle child.” She tried to avoid clichés, but this one held some truth. “My big sister seemed more accomplished and prettier. My brother became the baby of the family. I tried to win our parents’ approval by being a better student and more compliant.”

  “Did it work?”

  “In an offhand way,” Franca said. “They praised me, but there was something missing. Until I started working with troubled kids when I was in high school.”

  “Why did that make a difference?” Marshall asked. “It certainly wouldn’t have with my folks.”

  “My mom identified with my dream of becoming a foster parent. She loved the idea of being surrounded by kids,” Franca recalled. “Also, working with youngsters made me want to understand their family dynamics. That’s when I decided to follow in my father’s footsteps as a psychologist.”

  “I imagine he appreciated that.”

  “Yes, he did.”

  Rising, Franca stored the leftovers while Marshall called and arranged for the cleaners to arrive the next day. With a sense of skipping school, they left the wrecked kitchen and carried their glasses to the patio.

  In the few days since she’d moved in, Franca hadn’t had a chance to enjoy the outdoor areas of the house, which included a patch of emerald lawn and a curving flower bed bursting with blooms. Beyond the bluffs, she glimpsed the harbor and the midnight-blue ocean beneath a darkening sky.

  In the cool evening air, Franca had an urge to scoot her lounge chair closer to Marshall’s. Her hand drifted to her abdomen. How incredible that she carried a part of him merged with a part of her.

  “Does it hurt?” He propped up on his elbow to face her.

  “No.” She peered down at her still-flat stomach. “I was just thinking about how Baby Bright combines both our heritages.”

  “Cute name.”

  “Short for Brightman,” she explained.

  Marshall’s expression sobered. “You don’t want to give it up for adoption, do you?”

  “Certainly not!” she said. “Why?”

  “That’s what Jack Ryder’s wife planned, initially.” The glow of outdoor lighting emphasized Marshall’s high cheekbones.

  “You discussed my pregnancy with him?” In fairness, Franca conceded that plenty of staffers were gabbing about the situation. “Never mind.”

  “I apologize if I was indiscreet,” Marshall said. “I’m a bit overeager.”

  She couldn’t bristle at a guy who’d covered himself in chocolate sauce on her behalf. “I appreciate the good intentions.”

  Marshall tugged her arm. “Come here. You deserve a massage.”

  “You’re the one who must be sore from all that cooking.” She didn’t resist, though, when he pulled her onto his lap and his large, skilled hands played over her muscles, releasing the tension.

  Awareness of his hard thighs beneath her reawakened sensations she’d tried to drive from her dreams, and desire rushed over her in a heated surge. When Marshall’s hands slid around to the front and cupped her exquisitely sensitive breasts, Franca hovered on the edge of surrender.

  A gust of sea air snapped her back to reality, though. Embarrassed, she drew his hands away. “I’m tired. I’ve had a long day.”

  Marshall cleared his throat. “I didn’t mean to go too far.”

  “It’s as much my fault as yours.” Shifting position, she cupped his stubbled cheek with her palm. “We’ve always been attracted to each other.”

  “You have keen powers of observation.” His mouth quirked as he tried to lighten the mood. It looked like it hurt.

  Franca could barely keep from kissing this earnest man. It was surprising how appealing she found his smeared face and clothes, sacrificed in an attempt to please her. But she knew how swiftly he could switch gears. “There’s a reason we never followed through on it until now.” She rose clumsily on stiff knees.

  “Fear?” he guessed, catching her hips to aid her balance.

  “Or wisdom.” Franca eased away. “We have to stay on an even keel for our baby’s sake as well as our own.”

  She could see the struggle as he searched for words. Finally he said, “You’re worn out. Go rest.”

  Franca took her glass inside. What a strange reversal, she thought, that Marshall’s emotions had become transparent, while she was the one holding herself in check.

  Her maternal hormones must be screwing with them both.

  * * *

  MARSHALL REMAINED SITTING on the edge of the lounge chair, missing Franca’s warmth where she’d cuddled against him. How unexpected, that his catastrophe in the kitchen had brought them closer rather than offending her.

  He’d moved too fast, though. Lesson learned: relationships progressed best when allowed to unfold gradually. In retrospect, it was clear that after he and Franca had thrown caution aside the night they made love, the experience had driven her to retreat. But although their mutual amusement tonight had furthered their détente, he’d overplayed his hand.

  How to proceed? Clearly, his upbringing and instincts weren’t up to the task of persuading her to stay. But, by luck, Marshall had stumbled upon helpful advice, first from his brother and then from Jack. While things hadn’t played out as anticipated, their suggestions had helped.

  According to the stories circulating at the hospital, a number of colleagues had won their wives despite initial reluctance. Surely he could glean more useful tips from them. How to do that without baldly declaring himself a hopeless case, he wasn’t sure, but he’d stay alert for opportunities.

  Marshall had to convince Franca that while they might not be destined to fall madly in love, they could find happiness sharing a partnership as parents and friends.

  The sooner, the better.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Soliciting advice turned out to be a challenge. Neither of the urologists who shared Marshall’s suite was married, and he couldn’t ask the nurses, who often ate lunch with Franca and would no doubt blab about his clumsy inquiries.

  At Thursday night’s counseling group, he half expected the men to stand up and accuse him of fraud. After all, he needed advice as much as they did.

  However, when he tuned in to the discussion, he was pleased by how much the men had gained from the previous meeting. Several had successfully confronted troublesome relatives, and had an increased sense of teamwork with their wives. Cory reported that not only had his mother-in-law stopped showering them with offensive suggestions, she’d been relieved to learn she didn’t have to offer solutions, just sympathy.

  Once they wrapped up that topic, Hank Driver brought up another issue: his belief that his wife blamed him for their infertility. It had been his choice to undergo a vasectomy, and the reversal hadn’t yet paid off.

  Marshall jumped in. “You’re convinced she blames you, but she claims she doesn’t. Is it possible you blame yourself?”

  The detective’s forehead furrowed. “You’re right. I do
feel like I’m letting her down. Also, I cheated on my previous two wives, which Sarah is aware of because she’s a dispatcher in our department. I’d never cheat on her, but I’m not sure she trusts me.”

  “Have you brought that up with her?” Franca asked.

  “It never occurred to me,” Hank said. “I guess I should.”

  Being able to contribute to the session cheered Marshall, and he was glad to gain more insight into family dynamics. Still, he hadn’t learned anything that would advance his personal quest.

  Help came from an unexpected source. On Friday morning, his surgeries ran long. In the cafeteria, he’d barely started to eat when Owen Tartikoff dropped into the vacant seat opposite him.

  Marshall’s hand jerked, nearly dropping his sandwich. For heaven’s sake, the fertility program chief didn’t intimidate him. Much.

  “How’s it going?” The russet-haired doctor had a disconcerting manner of seeming casual while conveying steely resolve.

  “We’re settling in fine.”

  The surgeon’s cinnamon eyes blinked. “That’s an odd way to describe therapy.”

  Oh, he meant the men’s counseling group. “I’d call it productive,” Marshall said. “The clients seem to be benefiting.”

  “How, exactly?”

  “I wish I could describe the process to you, because it’s very interesting. However, anything revealed in our sessions is confidential.”

  Owen’s fingers drummed on the table. For a guy accustomed to being in charge, having a door slammed in his face must be hard to take. Marshall hoped the surgeon wasn’t about to pull rank. As a medical supervisor, he might insist on reading Franca’s or Marshall’s notes, but that didn’t seem right.

  He searched for a diversion. “When I spoke of settling in, I was referring to Dr. Brightman and me. You’ve probably heard the scuttlebutt.”

  “Yes.” Tartikoff leaned back in his chair. “Reminds me of when Bailey and I were housemates while she was pregnant. We fought like cats and dogs for a while.”

  The distraction appeared to be working. “Your twins are how old?”

  That brought out the photos. “Here they are at their third birthday party, in January.” The image showed a boy and girl with curly light brown hair, both grinning impishly. “Their names are Julie and Richard. That’s for the heroine of the musical Carousel and its composer, Richard Rodgers.”

  Marshall examined the image. “They’re quite a pair. You and your wife must be big fans of musicals.”

  “We sing together. It bridged the gap between us.” After a fond gaze at the screen, Owen slipped the phone into his pocket. “That’s how I won her over.”

  Owen had dropped a suggestion right into Marshall’s lap. The only problem was that while he could, with an effort, carry a tune, he doubted he’d win Franca’s heart by breaking into song.

  However, the chocolate-pepper-sauce disaster had amused rather than offended her, hadn’t it? “Do you recommend any song in particular?”

  “‘You’ll Never Walk Alone,’” he announced. “That’s from Carousel, too.”

  “What about accompaniment?” If success required mastering the guitar, Marshall was lost.

  “In my case, there happened to be a pianist handy,” the other man said. “You could download karaoke music.”

  “Great idea.”

  “I figured you for a smart man, and I was right.”

  How ironic, Marshall mused as they parted. Many of the doctors at Safe Harbor turned themselves inside out trying to score points with the big man. Little did they suspect all it took was agreeing to belt out a tune.

  And make a complete fool of yourself.

  He decided to start by finding a karaoke-style arrangement in the right key, whatever that was, and hoping for the best.

  * * *

  ON SATURDAY, FRANCA held her final sessions with private clients: a family of four and a married couple. Although they were sad to learn she was closing her practice, they had progressed enough to continue with another counselor or, if they preferred, on their own.

  What an emotional experience, the end of an era. Joining this office five years ago after working at a larger clinic had been a financial risk that had paid off. How exciting and validating to her as a professional, only in her late twenties, to establish her own practice.

  Over the years, however, the increasing burden of paperwork along with cuts in insurance payments had taken a toll. When she learned of the opening at Safe Harbor, Franca had leaped at the fresh opportunity.

  And now she was cutting the cord on her private practice. It meant saying goodbye to her youthful dreams, even as she embraced new goals.

  She’d have liked to confide her mixed reaction to Marshall, but after returning home from surgery, he closeted himself in his study. Despite his occasional openness, he remained opaque in many ways. While she respected his privacy, it reminded her how easily he could withdraw.

  By dinner, which they prepared together, they were too tired to do more than chat about the suggestions circulating for the as-yet-unscheduled opening ceremony of the new medical building. On the cafeteria bulletin board, notes had proposed a light-and-sound show and a band playing music from around the world. A few ideas had been hilarious but in poor taste, inspired by the Porvamm’s function of providing men’s fertility care.

  “Giant balloons shaped like the male anatomy?” Franca chuckled as she dished up stir-fry and rice.

  “Don’t laugh,” Marshall grumbled. “When I chose urology as a specialty, I figured there’d be teasing, but I had no idea how many people would consider me a weirdo.”

  “I can imagine.” Easily.

  “I don’t mind the comments at my expense.” He doused his rice with soy sauce. “It’s poking fun at my patients that bothers me. Those guys go through a lot.”

  “As I’ve seen from our group,” Franca said. “And you know what? I’m impressed with how protective they are toward their wives.”

  “Of course.” He regarded her steadily. “A man ought to protect the people he cares about.”

  She had no answer. In truth, his comments spurred her to consider how much he’d changed from the uptight, moralistic young man she’d met in college. Had her fears about him ultimately shutting her out been misplaced? Or had he simply not yet been tested?

  They watched a movie that night on the family room’s large screen. Although his preference ran to documentaries and science fiction, and hers to romantic comedies and costume dramas, they both enjoyed a fast-paced thriller with a love story.

  Living here was more fun than she’d expected, Franca conceded as she got ready for bed. She’d been determined not to drift into a long-term relationship based on physical attraction and an accidental pregnancy. Was there more than that between her and Marshall, or was proximity clouding her judgment?

  Mid-July was only six weeks away. She wished she had someone to help her gain perspective on the situation. Mentally she considered, and ruled out, everyone she’d met at the hospital.

  On Sunday afternoon, the urge to talk had grown so strong that after lunch, Franca sat in the kitchen reviewing the names in her phone. In the old days, she’d have called Belle.

  Guilt surged inside her. By sleeping with Marshall, she’d violated the unwritten girlfriend code. Okay, it used to be unwritten, until someone posted it on the internet.

  The rules included never canceling important plans with your friends for a guy, protecting confidences, showing sympathy rather than saying I told you so and sticking with a friend at a social event where you’d arrived together. But the most serious commandment was not dating your close friend’s ex.

  Since the wedding, Belle had posted charming photos of her new home in Denver and sung the praises of her husband. That didn’t mean she’d erased Marshall’s rejection entirely.

  Eventually, Franca would have to fess up, but not yet. Nor could she use her mother as a sounding board. Mom would only urge Franca to get married.


  That left her sister. In view of Gail’s devastating losses, news of the pregnancy might be painful for her. Yet Franca hadn’t talked to her in three months.

  If the conversation worked around to pregnancy, fine. If not, they could catch up in other areas. Often, clients who’d suffered trauma commented how hurt they were by friends who avoided them, presumably too uncomfortable to stay in touch. She’d hate for Gail to believe that was the case with her.

  Since Marshall was in his study and potentially within earshot, Franca carried her phone outside. The far-off murmur of the surf provided a soothing backdrop.

  Tapping her sister’s number in Arizona, she perched on a chair. Gail answered on the third ring, “Yes?”

  “It’s your long-lost sister,” Franca said.

  “The one with freckles?”

  “No, the other one.”

  They both giggled. Franca’s Raggedy Ann coloring was no longer the sore point it used to be. Two years younger than Gail, she’d longed for her big sister’s confidence as well as her creamy complexion and chestnut-brown hair. Gail had poked fun at her freckles until one day Franca started to cry. Apologetically, Gail had admitted she envied her little sister’s vivid appearance.

  “Sorry I haven’t called,” Gail said. “I’ve been busy, but that’s no excuse.”

  “Yes, it’s entirely your fault,” Franca replied. “Except for the part that’s my fault.”

  “Now that we’ve got the apologies out of the way, tell me how it’s going at the hospital. You aren’t still on probation, are you?”

  “I’ve passed that stage, thank goodness.” Franca relayed her further adventures at Safe Harbor, including the establishment of the men’s group. “I’m closing my private practice,” she said.

  “Wow! I remember how excited you were about having your own office,” Gail said. “I got your new home address. Do you have roommates?”

  Here goes nothing. “I’m living with a guy.”

  “Do I hear wedding bells?” Gail asked. “Scratch that. I do not want to pry.”

  “It’s too early to answer, anyway.”

  “Who’s the guy?”

  She should have prepared herself for that. “Do you remember Marshall Davis?”