The Would-Be Daddy

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.”