The Would-Be Daddy

by Jacqueline Diamond

  Several men chuckled. Franca didn’t crack a smile.

  “Well, family interference appears to be a sore point for many of you,” she said. “Let’s consider how infertility affects your family members.”

  “It’s none of their business,” Cory declared.

  “That may be,” she said. “But imagine how it would affect you if a person you love, especially your child, was suffering and hurting.”

  “I never considered it that way.” He frowned. “I suppose I’d want to fix things for them.”

  “I wish our relatives didn’t act as if this is our fault,” another man said.

  “Even if my sister-in-law has good intentions, that’s no excuse for flaunting her pregnancy,” Burt put in.

  “Families are far from perfect,” Franca said. “Any crisis, and infertility is a crisis, can highlight problem areas.”

  “My cousin went through infertility treatments and described it in detail on her Facebook page,” one man said. “When she started urging us to do the same, my wife nearly strangled her.”

  “Each couple has a right to choose their own level of privacy,” Franca said. “Let’s discuss ways to set boundaries.”

  She recommended that, after making sure the partners were in agreement, they talk to each offending relative, stating explicitly what had to change. “Be polite but firm, and stay calm,” she said. “Don’t let people manipulate you by claiming you’ve hurt their feelings. And don’t forget to reinforce their positive behavior.”

  “How do we do that?” Cory asked. “Give them treats, like my dog?”

  Laughter rippled through the room.

  “One reward might be spending more time together,” Franca said. “Also, show an interest in what’s happening with them.”

  Marshall admired her perceptiveness. He wished he had more to contribute, but aside from emphasizing a point here and there, he simply observed.

  Toward the end, Hank Driver shot him a curve ball. “Do you have children, Dr. Davis?”

  “No,” he admitted. “I wish I did.”

  Franca’s forehead furrowed.

  “Just curious,” Hank said.

  After surveying the room in case anyone else wanted to speak, Franca said, “We’ve gone past our scheduled hour and a half. If you guys want to talk informally afterward, the cafeteria is open 24 hours.”

  “Thanks, but I had a long day,” Hank replied. The rest of the men echoed his sentiment.

  Finally the session ended. Chairs scraped as the men rose. Several shook hands with Marshall and Franca.

  “I’m glad you’re here, Doc,” the detective told him. “No offense to Dr. Brightman, but having a medical expert gives it a stamp of authenticity. And it helps to hear a man’s perspective.”

  “That’s why we’re both here,” Franca said.

  Once they were alone, Marshall gestured to the chairs. “I can put these away for you.”

  “The cleaning crew will straighten up tomorrow.” She fidgeted with the strap of her purse. “Don’t you have to be up early for surgery?”

  “I’m in no rush.”

  “I’m tired, and the powers that be have requested I write up my observations on tonight’s session for the morning.” She peered at her notes. “Whatever you’d like to include, please email me ASAP.”

  “I’ll do that.” He recognized she was giving him his cue to depart. But she sounded shaky, and he couldn’t leave her.

  After she locked the office, Marshall accompanied her along the hallway. Near the elevators, she said, “Don’t bother to wait,” and vanished into the ladies’ room.

  Although it was only 8:00 p.m. and security patrolled the hospital, a woman alone could be vulnerable. Taking out his phone, he leaned against the wall and checked his email.

  * * *

  PINK. FRANCA STARED at the stick. According to the directions, that meant a 99 percent chance she was pregnant.

  Most of her clients would be delirious with joy at such a result, but pregnancy posed a major risk to her health. All the same, it was miraculous, Franca thought as she rested a hand on her abdomen. A life had started that depended utterly on her—on a woman who hadn’t planned for it and whose womb might not be able to nurture it to term.

  Take it one day at a time. Oh, dear. That advice had been hard enough to follow during the past ten days. Now it frustrated her, because, ready or not, Franca had to prepare for the future.

  She wished her stomach weren’t churning, from hormones or anxiety or both. The awareness that she’d brought this about by practically dragging Marshall into bed did nothing to ease her discomfort.

  Marshall. Oddly, she longed for his presence—until she recalled that he’d suggested a morning-after pill. Despite her fears, she had to give any child its chance. Didn’t he? The man certainly sent mixed signals about wanting to be a father.

  Franca had to pull herself together. It would be unprofessional to lurch downstairs, visibly upset. There might not be many patients wandering about at this hour, but staff members would see her.

  She splashed water on her face, too upset to be careful where it splattered. As she stretched for the towel dispenser, she felt her foot slip on the wet floor.

  She grabbed the edge of the counter, but its smooth surface defied her. She couldn’t be falling. Not now. Not in this condition. Not like an idiot, flailing and struggling for balance.

  With a shriek, Franca lost the battle.

  * * *

  THE SCREAM SENT adrenaline shooting through Marshall. Thrusting his phone into his pocket, he yanked open the door.

  “Are you okay?” He rushed to kneel beside Franca on the floor, registering the water around her that must have been what sent her tumbling. “Did you hit your head?”

  “No, my hip.” She levered herself into a sitting position. “Clumsy as usual.”

  “Careful or you’ll slip again.” Assessing how best to aid her, Marshall noticed the box she’d knocked to the floor as well as the small stick nearby. The stick that had turned pink.

  That was why she’d been in here so long. This was the news they’d both been waiting for. He’d been aware this might happen. Why didn’t he feel prepared?

  Because such a miracle didn’t seem possible.

  Franca followed his gaze to the pink stick but didn’t comment. No explanation was necessary.

  Marshall dragged his attention to the present situation. “While I always enjoy having a nice sit on the floor of the ladies’ room, we should get up.”

  “By all means.” When he helped her to her feet, Franca winced and rubbed her thigh. “Don’t worry, it isn’t fatal.”

  “You didn’t hurt the...?” His mouth refused to form the word baby.

  “At this stage, no. I’m one big bundle of insulation.”

  After wiping the floor with a paper towel to prevent injury to anyone else, Marshall escorted Franca into the hall. “We should talk,” he said. “Do some strategic planning.”

  “I just got the news.” She ducked her head. “I’m not ready for this conversation.”

  “I’m not sure I am, either.” Glancing down at her scalp, he noticed a thin line of hair that was a brighter shade than the rest of her strawberry-blond locks. “You should stop dyeing your hair now that you’re pregnant.”

  “Excuse me?” Franca pulled away.

  He shouldn’t have blurted that. “Sorry.”

  “Marshall, I didn’t mean to snap at you that morning at your place,” she said. “I was upset about a lot of things. And I know you’re trying to be supportive. But the fact is, your instincts are all wrong.”

  “I’ve been told that before.” Damn, he was tired of walking on eggshells. “The bottom line is, we’re about to become parents.”

  “Yes, I got that.” Franca folded her arms.

  Why avoid the obvious? Marshall thought. The right path was clear.

  “Marry me,” he said.

  * * *

  TO HER ASTONISHMENT, Franca almos
t agreed. Despite the evidence of Marshall’s controlling nature—he’d ordered her to stop coloring her hair, for Pete’s sake!—she longed to lean on his strength.

  What a batty idea. If she miscarried, that would remove the entire reason for his offer. Even if she carried the baby to term, their differences would sooner or later make them both wretched. Franca had witnessed the destruction divorce caused on children and on adults, above all her mother. The best prevention was to avoid marrying the wrong man.

  Still, judging by the intensity in Marshall’s dark eyes, she believed his proposal was sincere. Marshall had a strong sense of duty. Thank goodness he didn’t whip a ring out of his pocket. She wasn’t sure what she’d have done—probably fallen over laughing and really injured her hip.

  “I have to say no.” With sadness, she watched his eagerness fade. “While I appreciate your desire to help, I don’t need a man to lean on.”

  “I’m the father,” Marshall said quietly. “I should provide for you and the baby.”

  Franca chose to be realistic. “I’ll accept support for the child’s sake. As for sharing custody, we can work out the details later.”

  “Once you recover from the shock, you should reconsider,” he said.

  “My brain cells are fully functioning.” She didn’t mean to be hurtful. “Marshall, you’re a great guy, but as I said before, we’re incompatible. We’ve always been honest about that.”

  “People can adjust their expectations,” he replied tightly.

  “And a few years later, they end up in my office, fighting like cats and dogs,” Franca answered. “Now I’m heading home.”

  “If you have any pain, call me,” Marshall said. “Correction: call 911, then me.”

  “Okay.” His concern felt unexpectedly reassuring. And given her shaky state, Franca was glad when he insisted on walking her out to the nearly empty parking structure.

  A little over a month ago, they’d been distant acquaintances howling to music in this same garage, united only by frustration with their individual problems. Now they were bound by a quirk of fate. That, and their own negligence.

  As she drove away, Franca checked her rearview mirror. Marshall stood motionless, watching.

  If I’d accepted his proposal, we’d be planning our wedding.

  Instead, she faced a half-hour drive to a lonely apartment and a cold bed. An apartment filled with memories of a little girl who would never return.

  It didn’t feel like home at all.

  Chapter Eleven

  To Marshall, asking advice meant showing weakness. He ought to be able to solve his own problems. But no matter how much research he did on the internet, it failed to produce a workable strategy for persuading Franca to marry him.

  By Saturday, he was almost ready to drive to her apartment and demand she reconsider. However, besides the near-certainty of rejection, he had no good counter to her argument that people who married for the wrong reasons ended up hating each other.

  Except that they wouldn’t be marrying for the wrong reasons. A child, and a friendship of many years’ standing, formed a basis they could build on. And shuttling between custodial parents was far from an ideal situation for a kid.

  And, as if he weren’t struggling enough already, the world was suddenly filled with pregnant women and infants in strollers. At the hospital, they jammed the elevators and the hallways. On the street, he passed parents gathering outside shops and urging their toddlers to hurry.

  Easy to grasp why patients couldn’t compartmentalize their fertility issues. Reminders intruded everywhere.

  As a last resort, he might as well seek advice, and how many men had a brother who’d been in basically the same situation? Nick’s girlfriend Bethany had become pregnant four years ago and, while Marshall had never met her, he’d heard she, too, had refused to marry the father of her baby.

  Nick’s experience might offer clues about what not to do. Also, his success with Zady indicated he’d learned from his failure.

  At the office, Marshall had heard Zady inform the other nurses that she and her sister planned to attend a movie this evening, leaving Nick and Caleb alone at the house. Playing with his nephew would be fun, and after the boy went to bed, the men could talk.

  He called Nick. “Sure, stop by,” his brother said.

  “I’ll bring pizza,” Marshall offered.

  “You hate pizza.”

  “Correction: I used to hate pizza,” he said. “You converted me.”

  “Okay. We usually order from Krazy Kids Pizza,” Nick replied. “Pepperoni’s a big favorite around here. Wait—you’re paying. Make that two large pizzas, one pepperoni and beef, the other mushroom and olive with extra cheese.”

  “My source tells me that Papa Giovanni’s pizza is superior, but otherwise, I agree to your terms,” Marshall said.

  “Your source?”

  “Cole Rattigan.” The head of the men’s program claimed to have a refined palate.

  “I bow to his expertise,” Nick said. “Also, Papa Giovanni’s is more expensive, so knock yourself out.”

  A few hours later, Marshall arrived laden with pizza boxes. Roses edged the front walk of Nick’s cozy ranch-style house.

  When the door opened, Caleb rushed forward. “Uncle Marsh! Yay!”

  “Pizza. Yay,” Nick said. “We worked up an appetite playing ball.” That accounted for his mussed hair and grass-stained T-shirt.

  “Sorry I missed it.” Marshall caught his brother’s skeptical expression. “Not really.”

  At the kitchen table, they polished off a good portion of the pizza. A child’s card game followed, with Caleb triumphing.

  With a little prompting, the three-year-old brushed his teeth and changed into pajamas. To Marshall’s pleasure, the boy climbed into his lap and handed him a picture book.

  The child dozed off halfway through. Marshall carried him to his pint-size bed, its headboard painted with fairy-tale characters. Nick pulled a patchwork quilt over his son, and they crept out.

  “He’s fond of you,” Nick said. “There’s no accounting for taste. Beer?”

  “Sure. Thanks.”

  In the living room, Nick sprawled on the couch and Marshall chose an armchair. “I have to admit, I had a second motive for coming tonight, besides seeing my nephew.”

  “Seeing your brother?” Nick asked.

  “A third motive.”

  “Shoot.”

  “I was wondering how you handled it when Caleb’s mother refused to marry you,” Marshall said. “This isn’t idle curiosity.”

  “Got a girl pregnant, did you?” Nick must have picked up Marshall’s involuntary start, because he hurried to add, “Sorry, man, that was harsh. Am I right?”

  Marshall shrugged. “Mind answering the question?”

  “I’ll start at the beginning.”

  “Go for it.”

  Nick and Bethany had met at a party. She’d been pretty, lively and wild. Unattached and blowing off steam after completing his residency, Nick had jumped into an affair.

  “We were both careless,” he said. “When we found out she was pregnant, she nixed my proposal and insisted on adoption.”

  “Adoption?” That obviously hadn’t happened.

  “Her parents talked her out of it because they longed for a grandchild,” Nick explained. “Beth still refused to marry me. She preferred living with them.”

  “Why?”

  “Big house. Free babysitting, laundry and housekeeping,” Nick said. “Besides, Beth and I weren’t in love.”

  “You stayed involved?” Marshall probed.

  “I visited and contributed to Caleb’s expenses, as much as I could.” Nick hadn’t inherited wealth as Marshall had. “After Bethany died in a boating accident last year, I brought him to live with me.”

  “Yes, I remember.” But none of that gave Marshall ideas for how to proceed with Franca. “In retrospect, do you think if you’d tried harder you could have won Beth over?”

 
“Doubtful, though the romantic approach never hurts.” Nick plopped his feet on the coffee table. “How did you propose to your girlfriend—I’m assuming you did, right?”

  “It went something like, ‘We should get married.’”

  “No wonder she said no, Uncle Marsh.” At the high-pitched pronouncement from across the room, Marshall’s hand jerked, spilling a few drops of beer on his slacks.

  “Hey, sport. You’re supposed to be in bed,” Nick gently scolded his son.

  Caleb folded his arms over his teddy-bear print pj’s. “Dad, tell him how we did it with Zady.”

  “We?” Marshall asked.

  “It was a joint proposal.” Nick grinned. “And you can do it better than me, kid.”

  “You go down on your knee.” Caleb demonstrated. He looked adorably earnest. “You need a ring, too.”

  “As sparkly as possible,” Nick said.

  “Yeah.” Caleb nodded vigorously. “Like in the movies.”

  “We’d watched a romantic comedy, which taught us the proper method.” Nick grinned. “Okay, killer, back to bed. Uncle Marsh and I are having a grown-up conversation.”

  Caleb arose with a show of dusting off his pajamas. “Don’t forget.”

  “Thanks for the tip.” Marshall listened until he heard his nephew’s door close. “I had no idea he could hear us.”

  “Zady says men’s voices carry in this house,” Nick admitted. “Let’s adjourn to the kitchen.”

  At the table, they finished their beer with slices of cold pizza. Marshall was glad his brother understood how hunger could strike again so quickly. “So the key is a romantic presentation?”

  “Depends on the woman and how she feels about you.” Nick’s fingers tapped the table. “It’s Franca, isn’t it?”

  “That’s private.”

  “Please remove the stuffing from your shirt and answer again.”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “And she turned you down?”

  “Let’s just say I won’t be lining up a best man anytime soon,” Marshall replied. “I don’t understand women.”

  “If you did, you’d be the first guy ever,” Nick said. “You have to take your cues from her.”