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The Would-Be Daddy
Jacqueline Diamond


BABY BATTLESafe Harbor surgeon Marshall Davis and staff psychologist Franca Brightman have different opinions on almost everything, but especially on children. She’s been fostering kids for years, while he only wants to raise his own child.But one night when Franca desperately needs tenderness, Marshall is there for her, and they find comfort in each other's arms. She brushes it off as a moment of weakness. Until she discovers she’s pregnant. Franca wants this baby, and she knows Marshall does, too—but only on his terms. Does this mean war…or a wedding?







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’re not compatible, Marshall. I wish we were, and sometimes … No. I refuse to delude myself. Let’s just leave it at that.”

Her footsteps rapped across the tile floor toward the hall. Then he heard the door latch 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 regretted the whole night with a man she could never love. What had seemed a transformative experience to him had been entirely one-sided.

He and Franca had always been opposites. Why expect things to be different now?

Because, in a few weeks, they’d learn whether they were going to be parents …


The Would-Be Daddy

Jacqueline Diamond






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


Medical themes play a prominent role in many of JACQUELINE DIAMOND’s one hundred published novels, including her Safe Harbor Medical series for Mills & Boon Cherish. Her father was a small-town doctor before becoming a psychiatrist, and Jackie developed an interest in fertility issues after successfully undergoing treatment to have her two sons. A former Associated Press reporter and TV columnist, Jackie lives with her husband of thirty-seven years in Orange County, California, where she’s active in Romance Writers of America. You can sign up for her free newsletter at www.jacquelinediamond.com (http://www.jacquelinediamond.com) and say hello to Jackie on her Facebook page, JacquelineDiamondAuthor (http://www.facebook.com/JacquelineDiamondAuthor). On Twitter, she’s @jacquediamond (http://www.twitter.com/jacquediamond).


To Hunter and Brooke


Contents

Cover (#ue5e6dc83-da59-5f65-a8a5-55b9398c0a2e)

Introduction (#u11c0448e-05cc-59ea-923c-648183bc4592)

Title Page (#u2cb8b25b-27b8-5e52-a9e5-1008ddf9cf4e)

About the Author (#u6aebabd8-40ca-571c-97be-9cf6a0cddeff)

Dedication (#u863a8fca-cc84-5593-8a49-3f642967ecaf)

Chapter One (#ulink_c5e822a3-515d-5622-86c9-360bd5e35210)

Chapter Two (#ulink_c42eeae8-8201-563e-9572-e6f68d1b296e)

Chapter Three (#ulink_c18abe05-1493-5b18-8e45-27ee39359bbc)

Chapter Four (#ulink_66095dd7-07eb-5246-b72c-cac101d56aa0)

Chapter Five (#ulink_9b39d3e7-1b11-579e-88c7-4d9844b10528)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)


Chapter One (#ulink_d1f6610f-db02-5628-8a82-26733d8fe0fc)

It was unfair, dangerous and cruel. That poor little girl. If Franca Brightman didn’t figure out a way to rescue four-year-old Jazz, she’d burst into a fireball that would bring down the Safe Harbor Medical Center parking structure on top of her.

She’d tried to work off her fury by staying late on a Friday night at her office. She’d spent hours reviewing the patient files that had come with her new job as staff psychologist. Plunging into the records and assessing patients’ need for additional treatments should have blunted her pain and outrage.

Instead, the click of her medium-high heels on the concrete floor rang in a fierce staccato as she tore through the nearly empty lower level of the garage toward her aging white station wagon. At least at this hour she didn’t have to feel embarrassed by her car, which was dented and old compared with the others, particularly the sleek silver sedan parked a short distance up the ramp.

Franca’s last glimpse of Jazz had been riding off in a junkmobile far worse than this. The decrepit state of the car had intensified her fear about where and how the child would be living now that she’d gone back to her biological mother.

Where was Jazz right now? Had her mom bothered to fix dinner, or were they eating out of a can? Crammed into a rent-by-the-week motel unit, the four-year-old must miss her beautiful princess bedroom. Did she believe Franca had relinquished her by choice?

White-hot rage swirled inside Franca as she unlocked her station wagon and dropped into the driver’s seat. It was a wonder that, despite the chilly March air, she hadn’t already set the building ablaze.

Franca wished she could figure out a safe way to vent her anger, which had been simmering all day. With a PhD in psychology and years of counseling experience here in Southern California, she ought to be an expert on releasing emotions.

Instead, her mind returned to an image of the black-haired little girl, her blue eyes brimming with tears. Handing Jazz over to her unstable mother at the lawyer’s office this morning had nearly torn Franca apart. How could she expect her foster daughter to understand why the planned adoption had fallen apart?

I shouldn’t have come to work today. But being new at her job, Franca didn’t want to ask for personal leave. After a lifetime of careful control, she’d assumed she could handle this.

She’d been wrong.

On the steering wheel, her hands trembled. She hated to drive in this condition, but she couldn’t sit here indefinitely. Sucking in a breath, she switched on the ignition.

A rock song from the radio filled the car. The singer’s voice rose in a ragged lament: “I can’t take it anymore!”

There must have been half a dozen songs with similar lyrics, but right there, right then, this one seemed meant for her. Smacking the dashboard, Franca cranked up the volume and sang along in shared disgust, her voice ringing through the garage.

“I can’t take it anymore! I can’t take it anymore!” That felt good. Childish and self-indulgent, but good.

A drum solo followed, which Franca accompanied by thumping the steering wheel. When the chorus returned, she howled even louder: “I can’t take it anymore!” The acoustics in this garage were odd, she noted as she paused for a breath. It sounded as if the music was echoing from up the ramp, underscored by...could that be a man’s voice rasping out the same lyrics?

It might be her imagination, but to make sure, she muted the radio. The music continued in the distance, with a ragged masculine voice trumpeting, “I can’t take it anymore!” over the recording. The words and melody were emanating from the silver sedan.

Although Franca had done her best to meet her fellow professionals at the hospital during the past few months, she couldn’t identify them all. Maybe it was best if she didn’t recognize her fellow sufferer. She hadn’t meant to intrude on anyone’s privacy.

Embarrassed by her outburst, Franca adjusted the radio so it played at a lower volume. The man, little more than a silhouette against a safety light, turned in her direction, as if he’d registered the change.

Had he heard her singing earlier? She hoped not.

Franca was about to pull out of her spot when the silver sedan shot in reverse. In a moment, the car would drive past her parked vehicle as it headed for the exit. The driver would be able to identify Franca by the reddish-blond hair floating around her shoulders.

How awkward for the staff counselor, who was supposed to be strong and supportive, to be caught screeching like a teenager. Should she try to beat him out of the garage and pray he hadn’t already figured out who she was?

Too late. His car was closing in, and she might back into it by accident.

Hunkering down, Franca trained her gaze on the concrete pillar visible through her windshield. Just zip on past, whoever you are. He was probably as eager as she was to pretend this scene never happened.

But she couldn’t resist sneaking a glance in the rearview mirror...at precisely the wrong instant.

Brown eyes, surprisingly clear in the dim light, locked onto hers. That angular face had thinned since they’d first met fifteen years ago in college, but she experienced the same jolt of electricity, the same powerful sense of connection.

Why did this persist, this ridiculously misguided notion that they meant something to each other? She wished Dr. Marshall Davis hadn’t come home to California. He’d spent more than a decade out east, completing his medical training and earning respect as a skilled men’s fertility surgeon. Even though he had grown up around here, he should have stayed put.

Instead, Marshall had joined Safe Harbor’s urology program last fall, she’d discovered when she was hired about a month later. Encountering him had been inevitable. At the cafeteria and staff meetings, they’d chatted pleasantly but impersonally.

Given her professional acquaintance with Marshall, there was no reason for her to react so strongly when their eyes met, yet electricity snapped through her. Did he feel it, too?

Apparently not. As cold as ever, Marshall whipped his gaze away and drove out of the parking structure. Gone in a flash of silver, he left her shivering.

So much for setting the building on fire.

Exiting the garage into the hospital’s circular drive, Franca spotted his car skimming onto the street. Nothing else stirred. Only scattered lights glowed in the windows of the six-story main structure and the adjacent medical building.

She struggled to put the weird encounter out of her mind. She and Marshall had always had an inexplicable habit of stumbling into the same place at the same time, as with their hiring at Safe Harbor. It meant nothing except that they’d both been drawn to an exciting place to work.

The former community hospital had been remodeled to specialize in fertility treatments and maternity care, featuring the latest high-tech facilities and outstanding physicians hired from around the country. Across the drive, the recently acquired five-story dental building stood dark save for safety illumination. It was undergoing renovation to serve as a center for the expanding men’s fertility program, in which Marshall played a key role.

There he was again, popping into her brain with his sharp, intelligent gaze and rare, brilliant smile.

Their first meeting at a student party near the UC Berkeley campus was as clear in Franca’s mind as if it had been weeks instead of well over a decade ago. Tall and broodingly handsome, Marshall had stood out in the crowded room. She’d been a freshman and he, she later learned, a junior.

Franca’s breath had caught when he’d started toward her. She’d been rooted to the spot, overwhelmed by the sense that something life-altering was about to shake her world. Until then, she’d never considered herself the romantic type. To her, boyfriends had been just that—boys who were friends.

As Marshall wove through the tangle of beer-drinking undergrads, the intensity of his gaze had made her acutely aware of her Little Orphan Annie red hair—now dyed a less strident shade—and her curvy figure beneath a tank top and jeans. She’d read his response in his parted lips and the warmth infusing his face.

As she started to greet him, however, a nerdy guy from her psych class darted up and tugged her hair. Startled, Franca spilled her plastic cup of soda and ice.

By the time she finished cleaning it up, Marshall was deep in conversation with her roommate, who’d been at her elbow. Tall and slim with ash-blond hair and tailored clothes, Belle radiated cool sophistication in contrast to Franca’s scruffiness.

When Belle introduced them, Marshall had responded with a brief “hello” and a nod, nothing more. Okay, so I’m not his type after all, she’d thought. And had been reminded of that for the next two years as he and Belle dated.

Yet they kept running into each other at events that would have bored her roommate: a lecture on recent archaeological finds, an experimental theater performance, a poetry reading. Afterward, she and Marshall had shared fervent discussions over coffee, discussions that only revealed their different opinions on everything from politics to the value of therapy to attitudes toward family.

His views on child rearing were almost Victorian, while Franca had an affinity for hard-luck kids and a desire to become a foster parent. As with Jazz.

Steeling her nerve, Franca turned left onto Safe Harbor Boulevard. No sign of Marshall’s car ahead, but then, she’d lingered for quite a while.

She remembered Belle’s tear-streaked face when he’d broken it off with her after his graduation. Apparently Belle hadn’t met his high standards because she was struggling academically. Never mind that her troubles had stemmed from her attempt to cram in extra classes and finish early so she could move to Boston to be near him.

Although the way he’d treated his devoted girlfriend had been cruel, it would be unfair to call him heartless, Franca reflected as she headed for the freeway and the half-hour drive to her apartment. Especially in view of his rumpled hair and distraught expression tonight.

What could have reduced him to screaming in a parking garage? Well, one thing was certain: he wouldn’t be calling Franca Brightman, PhD, for a consultation.

* * *

IF LIFE WERE as precise, clean and well-structured as an operating room, Marshall would be a much happier man, he reflected the next morning as he performed microsurgery. Although he wasn’t fond of working on Saturdays, the scheduling was necessary due to the shortage of ORs. That would change once the new building opened, thank goodness.

The patient, Art Lomax, a thirty-three-year-old ex-marine, suffered from a low sperm count and reduced sex drive. He longed to be a father and to satisfy his wife in bed. A man who’d fought for his country deserved a break, and Marshall was glad to be able to provide it.

Seated at the console of the microsurgical system, he trained his eyes on the 3-D high-definition image of the patient’s body. Marshall enjoyed the way the controls translated his slightest hand movement to the instruments inserted into Lomax’s body. The delicate procedure, a varicocelectomy, would repair blood vessels attached to the patient’s testes, which produced both sperm and testosterone. Restoring them to normal functioning would enhance Lomax’s ability to father children and improve his sex drive, along with muscle strength and energy level.

Around him, the surgical team functioned with smooth efficiency, from Dr. Reid Winfrey, the urologist assisting him, to the nurses who ensured that the right tools were ready to be attached to the machine’s robotic arms. The OR was a technophile’s dream. The overhead lighting generated no heat, while suspended cameras recorded the surgery for later review. An adjacent pathology lab allowed tissue to be tested during surgery so the surgeon could review the results without leaving the sterile field.

Early in Marshall’s medical training, he’d felt uncomfortable in clinical settings because he lacked the gift of relating easily to people. The discovery of his talent for surgery had revolutionized his dreams.

Focusing on the screen, he took little notice of the chatter among the surgical team. Then a name caught his attention.

“Isn’t it awful about Franca Brightman’s little girl?” a nurse, Erica, commented to the anesthesiologist.

“What about her?” The slender fellow, who sported a trim gray beard, perked up at the prospect of fresh gossip.

“She was adopting this adorable four-year-old girl whose mom’s a convicted drug dealer,” the nurse said. “Apparently the mother had agreed to the adoption, but then she got sprung from prison due to an evidence snafu at the lab. Just like that, wham, she took the little girl away.”

“That’s rotten.” Reid, an African-American urologist who shared Marshall’s office suite, frowned at her. The man did volunteer work with underprivileged kids, and had more than once described the harsh impact of parental drug use on children. “Surely a court wouldn’t hand a child over to a mother like that.”

The petite blonde shrugged. “She isn’t a convict anymore, and the adoption was voluntary.”

“How long was the girl with Franca?” asked Marshall. Belatedly, he realized he should have used the title Dr. Brightman. But it was too late, anyway, to keep their acquaintance a secret. When he’d referred several staffers and patients to Franca for consults, he’d mentioned they had a prior acquaintance.

More than an acquaintance. Her anguish last night had shaken him. But he had no clue how to comfort anyone, especially a parent deprived of a child.

He’d never fathomed why Franca planned to become a foster and adoptive mom to troubled kids when she could presumably bear children of her own. Sure, Marshall sympathized with the youngsters Reid counseled; he’d donated scholarship money to an organization his colleague recommended. But no matter how much he sympathized with their plight, wasn’t it natural to yearn for a little boy or girl who was yours from birth?

“She’s been with Franca for a couple of years, half the kid’s life.” Erica peered up at the high-definition screen that showed the same image of the patient’s body Marshall was viewing on his terminal. Observing it helped the staff anticipate Marshall’s needs, plus many nurses took an interest in anatomy and physiology. “Jazz was pretty wild when Franca became her foster mom, I gather, but she was learning to trust that the world is a safe place. Until now.”

“You seem to know a lot about it.” Marshall registered that the anesthesiologist gave him a speculative look due to his uncharacteristic show of interest, but he was too curious to care.

“Jazz’s been attending the hospital day care center these past few months,” the nurse explained. “My son Jordan is friends with her.”

Erica and her husband had a toddler, Marshall recalled. Recently, he’d become more aware of who had children.

Part of the reason stemmed from learning he had a young nephew, and part of it from turning thirty-five. Many doctors delayed marriage and parenthood during their long training, but he’d moved past that stage. As his medical practice showed, men as well as women experienced a powerful urge to procreate. That was an intellectual way of rationalizing his gut-level desire to be a dad.

But Marshall couldn’t consider fatherhood until he sorted out the shock he’d received less than a week ago. He’d never imagined that everything he thought he knew about himself could disintegrate with a single stunning revelation.

That didn’t excuse him for howling like a banshee in his car last night. Luckily, the only person who’d overheard had been Franca, and he respected her discretion.

With the last of the blood vessels repaired, Marshall yielded his position at the controls to Reid, who would close the tiny incisions. The surgery was only minimally invasive, so the patient should be able to go home later that day.

As for Marshall, he was heading home now, having completed three operations this morning. Much as he loved the two-story house he’d bought here in Safe Harbor, though, he was in no hurry to get there.

In the hallway, his footsteps dragged. Marshall needed someone to talk to, someone who could set him straight and provide perspective. Someone like Franca.

That would be a big mistake. In college, he’d recognized almost immediately that his attraction to her was wrong for them both. Instead, he’d tried in vain to fall in love with her roommate, who met all his requirements, or so he’d believed.

He’d survived for more than a decade without Franca to bounce ideas off. And he would continue to manage just fine.

At the elevators, Marshall punched the down button. A second later, the doors opened to reveal the other person he didn’t care to face right now. A man almost the same height, build and coloring as Marshall himself.

Dark circles underscored Dr. Nick Davis’s eyes from an overnight shift in Labor and Delivery that had obviously run long. He gave a start at the sight of Marshall, and for a moment, the air bristled between them.

Stiffly, Marshall stepped inside. “Hey.”

“Hey back at you,” said the cousin he’d disliked and resented all his life. And whom he’d just learned was his biological brother.

As the elevator descended, Marshall searched for a polite way to break the silence. “Rough night, Nicholas?”

“Buckets of babies.” Nick cleared his throat. “Say, I have a question.”

Marshall braced for whatever barb might come next. “Shoot.”

“Will you be the best man at my wedding?”


Chapter Two (#ulink_a06e781a-4fff-5b03-a110-14522880385b)

After meeting with a family at her private office in Garden Grove, fifteen miles north of Safe Harbor, Franca drove to her nearby home Saturday morning with her mind in turmoil. She’d insisted on retaining her old practice when she’d joined the hospital staff, partly in case the new job didn’t work out and partly because she refused to drop loyal clients.

She wasn’t sure how much good she’d done today, though; it had been an effort to concentrate on the conflict between an adolescent girl and her parents. However, they’d shown progress in their ability to set reasonable boundaries while respecting the teenager’s right to privacy.

At her apartment complex, Franca followed the walkway between calla lilies and red, purple and yellow pansies. In the spring, Jazz had been unable to keep herself from plucking the flowers until Franca explained that the blooms were for all the residents to enjoy. After that, the child had taken care to avoid picking or trampling them.

What a change from when she’d entered foster care. Jazz had lacked self-control, even for a two-year-old. Having a regular bedtime, eating three meals a day at a table and following rules about storing toys after use—everything was a fight. But beneath the stubbornness, Franca had sensed the child’s anger over having her world torn apart and her hurt at feeling abandoned. Distraught about facing trial, her mother, Bridget Oberly, had been a frequent no-show at arranged visits.

As a foster parent, it was Franca’s job to prepare the child to return to her mother’s care. The more self-sufficient Jazz became in terms of potty training and dressing, and the more she was able to obey rules, the better she’d handle her mother’s unpredictable lifestyle. Since her father had died in a gang shooting, her mom was parenting solo.

Gradually, she’d bonded with Franca, running to her for hugs and curling in her lap for story time. When Bridget agreed to an adoption, Franca had been deeply grateful.

She’d never imagined that her world could shatter so utterly.

Now she stepped inside her second-floor unit with a sense of entering paradise lost. She’d tried to enliven her simple apartment with personal touches: a multicolored comforter crocheted by her mother was draped over the couch, while on the walls, she’d hung framed photographs shot by her brother, Glenn, of the wildflowers and summer meadows near his Montana home.

At the doorway to Jazz’s bedroom, tears blurred Franca’s vision. The fairy-tale bedspread and curtains that she’d sewn herself, the shelf of books and the sparkly dolls remained unchanged, yet their princess was gone. Bridget had told Jazz she could take only a single suitcase because of their cramped unit. Franca wished she could drop by to check on the preschooler’s well-being and reassure her.

The ringing of the phone drew Franca back to the present. The caller was Ada Humphreys, owner of the Bear and Doll Boutique, where Franca had often taken Jazz to pick out toys and books.

“I just got a new catalog of doll-clothes patterns,” Ada said after they exchanged greetings. “That little girl of yours will adore them.”

Franca kept running into people who hadn’t heard the bad news. Despite a catch in her throat, she forced out the words, “Jazz is...gone.”

“Gone?” Ada repeated.

Franca summarized what had happened. “She trusted me to take care of her and I let her down.”

“I don’t mean to be nosy, but with her mother’s history of drug use, couldn’t you sue for custody?” Ada asked.

“My lawyer advised against it. He said there was no guarantee I’d win, and it might be counterproductive.”

“In what way?”

“Jazz’s mom may face retrial on the same drug charges,” Franca explained. “If that happens, it’s better for me to stay on good terms.”

“So if she’s convicted, she might relinquish Jazz to you again,” Ada said.

“Exactly.” Franca couldn’t keep the quaver from her voice. “Otherwise, my little girl could end up in the foster care system and I’d have no claim on her.”

“How awful,” Ada said. “But it’s fortunate Jazz had you during such an important part of her childhood. You’ve prepared her to succeed in school and life.” The mother of a second-grade teacher, Ada understood a lot about learning and child development.

“That’s a positive attitude.” Franca wandered into her own bedroom. On a side table, her sewing machine sat idle, threaded with pink from the Valentine’s Day dress she’d stitched for Jazz.

“I can understand you might not be making doll clothes for a while,” Ada said. “It’s too bad. Sewing is such a relaxing hobby.”

“I do enjoy it.” A puffy blue concoction on a hanger caught Franca’s eye—the bridesmaid’s dress from Belle’s wedding. Considering Belle’s usual good taste, why had she chosen such ugly gowns for her attendants?

Last month, Belle had pulled out all the stops in her wedding to a likable CPA. Franca had been glad to serve as a bridesmaid, despite the strain on her budget to pay for this awful creation, its bows and lacy trim more suitable for a Pollyanna costume than for a woman in her thirties. She wondered what the rest of the half dozen attendants would do with their froufrou getups. Donate them to charity? Use them in community theater productions? Clean the garage with them?

“Well, don’t be a stranger,” Ada said. “You never can tell when you might need a gift, or be in the mood to sew for fun.”

On a shelf, a couple of dolls that doubled as bookends caught Franca’s eye. How shabby they’d become, as had the dolls in her office. They underwent plenty of wear and tear in play therapy, where she used them along with stuffed animals, coloring materials and building blocks.

Franca hadn’t planned to drive to Safe Harbor today, but she refused to sit here and stew in her unhappiness. A visit to the Bear and Doll Boutique was exactly what she needed.

“You’re an inspiration,” she said to Ada. “My dolls deserve a new wardrobe, and I have a perfectly hideous bridesmaid dress to cut up.”

“Some of these new patterns are darling.” A bell tinkled in the background, signaling the arrival of a customer. “I’ll see you soon.”

After clicking off, Franca changed from her skirt and jacket into jeans and an old sweater. Since her hair was frizzing out of its bun, she shook it loose and ran a brush through it, which did little to tame the bushiness. But Ada wouldn’t care about Franca’s appearance, and she doubted she’d run into anyone else she knew.

Out Franca went, her mood lifting.

* * *

“BEST MAN AT your wedding?” Marshall repeated. He wasn’t ready to answer, nor to ask the question uppermost in his mind until he had a better grasp of the situation. “Have you set a date?”

“Yep, three weeks from now.” When the elevator arrived at the ground floor, Nick let him exit first. “There’s nothing like an April wedding, Zady says. Lucky for us, the Seaside Wedding Chapel had a cancellation.”

“Not so lucky for the couple who canceled, I presume,” Marshall said.

“Maybe they decided to elope instead.” How typical of Nick to look on the bright side.

As they passed a couple of nurses’ aides in the hall, Marshall heard the murmur that often greeted their rare appearance side-by-side: “Are they twins?”

He’d been irked in school by the striking resemblance between him and his cousin, who was a year younger. Wasn’t it obvious that Nick’s brown hair was a shade lighter, and that at six feet tall he lacked an inch of Marshall’s height?

Nevertheless, people considered them look-alikes. And since they were also close in age and shared a surname, teachers at their magnet science high school had often compared them academically. How unfair that Marshall had studied until his head hurt to earn top grades, while Nick, with his quick grasp of essentials and his unusually good memory, sailed from A to A.

After attending different colleges and medical schools, they’d accidentally landed at Safe Harbor Medical at almost the same time, which had created confusion among their colleagues. Good thing they specialized in different fields, Nick in obstetrics and Marshall in urology, or their patients might wind up in the wrong examining rooms. Or worse, the wrong ORs.

Nick must have heard the muttering, too. Rather than stiffening, he draped an arm over Marshall’s shoulders. “If they want to yammer about us, bro, let’s show ’em what pals we are. Okay if I mess up your hair?”

“No.” Marshall eased away from his brother.

Nick removed his arm. “Loosen up, man.”

“I’d rather not.” However, Marshall had no desire to renew the friction that had flared between them over the years. His perfectionist, high-achieving parents had encouraged him to scorn his freewheeling cousin and Nick’s irresponsible parents. They’d hidden a dark secret, though: unable to have children, Upton and Mildred Davis had adopted Marshall, their nephew, as a toddler. In exchange for their silence, Mildred and Upton promised to help pay the younger Davises’ household expenses.

That silence had lasted for nearly thirty-five years, until last Monday. Out of the blue, Uncle Quentin had confronted Nick and Marshall with the truth, explaining that he wanted to repair past wrongs. Instead, he’d simply dumped his burden on his sons, then taken off for his home a hundred and fifty miles away in Bakersfield.

Everything Marshall believed he knew about himself and his parents had been thrown into turmoil. Why had they been ashamed of his origins? Had they been so strict because they feared he’d turn out a mess like his birth parents?

As they exited the hospital via a side door, Nick asked, “Is that a no? I assure you, I have the bride’s approval.”

“Considering that Zady’s my office nurse, I should hope so.” Marshall didn’t wish to offend either his brother or the future Mrs. Davis, whom he liked and respected. Besides, being invited to serve as best man was an honor. “Of course I’ll stand up with you.”

On the path toward the parking structure, their strides synchronized. “Maybe we should rent different color tuxes,” Nick said cheerfully. “I’d hate for the bride to get confused and marry the wrong guy.”

Leave it to Nick to find humor in their embarrassing resemblance. “What exactly does a best man do?” Marshall asked. “Aside from making sure the groom shows up and doesn’t lose the ring.”

Halting in his tracks, Nick whipped out his phone. “Let’s see.”

“I didn’t mean for you to research it now.”

“We’ve only got a few weeks.” He tapped the screen.

Marshall gazed across the curved drive to the newly acquired building, where construction equipment buzzed. The Portia and Vincent Adams Memorial Medical Building—popularly referred to as the Porvamm—would provide much-needed operating suites, laboratories and other facilities for the men’s fertility program.

A little over a week earlier, two groups of doctors had nearly come to blows over how to allot the two floors of office space. Marshall and Nick had taken opposite sides, with Marshall in favor of keeping the entire Porvamm for the men’s program, while Nick and his comrades protested that they deserved a break from their cramped quarters.

Before open warfare could break out with scalpels flashing in the corridors, they’d reached a compromise. Encouraged by Zady, Marshall had proposed a concession, and last Monday the administration had agreed to assign a quarter of the offices to obstetricians and pediatricians.

“Duties of a best man,” Nick read aloud from the phone. “Serve as the groom’s adviser on clothing and etiquette. I think we can skip that part.”

“I know nothing about weddings, so I concur,” Marshall said.

“Organize the bachelor party,” his brother continued.

“Okay to video games and pizza,” Marshall said. “I draw the line at strippers.”

Nick laughed. “I’d love to see you plan a party with strippers, just to watch your face get redder than a blood specimen, but you’re off the hook. Because of the tight time frame, Zady’s skipping the bachelorette party, too.”

What other land mines lay in wait? Co-opting the phone, Marshall scanned the list. “I can make a toast at the reception, and I’ll be glad to dance with the bride and the maid of honor. Should I be squiring around the other bridesmaids, too?”

“There aren’t any.” Reclaiming the device, Nick resumed their walk toward the garage. “Just Zora as matron of honor.” The bride’s twin sister was an ultrasound technician. “You might have to ride herd on my future mother-in-law, though. She’s reputed to be a dragon.”

“You haven’t met her?” Marshall had presumed that introductions to the bride’s parents would be a priority.

“Zady doesn’t plan to invite her until a few days before the ceremony. That’s enough notice for her to fly down from Oregon but short enough to minimize the damage.” Nick shrugged. “I’ve heard many stories about the woman’s drinking and trouble-making. Zady’s plan seems sensible.”

Marshall hadn’t given any thought to what kind of wedding he’d have. If he’d ever spared a moment’s reflection on the subject, however, it wouldn’t include misbehaving in-laws. That brought up a delicate subject. “Will my mother be invited?”

“I put Aunt Mildred on the guest list.” Inside the parking structure, Nick halted beside his battered blue sedan. “Unless that’s a problem for you.”

“I doubt she’ll accept,” Marshall blurted. In response to his brother’s quizzical expression, he explained, “I tried to talk to her after Uncle Quentin dropped his bomb, and got nowhere.”

He still couldn’t refer to Nick’s father as “Dad.” That title belonged to Quentin’s older brother, who, to be fair, had been as hard on himself as he’d been on his adoptive son. A brilliant inventor of medical devices and a savvy businessman, Upton Davis had amassed a fortune. After his death five years ago of an aneurysm, he’d left half his estate to Marshall, along with a request to take care of his mother.

Marshall had done his best. How sad that his mother no longer wanted his help.

“You told her that you now know you’re adopted?” Nick leaned against his car.

“Uncle Quentin beat me to it.”

“How did she react?”

“Badly.” When Marshall had called Thursday night to confirm their usual dinner date on Sunday, she’d dismissed him coldly. “She said now that I’ve learned I’m not really her son, not to bother. Then she hung up.”

“That’s harsh, even for Aunt Mildred,” Nick said.

“I’ve called but all I get is her voice mail.” How could his mother reject him for something that wasn’t his fault? She was the one who should be apologizing, yet Marshall hadn’t asked for that.

To him, Mildred would always be Mom. His birth mother, Adina Davis, had died of lung cancer two years ago. Thanks to the family’s secrets, Marshall had never had a chance to know the woman who’d given birth to him except as a charming but volatile aunt.

“Give her a chance to recover,” Nick said. “She’s never been the warm, cuddly type.”

“There’s an understatement.” Might as well raise the other issue on Marshall’s mind. “I suppose your father is on the guest list.”

“Yes. Zady requested it. She’s more generous than I am after he let us down.” In addition to hiding the truth about Marshall, Uncle Quentin had abandoned his wife and son when Nick was ten. “I may tolerate his presence, but that doesn’t mean I forgive him.”

For once, the two of them agreed on something, Marshall thought. And for all that he’d lost by his parents’ deception, at least they’d been there for him.

Mercifully, neither he nor his brother showed signs of their parents’ mental instability. Although about 50 percent of the children of bipolar patients suffered from a psychiatric disorder, sometimes the odds worked in your favor.

“The important thing is that you and Zady enjoy your wedding.” Curiosity propelled Marshall to ask, “How’s Caleb reacting?”

Although his nephew’s conception four years ago had been an accident, he’d proved a blessing to Nick. Named after their grandfather, the boy had come to live with his dad after his mother’s death in a boating accident.

“He’s excited about being the ring bearer.” Nick grinned. “That’s another duty of the best man—supervising my son. Hope that’s okay.”

“It’s fine. More than fine.” Marshall had felt an immediate attachment to his nephew when they’d met a few months ago. If he had a kid, he’d relish every minute of the boy’s—or girl’s—childhood.

“I’ll email you with whatever we decide about tuxedos. I’d prefer a dark suit, but I doubt Zady will go for that,” Nick said.

“I’m sure she’ll keep me informed.” Noting the exhaustion on his brother’s face, Marshall remembered that the man had been on duty all night. “Go home.”

“Gladly.” Lifting a hand in farewell, Nick ducked into his car.

Marshall surveyed the scattering of vehicles for a familiar white station wagon. Its absence brought a pang of disappointment. What had he expected, a repeat of last night’s impromptu karaoke duet?

Recalling what the surgical nurse had said about Franca’s foster child brought a wave of sympathy. She must be grieving.

While Marshall respected her decision to take in a troubled child, he had to be honest. If he and his future wife were unable to have kids, he’d be happy to adopt, but only if they nurtured the child from infancy. He’d never invite trouble by taking in a foster kid. The discovery that his own parents had been so ashamed of adopting him that they’d kept him at arm’s length reinforced his reservations.

His footsteps slowed as he neared the silver sedan, his earlier reluctance to go home closing over him. He could call Franca to offer his support, he mused. He had her cell number, which she’d provided to the staff.

Then he got another, better idea. Since his best-man duties involved Caleb, why not buy the boy a gift? A teddy bear dressed in a tux, perhaps.

Marshall recalled passing a shop on Safe Harbor Boulevard...the Bear and Doll Boutique, that was the name.

And since Franca was no doubt clearing away reminders of her foster daughter rather than acquiring more toys, he didn’t have to worry about an awkward encounter, or the possibility of a heart-to-heart conversation. As he’d learned from his father, it was his responsibility to deal with his own problems, and he intended to do just that.


Chapter Three (#ulink_bd6043d2-6de4-589a-a71a-0b7e769aff90)

The rainbow colors of the toy store brightened Franca’s mood. What a joyful array of bears, dolls, accessories and children’s books, plus there was a large craft table that Ada used for classes. Although the store appeared small from the front, its depth encompassed several rooms, which was part of its charm: you never knew what delightful surprise lay around the corner.

Near the front counter, stuffed animals in fairy-tale outfits filled a shelf. A pink-gowned Cinderella pig beamed at her porcine prince. A polar bear Snow White shepherded an assembly of penguins, while a Little Red Riding Hood sheep held out her basket to a wolf in fleecy clothing.

“They’re darling!” Franca told the owner.

At the compliment, Ada tipped her head of champagne-colored hair. “I ran across them last week in the storage room. I try to rotate my stock.”

“They’re too precious to hide.” Wary of soiling the merchandise, Franca avoided picking up the wolf, despite her curiosity about how its fleecy costume had been constructed.

“I’ll fetch that new catalog,” Ada said. “Hang on.” She ducked behind the counter.

From within the store appeared a familiar dark-haired woman. As the hospital’s public relations director, Jennifer Serra Martin had interviewed Franca for the employee newsletter a few months ago. Discovering that they had a lot in common, they’d started meeting for lunch and scheduling play dates for their little girls.

“I heard about your daughter,” Jennifer said. “Franca, I’m so sorry. I can’t imagine what I’d have done if Rosalie’s birth mother had changed her mind.”

The five-year-old, a cutie with blond ringlets, trotted after her mother, clutching a panda. “Where’s Jazz?”

“I told you, Rosalie, she’s gone to live with her birth mommy,” Jennifer reminded her. “Honey, can you read a story to your new bear for a minute? I’m busy with Dr. Brightman.”

“You’re just talking!”

“Remember what I said about that?”

Rosalie screwed up her face as she searched for the answer. “Talking is how grown-ups play.”

“That’s right. And you hate when I interrupt your play,” Jennifer said.

“Okay, Mommy.” Rosalie perched on a chair and, panda in lap, picked up a picture book.

With her daughter settled, the PR director turned to Franca. “Have you thought any more about what we discussed?”

Franca’s memory yielded no clues as to what the woman was talking about. Suppressing an instinct to screw up her face like Rosalie, she asked, “What was that?”

“Ideas for new counseling groups,” Jennifer reminded her.

“Oh, yes. I’ve been reviewing possibilities.” The previous psychologist had established programs for infertile couples, for surrogate moms and for several other categories of patients. However, the hospital was expanding into many areas, and Jennifer had volunteered to brainstorm new groups with her.

“I had an idea I meant to share. Now, what was it?” Jennifer sighed. “Too bad I forgot to write it down.”

“It’ll come back to you,” Franca assured her.

“Probably at a totally inappropriate moment.” The dark-haired woman smiled. “When it does, I’ll text you immediately.”

Ada joined them with a pattern catalog. “I can order these at my discount—I’ll split the difference with you.”

“I’ll pay full price,” Franca told her. “I want you to stay in business.”

“Every little bit helps,” the older woman admitted.

Jennifer peered at the catalog. “What adorable little dresses!”

“Here’s the fabric I plan to use.” On her phone, Franca clicked to a photo of Belle resplendent in white, flanked by a half dozen attendants bedecked in frothy blue. “I’ll never wear my bridesmaid dress again.”

“Oh, dear,” Jennifer said. “Those are fascinatingly hideous.”

Ada took an amused peek. “Some insecure brides try to enhance their image by making their attendants as ugly as possible.”

Franca shook her head. “I doubt Belle did it intentionally.”

She halted as the shop’s glass door opened to admit a tall and much-too-handsome man with a shadowed expression. Even though Marshall instantly assumed a polite smile, her heart twisted. What was troubling him?

Still, his rumpled appearance from last night had yielded to smooth hair, pressed slacks and a navy polo shirt—a marked contrast to Franca’s scruffy state. She wished she hadn’t worn her oldest jeans and stained sweater. As for the condition of her hair, the less she thought about that, the better.

Distractedly, she said hello, and after Marshall exchanged greetings with Jennifer, Franca introduced him to Ada. She’d forgotten the phone in her hand until the picture caught his gaze.

“Belle got married?” His voice rang hollow.

“Last month.” Was this the cause of his distress? But that didn’t make sense after all these years.

Franca supposed she ought to mind her own business about whatever was troubling Marshall. But it wasn’t in her nature to ignore friends’ distress...even if they hadn’t consciously sought her input.

* * *

HOW IRONIC, MARSHALL mused as his pulse quickened. He’d been naive to believe himself safe from running into Franca here. Not that he was sorry.

In college, they’d frequently bumped into each other, as if drawn to the same locations. In truth, it hadn’t always been a coincidence. If he learned Franca was attending an event that interested him, he’d make a point of going, too. But there’d also been a synchronicity at work, he believed.

Now here they were. And Belle was still between them. Speaking of Belle, she appeared happy in the picture. No doubt she’d long ago forgotten her disappointment in him.

“She’s beautiful.” That was true of all brides, but especially of Belle, with her blond radiance. Yet her image failed to eclipse one particular bridesmaid. “As are you.”

Peripherally, he observed the PR director taking her little girl to the counter to pay for their purchases. He was glad not to have to include them in the conversation.

“No one could look beautiful in that dress.” Franca chuckled. “I plan to cut it into doll clothes. I’m here to pick out patterns.”

Marshall decided to explain why he’d stopped in, as well. “I figured my nephew, Caleb, might like a bear in a tux.”

“You have a nephew?” A pucker formed between her eyebrows. “But you’re an only child.”

They’d had a conversation once about the advantages and disadvantages of their situations, him as a singleton and her as the middle of three kids. How odd that the normally hyperactive hospital grapevine hadn’t yet broadcast the news to her.

“Nick and I were raised as cousins. We just learned that was a lie.” To his embarrassment, he had to clear his throat. Pull yourself together. “The short version is, we’re brothers and I was adopted by my aunt and uncle. Anyway, Nick asked me to be best man at his wedding next month, and Caleb’s the ring bearer. He’s engaged to my nurse, Zady. Nick is, not Caleb. But you got that.” He rarely stumbled over words. How embarrassing.

“Zady told me she was engaged,” Franca said. “I was honored that she asked me to save the date.”

“I see.” Up close, her cloud of reddish-blond hair made her amber eyes appear extra large, but Marshall noted there was something different. “Why did you change your hair color?”

Franca shrugged. “I was tired of feeling like Raggedy Ann.”

“I liked it.”

“You liked that I resembled a rag doll with red yarn for hair?”

“It was...you.”

“Exactly,” she said. “A mess. And I’m not fishing for compliments.”

“May I offer a word of advice?” Marshall plunged ahead before she could respond. “I realize you’re the expert on psychology, but you shouldn’t put yourself down.”

“Where’s this coming from?” Franca asked.

“From...” He broke off. In college, he’d been aware that Franca felt eclipsed by her stunning roommate. But he’d been in no position to explain that whenever he was around her, Belle faded. Nor did he wish to bring it up now.

Fundamentally, nothing had changed. Marshall had recognized from the start that his attraction to Franca was destructive. They were opposites who disagreed on many important topics, and whenever they were together for long, their arguments brought out the worst in each other.

“Never mind,” he said. “I shouldn’t have spoken.”

“Actually, you’re right,” she responded. “I was indulging in either self-pity or false modesty.”

“Nothing about you is false.” That skated too close to flattery for Marshall’s taste. He decided on a quick exit. “Good luck with your patterns.”

“Happy bear hunting.”

“Thanks.”

Before he could escape, Jennifer Martin turned from the counter and cried, “I remember!”

“Remember what?” Franca asked.

“I’ll leave you two to chat.” Marshall started to retreat.

“Wait, Dr. Davis!” Jennifer protested. “This concerns you.”

“Excuse me?”

“I have an idea for a new therapy group,” Jennifer burst out. “For men undergoing fertility treatments. How perfect if the pair of you ran it as a team!”

Teaming up with Franca to plumb patients’ emotions? The concept struck him as anything but perfect. “I’m not a counselor,” Marshall said. “Dr. Brightman is well qualified to lead such a group.”

“Men might hesitate to talk freely with a woman,” Jennifer said. “Also, while she’s a counselor, you have medical expertise. You’d be a great team.”

“She has a point,” Franca conceded.

“Any male urologist would do.” That was the best argument that came to mind. “Preferably one who has better people skills than mine.”

“Such as who?” Jennifer demanded.

Marshall’s mind skimmed over the urology staff. The head of the department, Dr. Cole Rattigan, had no spare time, since he and his wife were juggling fifteen-month-old triplets. Marshall’s suitemates were even newer to the hospital than he was and still honing their surgical skills under his supervision. It seemed wrong to pressure them into the job.

So how did he get out of this?

* * *

FRANCA SYMPATHIZED WITH Marshall’s deer-in-the-headlights reaction. However, she couldn’t dispute Jennifer’s reasoning.

“It’s worth considering,” she said. “Dr. Davis and I will discuss it.”

“Great!” Jennifer said. “Okay if I mention it to Mark?” Dr. Mark Rayburn was the hospital administrator. “Oh, and Cole, too?”

“What’s the rush?” Marshall asked irritably.

“Things are slow after the holidays. There’s not a lot happening in March. I’d love to publicize a new therapy group in the newsletter,” Jennifer explained.

“Give us a chance to consider how we might organize it and whether it fits into Dr. Davis’s schedule,” Franca said firmly. “Nice to see you and Rosalie.”

“Nice to see you, too.” To the obvious relief of her daughter, who was hopping up and down, the PR director departed.

“She doesn’t take no for an answer, does she?” Marshall growled.

“She’s not usually pushy,” Franca assured him. “But if we don’t want this foisted on us willy-nilly, we’d better present a united front.”

His jaw twitched as if he were about to dismiss the notion entirely. But Ada was observing them from the counter, and other voices were approaching from outside. “Let’s finish shopping and meet elsewhere to resolve this.”

“Good idea.” Not at her apartment, and Franca wasn’t about to suggest his place. “How about the Sea Star Café down by the harbor? I haven’t had lunch.”

“Is that still there?” Like Franca, Marshall had grown up in inland Orange County, but must have visited the harbor town over the years. “Yes, I’m hungry, too.”

Into the shop surged a couple of women shepherding children.

“See you there,” she said.

“Done.” He drew himself up to his full, rather impressive height. “Let’s get this squared away before it blows up in our faces.”

Would it be so terrible for them to coordinate a weekly group? she wondered, watching him move deeper into the store. Surely they could maintain a professional distance, despite her awareness of him as a man. And despite his disappointment in her new hair color. The picky comment reminded Franca of how exacting Marshall could be.

Franca flipped through the catalog and selected half a dozen patterns with adjustable fastenings, easy to remove for washing. After writing the pattern numbers on a notepad, she handed it to Ada.

The shopkeeper promised to order them that day. “I’ll text you when they come in.”

“Great.”

In an angled wall mirror, Franca spotted Marshall in the next room, lifting a formally dressed bear for inspection. Yearning transformed his face as he fingered the soft fur.

With a start, she recognized that look. She’d seen it on the face of her older sister, Gail, when one of their cousins had brought her baby to a family gathering. Gail had been devastated by repeated miscarriages.

Was Marshall eager to be a father? Perhaps Belle’s wedding photo had reminded him of how much he’d thrown away. But whatever promptings he experienced toward parenthood, Franca doubted he’d understand her torment over losing Jazz.

Marshall had made it clear long ago that he saw no reason to “invite trouble,” as he put it, from a foster child. For him, fatherhood meant a traditional home with two or three genetic children.

To Franca, motherhood meant loving children regardless of their origins. Despite growing up in a happy household with a psychologist father and a devoted mother, she’d had an immediate bond with the neglected and abused youngsters she’d met as a teen volunteer, along with a sense of destiny. In her twenties, she’d gone through the process to qualify as a foster mom. After caring for several youngsters, she’d given her heart to Jazz.

She had no desire to return to her lonely apartment. In contrast, eating lunch with Marshall didn’t seem so bad.

Reminded of their plans, Franca said goodbye to Ada and went out.


Chapter Four (#ulink_88940e6e-1b82-50b3-bbba-3e7e2b471f29)

Marshall inhaled the crisp sea air as he swiped his credit card in the parking meter. On a Saturday afternoon, he’d been lucky to find a space.

Seagulls mewed overhead as he descended the steps to the quay. Surf and souvenir shops lined the inland side of the wooden wharf, while small piers thrust outward into the harbor, tethered boats bobbing beside them in the water. In the breezy March sunshine, white sails filled the harbor.

To his right, past a tumble of rocks, stretched a beach dotted with a few brave sunbathers. During his teens, the beach had been popular with Marshall’s classmates, but he’d been too busy with Advanced Placement and International Baccalaureate classes to hang out at such places. However, he’d enjoyed the sounds and smells of the ocean on rare jaunts with family friends who’d owned a powerboat.

Ahead, at the Sea Star Café, outdoor diners basked in the comfort of warming devices shaped like metal umbrellas. No sign of Franca.

Inside the café, the scents of coffee and spices greeted him. Families and couples had claimed all the tables, and he was wondering if they should have chosen a less popular locale when he spotted a tumble of red-gold hair at a booth.

Hands cupped around a mug, Franca gazed out the window to her left toward the open ocean. In profile, she had a straight nose, a determined chin and long lashes. When she swung toward him, her mouth curved in welcome. She waved at almost the same moment that the loudspeaker squawked her name.

“I went ahead and ordered,” she explained when he reached her. “Hope you like pita sandwiches. You can have either the falafel and hummus or the Swiss and turkey.”

“Take whichever you prefer.” Marshall usually picked items that could be trimmed, such as sandwiches on bread. Still, he refused to become one of those fussy eaters who drove everyone around them crazy. He had even recently discovered the pleasures of pizza. “I’ll pick up the order.”

“I’ll hold down the table,” she said. “Either sandwich is fine with me.”

Marshall claimed their tray and on his return, handed her the falafel and hummus pita—definitely messier. He slid several bills across the table to cover his check. “No arguing.”

“Wasn’t going to,” she said.

He removed the plates, utensils and glasses of water from the tray, then carried it to a disposal station. “You’re always so neat,” Franca remarked.

“As opposed to?” He raised an eyebrow.

“Me.” She indicated a glop of hummus she’d spilled on the table.

“A little mess doesn’t bother me as long as it’s not mine.” Marshall had the sense he was being perpetually judged, thanks to his parents’ habitual criticism. He tried, not always successfully, to cut others more slack.

After a few bites of pita, he brought up the proposed counseling group. “Any suggestion for how to get out of this?”

“Are you sure we should?” Responding to his frown, Franca said, “This would benefit many patients. It also could reinforce Dr. Rattigan’s view of you as a key player in the department’s expansion.”

Marshall mulled the idea as he ate. Adding such a group did seem logical. “What exactly happens in a counseling group? If that isn’t a bonehead question.”

“It’s more a reflection on what medical schools teach doctors, or fail to teach them,” she said.

“I took courses in psychopathology and clinical psychiatry,” Marshall countered. “As well as serving a rotation in psychiatry.” Psychopathology was the study of the genetic, biological and other causes of mental disorders, along with their symptoms and treatments.

“Dealing with psychotics and how to medicate them?” Franca summarized.

“Basically, yes.”

“I figured.” Her nose wrinkled. “We won’t be dealing with psychotics. We’ll be helping ordinary people whose infertility creates problems for them.” Having finished her pita, she wiped her hands on her paper napkin.

Marshall reached across with his own napkin to dab the corner of her mouth. “Missed a spot.”

Startled, Franca lifted her chin, and her cheek brushed his hand. An electric tingle ran along his arm. “I could use an aide to follow me around and clean me up,” she said.

“Why bother, when I’m here?” he teased.

She smiled. “Promise you won’t do that in front of patients.”

“Promise you won’t eat a pita in front of patients.”

“It’s a deal.”

He returned to their topic. “I don’t mean to be dismissive, but why not refer troubled patients to Resolve?” The national organization assisted people coping with infertility.

“It’s a terrific group, but it’s a complement to therapy,” Franca said. “It doesn’t replace it. But I never answered your question.”

“About what happens in counseling?”

She nodded. “Infertility is a stressful experience. People often feel out of control and that they’ve failed. There’s loss and grief as well as financial concerns.” Fertility treatments could cost tens of thousands of dollars and were rarely covered by insurance. “Sharing your pain with others who are in the same boat can be a relief.”

“But why have a separate group for men?”

Franca took a sip from her mug. “Most infertility counseling focuses on the woman or on the couple’s relationship. But when the man is the source of the infertility, that can affect his feelings of masculinity and self-worth. And men in general have a harder time expressing their emotions.”

“That’s true of me,” Marshall conceded. Although he wasn’t entirely convinced, he’d run out of arguments. Moreover, an earlier comment of hers was rattling inside his head.

He’d assumed that by adopting, his parents had put to rest the issues associated with their infertility. Perhaps he’d been wrong. “Could those concerns persist after the couple adopts?”

“Certainly.” Sunlight through the window brought out the sprinkling of freckles across Franca’s cheeks. “A lot depends on the patients’ self-esteem and how they view adoption.”

“And therapy can help?” Too bad his parents hadn’t availed themselves of it. But that wouldn’t have suited their superior, stiff-upper-lip attitude.

“It isn’t a cure-all, but yes,” Franca said. “For example, adoptive parents worry whether there’ll be a temperamental mismatch and whether the child will bond with them as strongly as with a birth parent.”

“Or whether they’ll bond with the child?” Marshall asked.

“That, too.”

“You raise interesting points,” he said. “To me, therapy has always seemed unscientific, perhaps even...” He paused as a couple moved past them to claim an empty table.

“A weakness?”

“Yes.” He regarded her steadily. “I realize patients find it helpful. I’ve just never understood why.”

“I wish doctors underwent therapy the way psychologists do,” Franca said. “It’s part of our training.”

“Was it helpful to you?”

“Very.”

“In what way?”

“I learned to stop assuming I’m responsible for my mother’s happiness.” She tilted her head as she reflected. “Ten years ago, after my father died, my brother went his own way. My sister was already married and living out of state. So Mom focused her energies on me, insisting we talk for an hour every night. Sometimes she’d phone at lunch, too. It was intrusive, but I couldn’t bear to disappoint her. She’d always been more invested emotionally in her children than in my dad, despite their good relationship.”

“Why was that?” It had never occurred to him that children could be more important to a parent than the husband-wife bond.

“My mother had been married once before and had several miscarriages.” Franca hesitated, as if reluctant to confide too much. Odd, considering how readily she invited his confidences. Then she continued, “Her first husband couldn’t handle the disappointment and left. Mom never entirely recovered from that betrayal. So as you can see, I know about the fallout from fertility problems in my own family.”

“Surely things changed after she married your father, right?” He’d liked the elder Dr. Brightman when they’d met once at a campus event, although the man hadn’t spoken much. He’d puffed on an aromatic pipe and listened attentively to the conversation involving his wife, Franca and Belle.

“Yes,” Franca said. “Fortunately, there were no more miscarriages. But in a sense, I think she felt his loyalty had never truly been tested.”

An interesting insight—but not really relevant to today’s topic. “How did counseling help with your mom?”

“I had a frank talk with her about respecting boundaries,” Franca said. “I also suggested activities for her.”

“How’d she take it?”

“It upset her, and that upset me.” She sighed. “After a few rough weeks, she reluctantly joined a senior center. A couple of months later, she met a widower, and married him.”

“Is she happy?”

“Extremely.” Franca folded her hands on the table. “They moved to Reno, where his children live. She’s surrounded by grandkids, and except for the holidays, I’ve become barely more than a Facebook friend. A victim of my own success.”

That wasn’t the worst thing in the world. “If I were on Facebook, my mother would unfriend me,” Marshall muttered.

“Because of you and Nick being brothers? I don’t really understand how that happened.” Franca broke off as a server offered them each a chocolate chip cookie, courtesy of the café. “Thanks.” She set one on her napkin. Marshall accepted his and enjoyed the chocolate melting in his mouth while weighing how much to reveal.

He might as well spill it. The details would soon be all over the hospital anyway. “Nick’s parents allowed my parents to adopt me as a toddler. Upton Davis was much more successful financially, while my birth parents were nearly homeless. I gather they hadn’t planned on having two kids a year apart.”

Quentin Davis had stumbled from job to job, drinking heavily and refusing treatment for his bipolar disorder. Aunt Adina had held a series of low-paying positions, spending money whenever she had it and expecting it to fall out of the sky when she didn’t.

“How unusual that they chose to adopt the toddler rather than the baby,” Franca said.

“I presume Nick was still breastfeeding. Also, with a toddler, they had a better idea of how well the child was developing.”

“Aren’t you being a bit severe?” she asked.

“I know my parents.” Rather than elaborate, Marshall moved on. “My folks paid Adina and Quentin for an apartment and other living expenses, and insisted on secrecy in return. Until last week, I had no idea I was adopted.”

Franca rested her chin on her palm. “How’d you discover it?”

“Uncle Quentin had a crisis of conscience and decided to get it off his chest. He corralled Nick and me and dumped it on us.” Marshall pictured the graying, slightly stooped man as he’d sat at a conference table in the medical building just last Monday.

“Your mom must have been upset.”

“She implied I’m not her son anymore and refuses to have dinner with me or even talk to me.” When Marshall inhaled, his lungs hurt.

“It might be a knee-jerk reaction,” Franca said. “I can’t believe she means it.”

“She didn’t leave much room for doubt.”

“What about your birth mother? Do you have a relationship with her?”

“Aunt Adina died a couple of years ago. I never especially connected with her,” Marshall said. “But at thirty-five, I don’t suppose I need a mother.”

“Everyone needs a mother.” Reaching across the table, Franca cupped her hand over his fist. Instinctively, he relaxed beneath her touch. “Give your mom time. She’s hurting, and she lashed out at the person most closely associated with her secret—you.”

“If she refuses to see me, what am I supposed to do?” he asked bitterly.

“Write her a letter,” Franca advised. “Tell her you love her and that you’re here for her. She’s a mother, and once her initial shock eases, she’ll view things differently. Don’t let pride keep you apart.”

Pride. Marshall had plenty of that. “I suppose that’s good advice.”

Her smile froze on her face. Following her gaze, he spotted a little girl with black hair clinging to a woman’s hand as they entered.

Anguish transformed Franca’s expression, stabbing into Marshall as if the pain were his own. He’d never experienced another person’s emotions this keenly.

He didn’t have to ask what had hurt her. This must be her foster daughter.

* * *

EVERYTHING AROUND FRANCA VANISHED. All the light in the world haloed the little girl she loved.

Hard-won self-control barely held her in place. Then Jazz spotted her and the girl pelted across the restaurant screaming, “Mommy Franca!”

In an instant, the child was climbing onto her lap, hugging her. And Franca hugged back, tears flowing.

Bridget stalked toward them. Despite her jeans and cartoon-printed T-shirt, she looked older than her twenty-three years, thanks to her drug use. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“I’m sorry.” Franca struggled to catch her breath.

“Jazz, get down right now!” Bridget’s command whiplashed through the air.

“No!” The child burrowed into Franca.

Marshall sat quietly, observing. Franca felt both his sympathy and his reserve.

Around them, the café fell silent. Everyone was watching.

“Honey, you have to do what your mommy says.” Gently, Franca pried the little fingers from around her neck. “Don’t worry. I’m keeping your dolls safe and they’ll join you as soon as you have room.”

“I’m s’posed to stay with you. You promised!” The heartbreak in Jazz’s voice tore at Franca.

When she’d joyfully informed the child about the adoption, she’d never imagined that it might fall through. How could a child understand that grown-ups didn’t always have the power to keep their word?

“You live with your mother now.” Her chest tight, Franca eased Jazz to the floor. “How lucky you are. You have two mommies who love you.”

Bridget’s steely eyes lit with rage. “No, she doesn’t. She has one mother—me!”

Franca forced out the words, “That’s right.”

“Damn straight it is.” Until the man spoke, she hadn’t noticed him looming behind Bridget, his muscles bulging beneath a sleeveless T-shirt. Shaved head, coarse features and a scorpion tattoo on his neck. When had Bridget hooked up with this guy?

The notion of him having access to Jazz chilled Franca. But there were no bruises on the girl’s face or arms. She wasn’t sure whether to be grateful or dismayed that she had no grounds to call the police.

“Come on.” Bridget reached for her daughter’s hand.

The girl snatched it away. “No.”

“You heard your mother!” As if he’d been waiting for a chance to throw his weight around, the man grabbed the child’s arm. “Not another word out of you.” The man gave Jazz’s arm a yank.

“Axel,” Bridget warned.

Marshall uncoiled from his seat. He stood several inches taller, but lacked the other man’s heft. “You’re hurting the child.”

The man’s lip curled in a sneer. Then, as if becoming aware of the observers around them, he released Jazz. “Yeah, well, do what your mother tells you, kid.”

Jazz stood motionless, her tearstained cheeks a match for Franca’s. Clasping her daughter’s hand, Bridget led her along the aisle to the other side of the café.

Franca couldn’t remain there another instant. “I have to go.”

“Understood.” Marshall followed protectively as she headed for the door.

Franca supposed she ought to thank him for standing up to Axel, but she could hardly think for the noise in her head. Outside, she said a quick goodbye to him and rushed along the quay, pushing through the midday crowd.

But no sea breeze could dissipate her grief and guilt. She’d failed Jazz, regardless of where the fault lay. It burned like fire.

She lost track of Marshall until he started up the steps to the closest parking area. He paused, his forehead creased with worry. Kind of him, but this wasn’t his problem.

On Franca stumbled, toward the more distant lot where she’d left her car. She tried in vain to outrun the realization that swept over her, obliterating the destiny she’d pictured so clearly.

Franca could endure almost anything for a child in her care, but when she’d imagined relinquishment, it had been to a home where the little one could be happy and safe. Not this wrenching sense that she’d betrayed the girl’s trust.

She couldn’t go through this again, couldn’t risk letting down another child and having her heart shredded. But if she didn’t foster troubled children, what did that leave? She still wanted to be a mother.

Despite counseling fertility patients, Franca had never considered whether or under what circumstances she might give birth, because she didn’t plan to. Nor had she worried about finding the right man to be a father.

Her desire to foster children had struck a chord with her own mom. Franca was a middle child who had often gotten lost in the shuffle at home. It had been exciting and validating to see her mother’s excitement. Partly as a result, instead of dreaming about finding Mr. Right as her sister had, Franca had embraced an identity focused on motherhood.

Leaning against her station wagon, she felt confused and lost. At thirty-three, she’d believed she had a firm grasp on the future. Instead, a burning question darkened her horizon:

Now what?


Chapter Five (#ulink_b4f93054-16ec-5483-a3cb-f10fb83795c9)

Franca’s heartbroken expression haunted Marshall over the next few days. She didn’t contact him about starting the new counseling program, and he let the matter ride.

She must have been too upset about her foster daughter, and he wasn’t eager to pursue the matter. Despite her example of how therapy had changed her attitude toward her mother, Marshall doubted enough of his patients would sign up to make the effort worthwhile.

Recalling Franca’s advice about writing to his mother, he tried to compose a letter. But after he penned the words Dear Mom on crisp gray stationery, nothing else came to mind. Writing, aside from the occasional prescription, had never been Marshall’s forte. Perhaps they could gradually resume a normal relationship after the wedding. And if she still didn’t return his phone calls, what more could he do? He couldn’t force her to care about him.

On Sunday, Marshall accompanied Nick and Caleb to rent matching tuxedos, which Zady had decreed they should wear. While Caleb was being fitted, Marshall asked where the couple planned to go on their honeymoon. “Unless it’s a secret.” He’d read that some couples hid their destination, presumably to prevent crashers.

“We’d love a week or two in Italy,” Nick said. “Gondola rides, Michelangelo and Roman ruins.”

“Sounds like fun.” As a high school graduation present, Marshall’s parents had taken him on a tour of Europe.

“That’s a joke,” Nick said. “We’re planning a three-day weekend in Las Vegas.” That was a five-hour drive from Safe Harbor.

“Hard to get away for longer,” Marshall sympathized.

“Yeah. Hard when you max out the credit cards, too.”

As they left the shop, Marshall presented Caleb with his new bear. “Wow!” Dark eyes shining, the three-year-old inspected the furry animal in its tux.

Nick grinned his approval. “It’s a cutie pie, like my son. Thanks, Marsh.”

“My pleasure.”

Gazing at his brother and nephew, with their dark hair and lopsided smiles, Marshall felt his throat tighten. If only I had a son. Before that was possible, though, he had to find the right woman, and not get distracted by one whose approach to life was incompatible with his.

After his breakup with Belle, Marshall had had a few casual relationships during medical school and his residency in Boston. As a fellow in reconstructive surgery at the Cleveland Clinic, he’d tried an online dating site. Of the half dozen women he’d met for coffee, one had lied about her profession, one had asked him to prescribe painkillers for her, and another had talked about how she’d always dreamed of marrying a doctor. The others had been pleasant but uninspiring. No one had generated the kind of connection he’d felt with Franca.

Why did his thoughts keep homing in on her?

As Marshall said goodbye to Nick and Caleb, he recalled the previous day’s scene in the café, especially her distress over her foster daughter. It was exactly the kind of trouble that he suspected went hand-in-hand with fostering older children. How frustrating that she insisted on getting involved in such situations.

That fellow Axel could be dangerous, and in Marshall’s opinion, to put her daughter at his mercy showed Bridget to be an unfit mother. And there was nothing Franca could do.

The next child she took in might come with an equally risky situation. But no matter how much Marshall wished to protect her, Franca had a right to live as she chose.

How lucky Nick and Zady were, to be well-suited and in love. Over the next few days, Marshall’s nurse hummed as she went about her duties.

“What’s that you’re humming?” he asked on Thursday afternoon as he reviewed the face sheet for his next patient.

Zady’s blushed to the roots of her short reddish-brown hair. “Uh...darn. I can’t get it out of my mind. It’s ‘The Teddy Bears’ Picnic.’”

“Not a bridal march?” he teased.

“It’s Caleb’s favorite.” She leaned against the counter of the nurses’ station. “We were dancing to it with the tuxedo bear you gave him.”

“I’m glad he likes the toy.” Marshall smiled at the notion of her and his nephew dancing the stuffed animal around.

Kids were resilient, as Caleb demonstrated. The little boy had lost his mother in a boating accident last year, then adjusted to moving from his maternal grandparents’ large home to Nick’s one-story rental.

Marshall had been surprised when his nurse, who had hardly known his cousin, agreed to move in and babysit during Nick’s overnight shifts in exchange for room and board.

She’d explained that it was a great way to save money. Also, she’d been caring for her toddler goddaughter, Linda, for an extended period while the parents traveled on business. Zady had believed the little girl would enjoy having Caleb as a live-in playmate. Marshall, who’d stopped by with an occasional gift, had grown fond of both children.

One example where an untraditional model of parenting had worked out. Although with Zady and Nick getting married and Linda back with her parents, both children were now in more traditional situations. So what did that prove?

Marshall had no chance to dwell on it; his next patient was waiting. On the face sheet, the reason for the visit was listed as follow-up. Marshall had performed a vasectomy reversal on the patient eight months ago, and his sperm counts had risen and remained high since then.

“Why does Hank Driver need follow-up?” he asked Zady.

“He requested it,” she said. “He declined to state a reason.”

“Guess I’ll find out.” Marshall knocked on the examining room door, waited for a “Come in!” and entered.

A stocky man in slacks and a sport shirt swiveled toward him. “Hey, Doc.” The other man thrust his hand out and Marshall shook it firmly. He already knew the patient’s age was thirty-seven and his occupation was police detective, but he’d forgotten Hank’s disconcerting gaze, as he had one blue eye and one brown.

“Nice to see you,” Marshall said. “What seems to be the problem?”

Hank perched on the edge of the examining table. His light brown hair had begun to thin, but he was in good shape, without the potbelly that often signaled the approach of middle age for men.

“Are you sure everything’s okay with my sperm, Doc?”

At the computer terminal, Marshall brought up Hank’s records. “At your six-month checkup, your sperm count, motility and morphology were normal. Motility, you’ll recall, is the sperm’s ability to move effectively, and morphology refers to the shape. I can order a retest, but in my opinion, it’s too soon. Is there something specific that’s troubling you?”

Just because the surgery had succeeded didn’t rule out some other medical problem. Any symptom might be meaningful.

“My wife’s still not pregnant.” Hank blew out a breath. Twice divorced, the other man had obtained a vasectomy in the belief that marriage and fatherhood had passed him by. Then he’d fallen in love with a police dispatcher and remarried. He’d promised his new wife to do his best to reverse the procedure.

“The average period from surgery to conception is about a year,” Marshall advised him.

“Maybe so, but she’s thirty-five and she’s upset that it’s taking so long.”

Marshall read over the records again. “You told me previously that she had a full workup and no problems surfaced.”

Hank began pacing. “Sex with my wife is starting to feel like a race against time. She denies blaming me, but we can hardly talk without fighting.”

Marshall remembered the support group. Might as well see how Hank reacted. “Have you considered counseling? The hospital is considering starting a therapy group for male infertility patients.”

“Stop right there.” Hank scowled. “I’m not seeing some shrink.”

“There would be a team running the sessions, including our staff psychologist and me,” Marshall said. “I’d address medical questions that might arise.”

Hank’s expression softened. “Everybody in there would be guys?”

“Yes, except for the psychologist, Dr. Brightman.”

“And you recommend this?”

Marshall had to be honest. “I’ll admit I resisted when the idea was first raised.” He recalled Franca’s statements about the benefits of therapy. “However, I understand that infertility is stressful, and stress can have a medical impact.”

“Worrying can add to the problem?”

“Yes,” Marshall said. “Counseling can help you develop tools for dealing with the pressure. However, if you’d rather, you could both participate in a couple’s group.”

“Nah.” Hank folded his arms. “I like the idea of it being all guys. Less touchy-feely stuff. When did you say this program starts?”

“We haven’t set a date,” Marshall said.

“Keep me in the loop, will you?” the patient replied.

“I will.” Marshall jotted a note in the computer. After further discussion revealed no other concerns, they shook hands and Hank went out.

Marshall hadn’t formally committed to co-leading the group. Still, the other man’s interest indicated his patients might be more receptive than he had assumed.

Lost in thought, Marshall wandered down the hall. A throat-clearing sound drew his attention to Reid Winfrey, who tilted his head toward a commanding russet-haired figure standing near the nurses’ station. “Here to see you,” the other urologist murmured.

Fertility program director Owen Tartikoff seemed affable enough as he chatted with Reid’s nurse, yet the usually relaxed, wisecracking Jeanine had gone rigid. Surely she didn’t find the surgeon that intimidating. On the other hand, Owen had once fired a nurse who’d argued with him, Marshall recalled.

“Owen.” As he stepped forward, hand outstretched, Jeanine seized the chance to vanish into the break room.

“Marshall.” Tartikoff shook his hand firmly. “I heard from Jennifer Martin that you and Brightman might be starting a men’s group. Excellent plan.”

The director didn’t beat around the bush. “I’m surprised Jennifer mentioned it.”

“Her office is down the hall from mine. I stop in to keep current on hospital news,” Owen said.

His thoroughness was impressive. Also inconvenient, from Marshall’s perspective. “I assure you, the talks have been quite informal.”

“Let’s make them formal.” A steely command underlay Owen’s words. “It’s important for Safe Harbor to stay ahead of the curve.”

Talk about tipping points—the project had just flipped from potential to inevitable. “I’ll get on it.”

“Good man.” Clapping him on the shoulder, the surgeon nodded to Reid, who’d remained on the sidelines, and strode out.

“Wow, the big man himself,” Reid murmured. “I’ll be curious about how this group pans out.”

“Me, too.” En route to his office, Marshall rejected the impulse to request a meeting with Franca over the weekend. This was business, not a personal matter, and should be conducted during regular hours. After checking his schedule, he wrote her a quick email mentioning Owen’s interest and suggesting they confer Monday morning.

Marshall didn’t usually schedule surgeries on Mondays so he could be available to patients who’d developed severe problems over the weekend. Although urology involved fewer emergencies than many specialties, they did occur, and he also sometimes received urgent referrals from other urologists due to his advanced training in microsurgery.

He sent the email and received an immediate response. Eleven a.m. Monday, my office, okay?

Marshall sent a confirmation, and squelched an impulse to inquire if she’d heard anything more about her foster daughter. Or to ask her opinion about the toast he’d begun composing for the bride and groom.

He had no reason to involve her in anything not work-related. No reason at all.

* * *

SEWING DOLL CLOTHES cleared Franca’s mind. The simple tasks of laying out fabric on her cutting board, pinning the tiny pattern pieces, and cutting and then stitching them soothed her.

She jumped whenever her phone rang, though, in case it was news about Jazz. But it was always just the usual telemarketers. She struggled to be polite with them, since she’d read that many worked from home because they were disabled.

This past week, she hadn’t been able to start on the doll clothes without breaking into tears. But over the weekend, the turmoil of the previous Saturday’s encounter had yielded at last to a resolution.

If your dreams change, change with them. Instead of agonizing, she’d sorted through her options.

At thirty-three, Franca had a good chance of conceiving, but that would decrease with every year that passed while she searched for Mr. Right. Her best choice, she decided, would be to conceive via artificial insemination. She was fortunate to work at a hospital that offered a full range of services associated with AI.

Franca had no illusions about the challenge of raising a child on her own, and she believed fathers had an important role to play in children’s lives. Too bad her younger brother, Glenn, lived in Montana and was too far away to serve as a father figure, she reflected as the sewing machine flew along a tiny seam. She planned to research the psychological implications for her baby, but other moms managed.




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