The Would-Be Daddy

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.