The Would-Be Daddy

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.