“Belle’s boyfriend?” Gail let out a whoop. “Have you told her?”
Franca sighed. “No, and I’m a little uncomfortable about it.”
“Well, she is married.”
“Still, it might be a sore point.”
“I always thought he and Belle made a handsome couple, but they were shallow, like a set of dolls,” Gail said.
“That’s interesting.” Franca had considered them well-suited. As far as she could tell, they’d never argued, unlike her and Marshall. “How about you? How’re things in Phoenix?”
“Hot,” Gail said. “Which is great for business, because everybody’s air-conditioning needs fixing.” Her husband, Tim, repaired heating and cooling systems, while she handled the bookkeeping and scheduled appointments. “How’s Jazz? Any chance of getting her back?”
“I’m afraid not.” Franca explained about the DA’s decision. “Losing her broke my heart. I always dreamed of adopting a foster child but I don’t think I can try again. It’s too painful.”
“Don’t give up on your dream,” Gail urged.
“At this point, my dream is to have a family.” Franca could no longer hold her anxiety in check. “I’m afraid of pregnancy, too. With our family’s medical history...” She stopped, distressed at having blundered into sensitive territory.
“I’m well aware of our family’s medical history, as you put it,” snapped her sister. “To me, it’s more personal than that.”
“I didn’t mean to be tactless.”
Franca sensed Gail struggling for control. “Let’s not discuss it,” she said at last.
“I agree.” Franca felt selfish for getting so caught up in her desire to confide that she’d offended her sister. “I’d appreciate your not mentioning Marshall to Mom yet.”
“I can protect a confidence.” Gail’s tone was frosty.
“Give my love to Tim.” After they said goodbye, Franca ended the call with a sigh. Instead of reconnecting with her sister, she’d opened a gap between them. And informing Gail about the pregnancy, when she eventually did, would be that much harder.
Her throat tightened. It hurt to keep secrets from the people whose support she valued most.
The scrape of the French door jerked her attention to Marshall, who stood in the opening. “Would you mind coming to my study? I have something to show you.”
She could use a change of pace, Franca thought, rising. “What is it?”
“A surprise.” With a smile playing around his mouth, he held the door for her.
* * *
DURING SURGERY, MARSHALL had the proverbial nerves of steel. Performing a song was entirely different.
He’d arrayed a couple of bouquets around the room to set a romantic scene. It hadn’t been easy sneaking them in, but he was satisfied to see they aroused Franca’s curiosity. “Pretend it’s a bower,” he said. “Okay, a bower with exercise equipment.”
“I’m afraid to ask what this is about. Why is it so dark in here?”
“Just go with it, okay?” Marshall had tilted the blinds to reduce the light spilling across his monitor. “Hold on a sec.”
On the computer, he clicked to the downloaded music. The speaker on this system wasn’t great, but it beat the tinny one in his phone.
Marshall pressed start. After a few bars of introduction, he launched into the song. “When you walk through a storm...”
Franca’s mouth fell open.
Despite an urge to hide under the desk, Marshall poured his soul into the lyrics about holding up your head and hanging on to hope. A chill ran through him; he wasn’t sure whether it sprang from the moving message or from anxiety.
The song reached its crescendo. While practicing, Marshall had murmured the melody and lyrics to keep from being overheard. Singing full-out proved more difficult. Still, he was doing okay until he hit, and shattered, a couple of high notes.
Finally, it was over. Franca stood motionless, staring at him. Stunned, or on the cusp of dissolving into laughter? Should he follow up by presenting her with a bouquet?
That would look ridiculous. Even more ridiculous than this entire serenade?
Finally, she spoke. “That was adorable.”
“Adorable?” he repeated, unsure how to interpret that remark. “As in cute and childish?”
“It was totally...” She swallowed. “I would never have...”
Marshall ventured closer. “Should I hire an interpreter?”
“It was fine,” Franca said. Then she did the one thing he hadn’t anticipated.
She broke into tears.
Chapter Fifteen
When Marshall wrapped his arms around Franca, she felt wonderful, and foolish. Why had she searched through her phone for someone to confide in when he’d been here all along?
Planning this wildly out-of-character ballad for her sake. Buying flowers to create a romantic mood. Pushing past his inherent restraint to reach out to her.
Embarrassingly, her tears yielded to sobs. When Marshall guided her to the sofa and onto his lap, she collapsed against him.
“Was I that bad?” he asked.
Laughter battled with her ragged emotions. Franca gulped for air before saying, “Of course not.”
Marshall reached for a box of tissues. As Franca accepted one, she thought of how often she’d performed the same kindness for her patients. And how wonderful it was to know that someone cared. Especially when that someone was Marshall.
They both spoke at once. “Why did you...?” And stopped.
Franca leaped into the gap. “Why the serenade?”
Marshall’s arms tightened around her. “The advice about cooking brought us closer, so I asked for more suggestions.”
“Someone advised you to sing to me?” Franca couldn’t imagine who would do such a crazy thing.
He nodded. “Owen Tartikoff.”
“The Owen Tartikoff?” As if there were more than one. “You’re telling me he sang to his wife?”
“He claims he did.”
Franca tried to picture the imposing surgeon crooning to his lady love. A hilarious scene, but touching. “What about the choice of music?”
Marshall’s cheeks colored. “He suggested it.”
“That very song?”
“It worked for him.”
Marshall had hit on exactly what she needed through dumb luck rather than insight. But they’d always had a tendency to stumble into the same place, whether physically or emotionally. “It worked for me, too.”
“Your turn,” Marshall said.
“I have to sing?” Aside from lullabies to an uncritical toddler, Franca hadn’t sung since college karaoke parties.
“I meant, to explain. Why are you crying?”
As excuses sprang to mind, Franca realized she’d become accustomed to deflecting difficult questions. Marshall deserved the truth.
Scooting off his lap, she sat beside him on the couch. “I’ve been talking to my sister.”
“Is she okay?”
“Yes, but...” Just go for it. “The women in my family have a history of miscarriages.”
“You mentioned your mother’s troubles,” he said.
“Well, she’s not the only one who’s had difficulties. My sister, Gail, and my aunt had repeated losses, too. Although no cause has been diagnosed, it might be genetic. That would mean I’m at an increased risk of losing the baby.”
Marshall stiffened. She could feel him pulling away. “Has your doctor found anything wrong?”
“No. But neither did Gail’s.”
“That’s a serious concern.”
“You’ve been generous, inviting me to move in while I’m pregnant,” Franca said. “If I lose the baby...” Well, the rest was obvious.
When she lost the child, she’d lose Marshall, too.
* * *
HE UNDERSTOOD NOW why a few abdominal twinges last week had sent Franca into a panic. Also, a miscarriage on top of losing her foster daughter would devastate even the stron
gest person.
“This is a lot to hold inside,” Marshall said.
“As a counselor, I know the importance of sharing one’s burdens. But I’m supposed to be a source of support for others,” Franca countered.
With his thumb, Marshall wiped moisture from her cheek. “As the father of your baby, I’m on your team.”
“If I miscarry, you won’t be the father anymore.” She drew in a shaky breath.
“You assume that would be the end?” He wished she had more faith in him. “After all these years, I’m not going to stop caring about you.”
“If this pregnancy falls apart, I may not be up to attempting another one,” Franca said. “Having children is very important to you. And I’m aware that you’d never choose to be a foster parent.”
Marshall couldn’t deny that children were central to his planned future, and to his happiness. As for fostering, her experience with Jazz had if anything reinforced his aversion to taking in a child who might never bond with him or might ultimately be taken away. That didn’t mean he’d abandon Franca.
“We don’t have to decide anything yet.” Marshall saw no point in battling about something that might not happen. “I’m glad you shared this with me.”
She smiled. “That was very sweet, singing to me. You showed me a new side of yourself.”
“Let’s build on that.”
Franca clapped her hands. “I don’t believe it! You sound like me during a group session.”
“Consider me a convert to therapy.” In the interest of truth, Marshall qualified: “To a modest extent.”
“All the same, I’m thrilled.” Her tears appeared to be forgotten.
“Moving forward,” Marshall said, “what shall we burn for dinner?”
“It’s only three o’clock.”
“We have to plan the menu and hit the supermarket.”
“Let’s go figure it out.”
At the store, Marshall goofed around, loading up the cart with cake mixes and tubs of icing “for all the parties we’ll throw.” French vanilla, triple chocolate, red velvet—how could he resist?
He didn’t specify that those parties might be for children. After all, grown-ups could enjoy them, too.
At home, while Franca napped before it was time to begin cooking, Marshall wandered into the playroom-turned-nursery. Usually when he regarded the princess-pink bedspread, the dolls and the stuffed animals, happiness coursed through him. Today, Franca’s disclosure made him keenly aware of the fragility of his dreams.
From atop a toy chest, he picked up a stuffed rabbit with floppy ears. Its button eyes peered at him wistfully. The little girl it belonged to was gone, and with her a big chunk of Franca’s heart. How dreadful if she—and he—had to face another loss.
From the window, Marshall gazed down at the cul-de-sac, serene in the lingering sunlight of early June. A small boy rode his tricycle along the sidewalk under his father’s supervision. At another house, two school-age girls sat on the porch with cell phones in hand. Judging by their laughter, they were texting each other.
From the day he’d discovered this house, Marshall had imagined his children growing up in it. When he’d learned Franca was pregnant, he’d thought his dream might finally be coming true.
In this quiet moment, he had to assess the implications of what she’d revealed. While miscarriages weren’t uncommon, most couples grieved and then renewed their attempts to have a family. What if Franca couldn’t do that?
Below, the boy’s mother called him and her husband inside for dinner. Marshall’s chest ached with longing to be like that man.
He visualized a Norman Rockwell painting of an idealized family gathered around the table, with just enough mischief to avoid mushiness.
Franca had been right that he sought parenthood to compensate for his own childhood. He yearned for the joy and acceptance he’d missed from his judgmental parents. Yet there’d been love, too.
Too bad you couldn’t buy a prepackaged future at the supermarket in the flavor of your choice. Instead, he and Franca would have to make the best of whatever fell into their cart.
If necessary, he’d be willing to adopt a healthy infant, not that he expected the process to be easy. Most importantly, Franca would have to accept him for who he was: a traditional guy whose idea of home didn’t include losing control to a system that could destroy your family without warning.
* * *
FRANCA AWOKE BATHED in fading light touched with gold as it sifted through the curtains of her bedroom. Marshall’s song ran through her head: “You’ll Never Walk Alone.”
It was reassuring that she truly didn’t have to walk alone. Until recently, Franca had steamed ahead, expecting help from no one. But pregnancy, coupled with distance from her family, had left her vulnerable. Things that had never bothered her before, such as the prospect of living alone in an apartment, scared her. In Marshall’s house, she felt safe.
The scents of broiling salmon and asparagus floated through the partly open door. Her stomach rumbled.
How luxurious, to sleep while Marshall fixed dinner. Franca washed up and smoothed the wrinkles out of her knit top. While her jeans had grown tight, she was reluctant to invest in maternity clothes just yet.
When she descended the stairs, a thrill of anticipation ran through her as she caught sight of Marshall’s lanky form moving about the kitchen. At the doorway, she halted to watch him.
Since college, she’d headed off any potentially serious relationship with a man to concentrate on her career and foster parenthood. She’d volunteered at a home for abused women, and taken in several foster children on an emergency basis before Jazz. She’d believed her lack of enthusiasm for the guys she met indicated she was fine without them.
She’d been deceiving herself. Without realizing it, she’d compared them to a man who attracted and stimulated her even when he infuriated her. A man they couldn’t match and whom she had never expected to grow this close to. This man.
His lazy smile enveloped her. “Welcome, beautiful dreamer.”
“Is that your next song?”
“There’s a song called ‘Beautiful Dreamer’?”
“You bet. Let’s search for the lyrics,” she said. “After we eat.”
“Everything’s ready.” With a few strides, Marshall reached the kitchen table—more comfortable than the island where they usually ate—and pulled out a chair for her.
He’d already set their places, Franca noticed. “You’ll spoil me.”
“That’s the idea.”
He eased her chair forward, his arms reaching around her and his cheek close to hers. Franca rested her head against his chest and wished she could stay there forever.
Hunger prompted her to straighten. “Okay, Chef Davis. Let’s sample your creation.” Earlier, she’d planned meals for later in the week while he’d kept tonight’s menu to himself. At the market, she’d been too amused by the variety of cake mixes in their cart to pay attention to what else he’d put in.
“Hope you like it,” Marshall said.
The salmon and asparagus, served with a salad, were delicious. “I’m glad you didn’t give up on Jack Ryder’s advice,” she said.
“Sorry?”
“About preparing dinner for me.”
Marshall paused with his water glass in hand. “I forgot about that. I wasn’t trying to impress you.”
“Even better.”
To her, the meal tasted better than anything she’d eaten in a restaurant. Once they’d finished, he brought out his laptop to search for “Beautiful Dreamer.” They listened to the Stephen Foster melody a couple of times, then found karaoke accompaniment and joined in together to sing.
Their voices rang through the house, the blend masking most of the muffed notes, in Franca’s opinion. Moving to the family room couch, they relaxed side by side with the laptop on Marshall’s knees, and ran through a series of other favorites.
“Be sure to thank Owen Tartikoff for me, if you
dare,” Franca teased.
“My other source of advice scored a home run, too,” he said.
“You mean Jack?”
“No, my brother. He told me to be flexible.”
“Amazingly, it worked.” Curling against Marshall, Franca tipped up her face to his. He set the laptop aside and drew her into a kiss.
How natural it was to taste his mouth and ruffle his hair. Then to rise and climb the stairs hand in hand.
They made love in his king-size bed, more slowly and gently than before. Her pregnant body had developed a heightened sensitivity, so that simply inhaling the scent of his skin sent her floating to the heights. The climax seemed to last for an hour.
Franca drifted off to sleep, snug and free of cares.
* * *
MARSHALL LAY AWAKE musing on this astonishing change in their relationship. Bonding with Franca had combined the best of the old days with their increased maturity.
If he’d had a clue how valuable advice could be, he’d have written to Dear Abby long ago. Maybe he still ought to, regarding how to handle his mother. But the answer was obvious: eventually, he’d have to confront her.
Perhaps she’d soften when she learned she was going to be a grandmother. He wasn’t eager to mention that to her, though. If Mildred dismissed this miraculous occurrence with a nasty comment, he might never forgive her.
He was dozing off when, dimly, he heard a phone ringing. Blinking awake in the darkness, Marshall took a few beats to register that it must be Franca’s phone. She didn’t move. Her hormones must have sent her into an unusually deep sleep.
On the carpet, he scrambled for her jeans and drew the cell from the pocket. The readout said Unknown Caller.
Should he answer? When she stirred, he clicked to answer and handed her the device. “It’s for you.”
Franca held the phone to her ear. “Dr. Brightman.” After a moment, she said, “Yes, I know Bridget. Please don’t call child services. Where is she?”
Who was calling and what had happened to Bridget? From the bedside table, Marshall took a pad and pen, and jotted the address as Franca spoke it aloud.
She listened with only a few comments such as “Really?” and “I understand,” before concluding, “Thank you, Hank. I’ll be there as fast as I can. Ten, fifteen minutes at most.”
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