The Would-Be Daddy

by Jacqueline Diamond

  Other people had a quality that Marshall seemed to lack: the ability to accept life with all its flaws. After surviving the ups and downs of the past weeks, he’d hit a brick wall. It would be dishonest to pretend he could tolerate a household without boundaries, or that he was the right father for a troubled child.

  Across the table sat the woman he’d struggled not to love for fifteen years—and fallen for anyway. Despite everything that had occurred between them, though, he couldn’t be the man she needed, and she didn’t love him the way he was, with all his flaws.

  They ought to be discussing the future. But the fact that they wouldn’t share it weighed on Marshall so heavily he could hardly breathe.

  * * *

  FRANCA SEARCHED IN vain for a hint of the warmth she believed lay beneath Marshall’s hard surface. Where was the man who’d carried a sleeping Jazz into the house with tenderness transforming his face?

  Whatever love he was capable of had evidently reached its limits. She’d never understood how he could have thrown away his relationship with Belle after behaving as if he meant to marry her. And for such a petty reason as having to drop a class.

  She’d hoped, foolishly, that he’d changed. Now, confronted by the reality of raising a difficult child, he’d closed up like a fortress.

  Still, they couldn’t simply walk away from the situation. “We have to make some decisions,” she said.

  Marshall roused from his reverie. “Let’s start with the fact that you shouldn’t be alone while you’re pregnant.”

  “That’s all you care about, my pregnancy? Not Jazz?” It was hard to accept his indifference to the little girl, who was giggling as she played hide-and-seek with another youngster. But it reminded Franca of the fragility of the thread that linked her to Marshall, a thread that would snap if she miscarried. “I’ll buy a medical alert system.”

  “That isn’t enough, although I’ll be happy to pay for one.” He spoke stiffly, as if addressing a not-very-cooperative patient. “We can work out an arrangement for you both to live at my house.”

  “What kind of arrangement?”

  “We’ll establish rules that Jazz has to abide by, with consequences if she doesn’t,” Marshall said. “That may seem strict, but if she can’t accept discipline, she’ll pose a danger to you and our baby.”

  This was wrong on many levels. Franca started with the most offensive one. “You act as if she’s a juvenile delinquent who should be sentenced to jail. A four-year-old accepting discipline—what does that even mean? Marching in lockstep and never having a meltdown? And what do you suppose it will do to her self-esteem to live with a man who views her as his baby’s enemy, who dotes on his child but cracks down on her?”

  “That’s not what I meant.” His jaw tightened until she wondered how he could force out the words. “A child has to respect authority. If she doesn’t obey her parents, she’ll never succeed in school or in society.”

  If she doesn’t obey like a well-trained puppy, she’ll never succeed? Incredible. He was ready to write off a preschooler as a hopeless case on the basis of a few temper tantrums. “Jazz is my responsibility,” Franca said. “I’ll make the rules for her.”

  “She should be our responsibility.”

  “Not as long as your idea of parenting borders on medieval.” This discussion was about to degenerate into a nasty argument. Time to call it quits. “Jazz and I will leave as soon as I can rent a place.”

  His chest heaved. “If you insist, I can’t stop you. But what about after the baby’s born? We’ll be sharing custody, I presume.”

  “I can’t plan that far ahead.” Especially since, like her mother and sister, she might not make it past the first trimester. “We’ll deal with how to co-parent the baby later.”

  They didn’t realize Jazz had returned to the table until she asked, “What baby?” As the girl reached for her unfinished juice, Franca chided herself for not paying closer attention.

  Marshall ducked his head. “Little kids, big ears. Reminds me of Caleb.”

  Franca did her best to answer simply and openly. “I’m pregnant,” she told the girl. “If everything goes well, the baby should be born by Christmas.”

  Jazz paused with the cup in hand. “Where will I sleep?”

  “You’ll have your own room as soon as I find an apartment. We can’t move back to our old place. It’s too far from where I work,” she said. “And the baby will have a room, too.”

  Jazz looked confused, understandably. Franca would have preferred to delay the news about her pregnancy.

  “We won’t live in Marshall’s house?”

  “It’ll be better this way,” Franca said. “Then you and he won’t fight about things. It’ll be fine.”

  “No!” Judging by her rebellious expression, that juice was about to get tossed.

  “Stop!” Marshall barked.

  The girl flinched and set the cup on the table. Although the command had achieved the desired result, Jazz’s fearful reaction shook Franca.

  “Let’s go.” She didn’t add “home,” because Marshall’s house no longer fit that description.

  * * *

  AWAKENING IN THE middle of the night, Marshall did something he hadn’t done since childhood. He went to sit on the top of the stairs and listen.

  No house was completely quiet, and in this one he always heard the murmur of the surf from below the bluffs. Also, despite the sturdy construction, the twitter of night birds penetrated the house’s walls, along with the distant rumble of trucks along the coast highway.

  After a while, those noises faded, and he discerned the creak of a bed as Franca or Jazz shifted around. The soft sigh of breathing drifted to him.

  He used to sit this way because he was lonely. His awareness of his parents safely tucked in bed had reminded him that no matter how angry they got, they’d still be there.

  Now his loneliness had grown as large and solid as a tumor. He hadn’t meant to force Franca to choose between him and Jazz. She was the only woman he’d ever loved and maybe the only one he ever would. He knew she cared for him, too. Sadly, not enough to meet him halfway.

  How could he resolve their differences when she was supposed to be the expert on relationships? While the day care director had complimented him on his parenting instincts, Franca disagreed.

  Tonight, the house vibrated with her presence. But already, Marshall felt it throbbing with the emptiness to come.

  * * *

  SATURDAY MORNING, FRANCA awoke on the edge of a dream. It faded instantly, but she recalled that it had featured Bridget.

  How would the other woman react to seeing her daughter at the law office? Would her unpredictable emotions once again tip in the other direction, like a boat on a stormy ocean?

  As she and Jazz ate breakfast with Marshall, Franca had an irrational impulse to lean on his strength. She almost wished he could accompany them to Edmond’s for moral support, which was a ridiculous notion. If anything, having him around would probably antagonize Bridget and upset Jazz. Besides, he had several surgeries scheduled today.

  The little girl didn’t throw a tantrum, for once. Surprisingly, she helped Marshall set the table, and when he poured her milk, she thanked him.

  “You’re welcome.” He regarded the child with an unreadable expression.

  Franca couldn’t assess what their interaction might mean. She was too worried about what lay ahead.

  After Marshall departed, she let Jazz watch cartoons while she reviewed the material she’d saved from the last adoption effort. They had agreed that she would provide Bridget with twice-yearly reports on Jazz’s development, including photos. Once Jazz reached high-school age, she could choose whether to have regular visits, assuming that Bridget was available.

  Those stipulations seemed fair. They reminded Franca that Bridget could be quite reasonable—under the right circumstances.

  The rest of the morning passed slowly. They read picture books and played with dolls and stuffed
animals, which Jazz arrayed on the staircase. She objected when Franca instructed her to put them away for lunch.

  “They’re waiting for Marshall,” she said. “He’ll carry them to my room.”

  What an odd thing to say. “We have to clear them away ourselves. He might...” She shouldn’t assume he’d be angry. “...trip over them.”

  “Okay.” Jazz addressed her toys as she gathered them in her arms. “You guys be nice. No tantrums.”

  Was she that frightened of a scolding? The sooner they moved out, the better, Franca thought, and hurried to fix lunch before their appointment.

  Except for the two half days a week when he consulted at the hospital, Edmond practiced family law at Geoff Humphreys and Associates. It was located on the ground floor in a strip mall between a dentist’s office and a convenience store.

  As soon as they parked, Bridget appeared from around a corner. Her flip-flops slapping the sidewalk, she sped over and grabbed Jazz’s hand.

  “Let’s go,” she said. “Now!”

  The little girl peered up at Franca pleadingly. Despite Franca’s attempts to prepare for the worst, she hadn’t anticipated this.

  The session was over before it had begun.

  * * *

  THE CONCERNS THAT Marshall had suppressed during the morning rushed back as he left the hospital. His instincts urged him to drive to the attorney’s office, to lend whatever help he could to Franca.

  But if he’d learned anything from her, it was to mistrust his instincts. This morning, Jazz had tried to please him. Was it possible she was changing, or, as Franca seemed to believe, was she simply afraid of him?

  For most of his life, Marshall had kept his anxieties to himself, viewing emotion as a weakness. Yet recently, he’d found that when he sought advice, no one scorned him. And in fact, their advice had been useful.

  The person who knew him best, in a clear-sighted if not necessarily flattering sense, was his brother. When he reached that conclusion, his car was already headed for Nick’s house.

  A cluster of balloons tied to the mailbox puzzled him, until he remembered that his brother and Zady were hosting a party. Great timing, Marshall.

  After wedging his sedan into a spot down the block, Marshall drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. He couldn’t leave. He had to talk to his brother.

  He pressed Nick’s number on his cell. “Can you meet me outside? I need your opinion, and it’s urgent.”

  “My medical opinion?” his brother asked.

  “No. Personal.”

  “I’m your go-to guy on personal matters?” Nick crowed. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

  Leave it to his brother to preen at his expense. If Marshall had anyone else to consult... But he didn’t.

  As he approached along the sidewalk, Marshall heard the clamor of children’s voices from the rear yard. In the living room, the curtains fluttered, marking the presence of additional guests inside.

  Nick emerged from a narrow side yard and stopped in the driveway, out of sight of the living room. “Hey, bro. What’s up?”

  “It’s Franca.” Hands jammed in his pockets, Marshall sketched the situation about the forthcoming adoption and her plans to move out. “I’m trying to accept Jazz, but how can I when she throws tantrums, and I mean big ones? She whacked Franca in the forehead and drew blood.”

  “How much?” Nick asked.

  Although the sight had jolted Marshall, the cut had healed quickly. “A trace.”

  His brother leaned against the garage wall, heedless of dirtying his already-soiled T-shirt and jeans. “Caleb was rude to Zady when I took him away from his grandparents. He never hit her, though.”

  “She might outgrow it.” Marshall paused as a motor home rumbled past. “But with a baby coming, how can we risk its safety?”

  “You really believe she’s that dangerous?” Nick probed.

  Marshall hated to think the worst of a small child. However, he couldn’t afford to be naive when he was responsible for protecting his family. “What if Jazz has violent traits that keep re-emerging as she gets bigger? We won’t have a chance of curbing them as long as Franca refuses to accept that we have to establish rules. Children have to learn respect and self-control.”

  “You sound like your parents,” his brother said.

  “My parents were strict, maybe too strict,” Marshall conceded, “but they didn’t have to cope with a violent kid.”

  “That’s not true!” said a familiar, dry voice. From the front walkway, Mildred Davis marched into view. Marshall hadn’t heard the door open; the motor home must have covered the sound. Her thin face radiating fury, his mother rounded on Nick. “You told me he wouldn’t be here.”

  Her words stung. Why did she dislike him so much?

  “He wasn’t supposed to be,” Nick replied mildly. “Sorry, Aunt Mildred.”

  “I didn’t know you were going to be here, either,” Marshall said. “And I don’t understand what you mean about violent children.”

  His mother stared toward a black car at the curb, as if debating whether to ignore him and drive off. Instead, her eyes narrowing, she responded. “You were a selfish little brat when we took you in. You broke my favorite china platter and bit Upton’s arm when he gave you a spanking.”

  He’d bitten his father? “I was, what, two years old?”

  “Old enough to respect other people and their property,” his mother snarled. “I nearly sent you back to your crazy father and his ditzy wife, but Upton reminded me that you were our nephew. He insisted discipline would bring you around, and it did.”

  “That’s why you were so strict?” He’d assumed it was simply how they’d approached parenting.

  “Someone had to keep you on the straight and narrow.” Her nostrils flared. “You never appreciated how much we sacrificed.”

  “Sacrificed?”

  “You were a handful when you were small,” Mildred said. “You should have been grateful for what we gave you.”

  “How could I, when you didn’t tell me I was adopted?”

  “You have no business throwing that in my face!” Pain throbbed beneath her fury. “I knew that as soon as you found out, you’d never see me the same way again. You’d consider me a failure, just as Upton did. I didn’t have a career, and I couldn’t do the one thing a man wants most from his wife. Well, now you’ve learned I’m not really your mother, so that’s the end of that.”

  What decades of outdated notions she’d endured about marriage, childbearing and her own self-worth. “Mom, that’s not true. There’s a lot I’d like to share with you, if you’ll let me.”

  “Share with me?” She spoke the words as if they were an insult.

  For heaven’s sake, she was about to become a grandmother. “Franca and I are...” His phone shrilled. Just ignore it. Except that as a doctor, Marshall had to be available for emergencies. Also, he’d rather not toss out the news of the pregnancy in a rush. “Sorry. Hang on.”

  His mother tapped her foot in annoyance. Nick gave him a sympathetic look.

  The caller was Hank Driver. “I can’t reach Franca Brightman,” the detective said. “Is she with you?”

  “No.” She must have muted her phone at the attorney’s office. “What’s wrong?”

  “I just learned that Axel Ryerson is out on bail,” he said. “I have reason to believe he’s hunting for his girlfriend, and since Franca has the little girl, she could be in danger, too. Any idea where they are?”

  “Yes.” After providing the attorney’s address, Marshall called out, “Sorry, emergency,” to his mother and brother, and he ran toward his car.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The session with the lawyer had accomplished everything Franca had hoped for. Far from intending to cancel the meeting, Bridget had wanted to hurry it along. She’d learned of Axel’s release and it had intensified her desire to sign over permanent custody.

  “He’ll do anything to hurt me, and maybe Jazz, too,” she’d sai
d as she’d rushed them inside. “I hid my car around the corner in case he and his friends are cruising the area. I can’t risk being spotted out front.”

  They’d confirmed their previously agreed-upon terms, and Edmond had promised to schedule a court date as soon as possible. The adoption was back on track.

  After shaking hands with Edmond, they emerged into the outer office, which was empty on a Saturday afternoon. Bridget peered out through the blinds. “Hold on. There’s a silver car driving by that I don’t recognize. It’s gone behind a pickup and I can’t see the driver.”

  “He might be stopping at the convenience store,” Franca pointed out.

  “Or not.”

  Between them, Jazz fidgeted. Earlier, the receptionist had helped entertain her, and after the woman left, the little girl had played on her tablet. However, her patience had clearly frayed.

  “Hang on another minute,” Franca told her.

  “No.” Jazz ran toward the exit. “You promised me ice cream.”

  “Yes, but not yet.”

  “Someone’s getting out of the pickup,” Bridget warned. “Damn! It’s Axel. How did he know I was here?”

  Fear seized Franca as Jazz thrust open the glass door. “Jazz, stop!”

  “You can’t make me!”

  Surely she could outrun a four-year-old. But not in time to catch her before a bulky figure—shaved head, scorpion tattoo—hurtled forward to grab her. “Got you, you little worm.”

  Jazz screamed. After yelling to Edmond to call the police, the two women raced outside.

  “Let her go!” To Franca’s dismay, the words squeaked out of her constricted throat.

  “Bridget, get in the truck or that’s the end of your brat.” A knife gleamed in Axel’s hand.

  “She’s not mine anymore. So beat it!” Bridget shouted, and ducked inside the office.

  Surely the police would be here any minute. But until then, Franca was alone with Axel and a terrified Jazz. And a wickedly sharp knife.

  If only she knew more than rudimentary self-defense. If only she were bigger and stronger or had a gun.