The Would-Be Daddy

by Jacqueline Diamond

“But it makes more sense for her to live at my place. With a baby coming, it’s crazy for her to be driving so far every day and living alone,” Marshall protested.

  “May I speak as a doctor?”

  “What else would you speak as?” Grumpily, Marshall added, “Not to mention that I’m one, too.”

  “You work with men. I work with women,” Nick said. “Pregnancy does weird things to their bodies. Their hormones fluctuate, their ankles and breasts swell—drag your mind away from that image, right now—their hearts and lungs work harder, and let’s not forget the throwing-up part. All day, not just mornings.”

  While Marshall had learned all that in medical school, he hadn’t considered the impact on Franca’s moods. “That sounds seriously unpleasant.”

  “As I tell my patients’ husbands, your job is to be there for her,” Nick said. “In your case, you should be more flexible.”

  “I suck at being flexible.”

  “Do it anyway.”

  Marshall reminded himself that he’d come here for counsel. “Your input is appreciated.”

  “Glad to hear it.”

  On the way home, Marshall wished for some of the synchronicity that, in his college days, had often landed him face-to-face with Franca. But if he did run into her by accident, how did a man demonstrate flexibility when his gut insisted he was right?

  * * *

  WHILE EVERY OBSTETRICIAN at Safe Harbor was well qualified, Franca wanted to choose one who’d be on her wavelength. She decided on Dr. Nora Franco, whose four-year-old son, Neo, had attended day care with Jazz. She and Nora had broken the ice when, noting the similarity in their names, they’d joked that if Franca married into Nora’s husband’s family, she’d be Franca Franco.

  During one of their chats, Nora had confided that she’d gotten pregnant by accident. Although her policeman boyfriend was now her husband, Franca believed the obstetrician would understand the challenges she faced as a single mom.

  Despite a busy schedule, Nora was able to work Franca in late on Monday. After greeting Franca warmly, the tall blonde physician asked a few questions, reviewed her medical history and performed a physical exam.

  She confirmed a pregnancy of five weeks’ duration, based on the start of Franca’s last period. Now she was staring at the computer terminal.

  Shifting uneasily on the examining table, Franca tugged her skimpy robe tighter around herself. “Is anything wrong?”

  Nora shook her head. “The only thing concerning me is your blood pressure. It’s 130 over 80. That stops short of the danger zone, but it’s a little higher than your usual pressure, and normally BP drops during early pregnancy. That’s because progesterone relaxes the walls of the blood vessels.”

  “Could this cause problems?” Franca pressed.

  “Not unless it worsens significantly. Even then, we can treat it.” Nora wheeled her stool closer. “Are you under stress? Of course an unplanned pregnancy is stressful, but each person reacts differently.”

  Despite her worries about Jazz and her medical issues, what popped into Franca’s head was the bill she’d received for the next three months at her private office. The landlords had raised the rent, and she wasn’t sure she could justify the cost.

  “I’m weighing whether to continue treating private clients.” In fact, she had to rush there in a few minutes to keep an appointment. “But I can’t bear to let down people who’re depending on me.”

  “It’s wise to reduce any unnecessary strain.” Nora regarded her questioningly. “Do you have support from the father?”

  That’s too personal. “Some. The bottom line is, it’s my baby and I’m dealing with it.”

  “Any close family?”

  “Not around here. But I’m fine.” She wasn’t ready to notify them. Franca didn’t wish to upset Gail after what her sister had endured, and as for Mom, her fussing might drive Franca crazy.

  More than ever in the ten years since her father’s death from heart disease, she wished he were here. A psychologist, Evan Brightman had checked his kids’ homework, listened to their problems while smoking his pipe, and cracked jokes at the dinner table. Just a whiff of aromatic smoke could slam Franca’s heart with nostalgic longing.

  The doctor didn’t appear convinced that Franca was fine. However, she moved on. “I estimate your due date as December 15. You should have a baby for Christmas.”

  Last year’s holidays had been joyous, with Jazz’s adoption seemingly a done deal. Franca couldn’t bear to imagine what the holidays would be like without her. Was it possible she’d have her precious Baby Bright—short for Baby Brightman—or would she fail to save this child, too?

  Nora frowned. “How about sharing what you’ve been holding back?”

  Might as well go for it. “My mother had two miscarriages before carrying to term. My sister, Gail, has lost three pregnancies, and the doctors can’t find a reason. I’m afraid I’ve inherited the same tendency.”

  “While I don’t see any warning signs, let’s review common causes of pregnancy loss.” Franca was relieved Nora didn’t dismiss her concern.

  She cited chromosomal abnormalities in the fetus or bacterial infections, but those were usually onetime events, not repetitive. There was no untreated diabetes or substance abuse, either.

  “What does that leave?” Franca asked.

  “Polycystic ovary syndrome is associated with abnormally high levels of the hormone testosterone. We can test for that,” the doctor said. “Another risk is if the mother’s immune system attacks the embryo, viewing it as a foreign object. I’ll order extra blood work.” She tapped notes into the computer.

  Franca remembered that she had to rush to meet her client. “Do I have to do the labs today?”

  “Tomorrow or Wednesday would be fine.” Nora glanced up. “If you suffer cramps or severe abdominal pain and bleeding beyond a little spotting, call me at once.”

  “By then it will be too late, though, won’t it?” Nora sighed, and Franca added, “My sister had heavy bleeding. Fortunately her husband was there.”

  “Do you live alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Keep your cell phone within reach,” Nora said.

  Franca thanked the doctor, scheduled her next checkup and accepted a plastic bag of vitamins and product samples. The drive to her Garden Grove office took forty-five minutes in rush-hour traffic, and she narrowly arrived by six o’clock.

  Franca jogged into the one-story white building, where the receptionist was preparing to leave. The woman regarded her apologetically. “Your client just canceled.”

  “What?” Franca had to pause to catch her breath. “She didn’t call my cell.”

  “She phoned here.” The receptionist pulled on a sweater. “People tend to be evasive when they break commitments at the last minute.”

  “Did she ask for another date?”

  “She said you’ve done such a great job, she and her husband don’t need any more counseling.”

  If the decision was financially motivated, Franca would have offered a discount, but she might not be able to keep the practice open anyway. “Thanks for filling me in,” she said. “While I’m here, I should check my mail.”

  “It’s in your drawer. Do you mind locking up? Everyone else is gone.”

  “No problem.”

  After the woman left, Franca keyed open her private office. Not so private these days since she only used it some weekends and evenings, and she shared it with another counselor.

  In the drawer, she found only flyers and other junk. The rest of the room had an impersonal air. She’d moved most of the toys, books and drawing materials to the medical center.

  Nora had been right that she should be reducing her stress levels. Why had she clung to the notion that she was indispensable?

  Franca was locking the inner office when a sharp pain in her side sent her doubling over. Groping for support, she banged her leg against a chair.

  As she sank onto a couch, she register
ed that she might be suffering a miscarriage alone in an isolated building. In a panic, Franca took out her phone and instinctively tapped the first number that showed—Marshall’s. What was she doing? She should dial 911.

  Struggling to end the call, she fumbled the device. As she reached for the symbol to cut off the connection, she heard his voice say, “Franca?”

  “I think I’m losing the baby,” she blurted.

  Chapter Twelve

  A dark tide of worry surged through Marshall as he exited the freeway. True, Franca had reported after a moment that she’d experienced a single cramp and suffered no bleeding. But she still might be in danger.

  She’d claimed she was well enough to drive the short distance to her apartment. “I overreacted, that’s all. I’m sorry for disturbing you.”

  “For your sake and the baby’s, wait for me there.” Ultimately, she’d provided the address.

  In the clinic parking lot, Marshall broke into a run, his mind conjuring up a horrific scene of Franca collapsed on the floor. Yanking open the door, he was overjoyed to find her on a sofa, calmly leafing through a magazine. “No further problems?”

  “Just boredom.” A smile softened her mouth. “It was kind of you to rush over, but unnecessary.”

  “How do you feel?” He ached to touch her.

  “Embarrassed,” Franca said.

  He dropped into a chair. “Are you sure you’re both okay?”

  “Yes.” A pucker formed between her eyebrows. “But if it was over, I imagine you...that you might be...relieved.”

  “What?” Marshall shot to his feet. How had she developed such a disgusting idea about him? “Do you really have such a low opinion of me?”

  Franca’s small, warm hand caught his wrist. “Of course not. I misunderstood your reaction to the pregnancy.”

  “That’s one hell of a misunderstanding!”

  “You mentioned the morning-after pill.” She stroked his arm. “Sit down, Marshall. I’m getting a crick in my neck looking up at you.”

  He obeyed stiffly. “I brought that up for your sake. I had no idea how you felt about having a baby. I still don’t.”

  She wrapped her arms around herself. “While I wouldn’t have chosen these circumstances, I love this baby.”

  Then marry me! However, issuing commands might provoke a fight. How frustrating. When he’d tried to be empathetic and suggested the morning-after pill, she’d assumed he didn’t want the baby. If he pressed her to marry him, she’d assume some other wrongheaded thing.

  “Now that you can see that I’m fine, I’m heading home,” Franca said.

  “I’ll follow, okay? If you have any problems, flash your lights.”

  Her lips pressed together. Then, with a sigh, Franca conceded, “That’s kind of you.”

  “I’m on your side,” Marshall said. “Whether you believe that or not.”

  Her gaze searched his face. “You do have your moments.”

  What did that mean? Marshall refused to prolong their fruitless discussion. “Lead the way, madam.”

  Franca arose with no sign of pain. Marshall allowed himself to breathe again. She really was okay.

  * * *

  AS SHE LED Marshall into her apartment, Franca tried viewing the place from his perspective. Compared to his house, the living room was small, with plain, thrift-store furnishings. “Pretty far from a mansion at the beach,” she conceded.

  He smiled. “Yes, but it’s yours. Did you make the comforter?”

  “My mom crocheted it,” She fingered the bright colors thrown over the back of the sofa.

  “I can’t imagine my mother crocheting anything.”

  She remembered Mildred Davis stalking out of the wedding dinner. “Have you reconciled with her?”

  “Afraid not.” He studied the scenic photos. “Do these have special meaning for you?”

  “My brother shot them near his home in Montana.” She stretched, then froze when she felt a twinge in her abdomen.

  Fear flooded her, wildly out of proportion. You are not having a miscarriage. But the terror she’d experienced at the clinic hadn’t entirely dissipated. How desperately she loved Baby Bright, and how helpless she’d been to protect her child.

  “What is it?” Marshall caught her shoulder.

  “A minor aftershock from the spasm I had earlier. Nothing to worry about.”

  When he released her, Franca missed his support. Her knees had gone liquid, and she wanted to sit. But sinking into a seat would be like inviting him to stay.

  “You’re certain?”

  She searched for a neutral remark. “I’m just sore from lying on the examining table at Dr. Franco’s office.”

  “You had an appointment? I presume she’s running the appropriate tests.” Noting her dubious expression, Marshall elaborated. “When I broke the news to my brother, he reminded me how hard pregnancy is on a woman’s body.”

  He’d told Nick? Franca could have kicked him. “I was hoping to keep this quiet a while longer.”

  “Sorry. He isn’t a blabbermouth, though.” Marshall reflected on that. “But I suppose he’ll mention it to Zady.”

  “Who’ll spill to her twin.”

  “Who’ll inform her husband and housemates,” he conceded.

  “Next stop: the internet.” Franca’s irritation yielded to amusement at how readily she and Marshall fell into their usual banter.

  “Are you mad that I spilled the beans?”

  “I bow to the inevitable.” They ought to figure out how to respond to the inevitable gossip, but she had no energy for strategizing. “Let the chips fall where they may. Our colleagues will move on to fresh gossip soon enough.”

  Judging by his frown, Marshall hadn’t considered how others might react. Then he nodded. “You’re right. They’d find out, anyway.”

  “Exactly.” Casual tittle-tattle didn’t bother Franca. But if she miscarried, every sideways glance or attempt at consolation would turn a knife in the wound. Just as she was sure it did with her sister.

  Restlessly, Franca paced past Jazz’s room. Little doll faces and teddy bears peered back as if asking when their mistress was coming home.

  Marshall followed her gaze. “The fairy-tale theme reminds me of Caleb’s room.”

  “I’ll bet his isn’t pink and sparkly.”

  He smiled. “You must be saving everything until she comes home.”

  Ouch. “She isn’t going to. The DA dropped the case against her mother.”

  Marshall spoke in a deep rumble. “I know how much you loved her.”

  Loved her, past tense. Franca almost railed at him for dismissing her grief, almost protested that her love for Jazz would last until the day she died. But he was trying to comfort her, not minimize her loss.

  And she was grateful for his presence. Why did she have the urge to strike out at the man who’d run to her side when she called him? Because it would be too easy to lean on him when ultimately, the only person I can count on is myself. Doubly so if she miscarried.

  “You shouldn’t have to carry this burden alone,” Marshall told her. “I realize I speak at the risk of getting my head bitten off.”

  Franca would have laughed if she hadn’t hurt so much. “I don’t mean to be touchy. But I can handle it. I’m a big girl.”

  “Not a superhero, though.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “That you can’t do everything,” he said. “Commuting, working two jobs, living by yourself. All while growing a baby.”

  “You can’t help being bossy, can you?” she protested.

  “I’m trying to be flexible, but it goes against my nature.” Taking her hands, Marshall chafed them lightly. “Since I’m lousy at it, let me jump in with both feet. Move in with me. I have plenty of space and I live close to the medical center.”

  “We’ll argue. Like we always do.”

  “I’m sure you won’t hesitate to point out when I’m being a pain in the ass,” he said. “Like you always do.�
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  Franca had to admit that was true, and that he’d been remarkably patient with her outbursts. “You promise not to resent it when I tell you off?”

  “I may growl and sulk, but I’ll let it go,” he said.

  “Growl and sulk,” she repeated. “How can a woman refuse such a great offer?”

  Was it really a bad idea to move in with him, as long as she knew it wouldn’t last? Franca’s mother had been crushed by her first husband’s abandonment because she’d relied on his support after she’d lost two babies. And Belle had reorganized her class schedule and her future plans trying to please Marshall, only to be tossed aside when she fell short of his expectations.

  But forewarned was forearmed, as the old saying went. The man owned a dream house, he cooked breakfast, and he was studying her with enough heat to melt chocolate. Despite all that, Franca might have still resisted if this apartment wasn’t so achingly empty and if she hadn’t resolved to resign her position at the clinic. With the sense of stepping onto a shifting ice floe, she said, “I’ll have my own room?”

  She detected a flicker of disappointment in his eyes, but it vanished in a blink. “Of course. You can furnish it with your stuff. I’ll put the bed and dresser in the garage.”

  Replace his gorgeous furniture? “No, we can store my old junk.” What else should she address? “I’d be happy to pay rent.”

  “Rent?” His eyebrows shot up. “Not unless you want me to donate it to charity.”

  She already supported her favorite causes. Besides, having a child wasn’t cheap. “I’ll buy my own food, drive to work separately, and it’s only for the first trimester.”

  He’d been nodding along until the last part. “Why?”

  “By then, I’ll find a place of my own nearby.” Franca refused to risk letting her emotions tempt her to stay. Better to establish a limit up front.

  Marshall released a frustrated breath. “When does the trimester end?”

  “The middle of July.”

  “That’s less than two months!”

  “Take it or leave it.”

  A couple of heartbeats passed before he said, “Done.”

  He’d folded fast, perhaps believing he still had time to change her mind. Well, he’d fail. Meanwhile, moving in with him would solve a lot of problems.