The Would-Be Daddy

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.”