The Would-Be Daddy

“Any male urologist would do.” That was the best argument that came to mind. “Preferably one who has better people skills than mine.”

“Such as who?” Jennifer demanded.

Marshall’s mind skimmed over the urology staff. The head of the department, Dr. Cole Rattigan, had no spare time, since he and his wife were juggling fifteen-month-old triplets. Marshall’s suitemates were even newer to the hospital than he was and still honing their surgical skills under his supervision. It seemed wrong to pressure them into the job.

So how did he get out of this?

* * *

FRANCA SYMPATHIZED WITH Marshall’s deer-in-the-headlights reaction. However, she couldn’t dispute Jennifer’s reasoning.

“It’s worth considering,” she said. “Dr. Davis and I will discuss it.”

“Great!” Jennifer said. “Okay if I mention it to Mark?” Dr. Mark Rayburn was the hospital administrator. “Oh, and Cole, too?”

“What’s the rush?” Marshall asked irritably.

“Things are slow after the holidays. There’s not a lot happening in March. I’d love to publicize a new therapy group in the newsletter,” Jennifer explained.

“Give us a chance to consider how we might organize it and whether it fits into Dr. Davis’s schedule,” Franca said firmly. “Nice to see you and Rosalie.”

“Nice to see you, too.” To the obvious relief of her daughter, who was hopping up and down, the PR director departed.

“She doesn’t take no for an answer, does she?” Marshall growled.

“She’s not usually pushy,” Franca assured him. “But if we don’t want this foisted on us willy-nilly, we’d better present a united front.”

His jaw twitched as if he were about to dismiss the notion entirely. But Ada was observing them from the counter, and other voices were approaching from outside. “Let’s finish shopping and meet elsewhere to resolve this.”

“Good idea.” Not at her apartment, and Franca wasn’t about to suggest his place. “How about the Sea Star Café down by the harbor? I haven’t had lunch.”

“Is that still there?” Like Franca, Marshall had grown up in inland Orange County, but must have visited the harbor town over the years. “Yes, I’m hungry, too.”

Into the shop surged a couple of women shepherding children.

“See you there,” she said.

“Done.” He drew himself up to his full, rather impressive height. “Let’s get this squared away before it blows up in our faces.”

Would it be so terrible for them to coordinate a weekly group? she wondered, watching him move deeper into the store. Surely they could maintain a professional distance, despite her awareness of him as a man. And despite his disappointment in her new hair color. The picky comment reminded Franca of how exacting Marshall could be.

Franca flipped through the catalog and selected half a dozen patterns with adjustable fastenings, easy to remove for washing. After writing the pattern numbers on a notepad, she handed it to Ada.

The shopkeeper promised to order them that day. “I’ll text you when they come in.”

“Great.”

In an angled wall mirror, Franca spotted Marshall in the next room, lifting a formally dressed bear for inspection. Yearning transformed his face as he fingered the soft fur.

With a start, she recognized that look. She’d seen it on the face of her older sister, Gail, when one of their cousins had brought her baby to a family gathering. Gail had been devastated by repeated miscarriages.

Was Marshall eager to be a father? Perhaps Belle’s wedding photo had reminded him of how much he’d thrown away. But whatever promptings he experienced toward parenthood, Franca doubted he’d understand her torment over losing Jazz.

Marshall had made it clear long ago that he saw no reason to “invite trouble,” as he put it, from a foster child. For him, fatherhood meant a traditional home with two or three genetic children.

To Franca, motherhood meant loving children regardless of their origins. Despite growing up in a happy household with a psychologist father and a devoted mother, she’d had an immediate bond with the neglected and abused youngsters she’d met as a teen volunteer, along with a sense of destiny. In her twenties, she’d gone through the process to qualify as a foster mom. After caring for several youngsters, she’d given her heart to Jazz.

She had no desire to return to her lonely apartment. In contrast, eating lunch with Marshall didn’t seem so bad.

Reminded of their plans, Franca said goodbye to Ada and went out.

Chapter Four (#ulink_88940e6e-1b82-50b3-bbba-3e7e2b471f29)

Marshall inhaled the crisp sea air as he swiped his credit card in the parking meter. On a Saturday afternoon, he’d been lucky to find a space.

Seagulls mewed overhead as he descended the steps to the quay. Surf and souvenir shops lined the inland side of the wooden wharf, while small piers thrust outward into the harbor, tethered boats bobbing beside them in the water. In the breezy March sunshine, white sails filled the harbor.

To his right, past a tumble of rocks, stretched a beach dotted with a few brave sunbathers. During his teens, the beach had been popular with Marshall’s classmates, but he’d been too busy with Advanced Placement and International Baccalaureate classes to hang out at such places. However, he’d enjoyed the sounds and smells of the ocean on rare jaunts with family friends who’d owned a powerboat.

Ahead, at the Sea Star Café, outdoor diners basked in the comfort of warming devices shaped like metal umbrellas. No sign of Franca.

Inside the café, the scents of coffee and spices greeted him. Families and couples had claimed all the tables, and he was wondering if they should have chosen a less popular locale when he spotted a tumble of red-gold hair at a booth.

Hands cupped around a mug, Franca gazed out the window to her left toward the open ocean. In profile, she had a straight nose, a determined chin and long lashes. When she swung toward him, her mouth curved in welcome. She waved at almost the same moment that the loudspeaker squawked her name.

“I went ahead and ordered,” she explained when he reached her. “Hope you like pita sandwiches. You can have either the falafel and hummus or the Swiss and turkey.”

“Take whichever you prefer.” Marshall usually picked items that could be trimmed, such as sandwiches on bread. Still, he refused to become one of those fussy eaters who drove everyone around them crazy. He had even recently discovered the pleasures of pizza. “I’ll pick up the order.”

“I’ll hold down the table,” she said. “Either sandwich is fine with me.”

Marshall claimed their tray and on his return, handed her the falafel and hummus pita—definitely messier. He slid several bills across the table to cover his check. “No arguing.”

“Wasn’t going to,” she said.

He removed the plates, utensils and glasses of water from the tray, then carried it to a disposal station. “You’re always so neat,” Franca remarked.

“As opposed to?” He raised an eyebrow.

“Me.” She indicated a glop of hummus she’d spilled on the table.

“A little mess doesn’t bother me as long as it’s not mine.” Marshall had the sense he was being perpetually judged, thanks to his parents’ habitual criticism. He tried, not always successfully, to cut others more slack.

After a few bites of pita, he brought up the proposed counseling group. “Any suggestion for how to get out of this?”

“Are you sure we should?” Responding to his frown, Franca said, “This would benefit many patients. It also could reinforce Dr. Rattigan’s view of you as a key player in the department’s expansion.”

Marshall mulled the idea as he ate. Adding such a group did seem logical. “What exactly happens in a counseling group? If that isn’t a bonehead question.”