The Would-Be Daddy

“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

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.”