The Would-Be Daddy

by Jacqueline Diamond

  It must be police detective Hank Driver, Marshall registered as Franca climbed out of bed. “What’s happened?”

  “Bridget’s been arrested.” Franca grabbed her clothes from the floor. “She asked for me to take Jazz.”

  Though it would be embarrassing for Hank to see them together, Marshall couldn’t let her go alone. “I’ll drive, if that’s all right.”

  “Thanks,” Franca said, and hurried to the bathroom.

  No time to consider how they’d deal with this development. Right now, Marshall’s job was to protect Franca, and to stay—he was starting to hate the word—flexible.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The address Hank had provided lay in the town’s northeast quadrant, adjacent to the freeway. En route, Franca couldn’t resist pressing her foot against the floor of Marshall’s silver sedan, as if to speed it up from the passenger side. It was fortunate that he’d offered to drive, because otherwise she’d have been a danger to herself and others.

  He’d leaped into action without comment, calmly but swiftly closing up the house and taking the wheel. She was grateful he didn’t speak, because she needed the silence to sort out her turmoil.

  According to Hank, Axel had been arrested with stolen items in his car. After obtaining a search warrant for his apartment, police had found enough evidence to put Bridget under suspicion as well. He’d provided no further details, saying the case remained under investigation.

  The Safe Harbor police were trained in sensitivity to arrestees’ children, Franca was aware. Unless they observed signs of abuse or neglect, they entrusted a child to an alternative caregiver designated by the parent rather than handing them to protective services. Mercifully, Bridget had requested her.

  Did Bridget intend for Franca to keep the four-year-old long-term, or was her request a stopgap measure? That might depend on whatever the charges were against Bridget and whether she was released on bail.

  How were these events affecting Jazz? Having police officers search her home and confront her mother must be frightening, no matter how sensitively they handled it.

  At the apartment complex, Marshall slotted his car into a space marked for visitors. “I’ll come in with you.”

  “Okay.” His willingness to stand by her without complaint or criticism was a good start. A good start to what, she had no idea.

  In her haste, Franca knocked on the wrong door. Marshall caught up with her. “It’s 214, not 114,” he said. Since no one answered, she was spared an awkward apology.

  With a hand on her spine, he guided her up the outdoor staircase. His strength steadied her.

  Hank must have been watching, because the stocky detective opened the door at their approach. “You got here fast.” He nodded at Marshall, although the detective must have been surprised to see him. And curious.

  “It felt like forever.” Stepping past him, Franca took in the cluttered living room, the coffee table covered with beer cans and take-out containers. On the walls, someone had tacked posters of tattooed motorcyclists and video game–style warriors. Bits of paper littered the worn carpet.

  Where was Jazz? Franca was about to ask when she spotted Bridget huddled in a chair, her light brown hair askew. “Are you all right?”

  “I screwed up.” Bridget frowned past her at Marshall. “What’s he doing here?”

  They’d run into each other at the café, Franca recalled. “I hope you don’t mind. Dr. Davis was with me when I got the call.” She kept her tone professional but gentle. Offending Bridget, especially in her fragile state, might affect her decision about Jazz.

  “He’s a doctor?” Bridget shrugged. “I guess that’s okay.”

  Marshall seemed about to reply, but apparently thought the better of it. His natural reticence was the perfect attitude in this situation, a counterpoint to Franca’s tendency to over-empathize.

  “Do you want me to call a lawyer?” she asked.

  “I already did.” Tears glistened against Bridget’s lashes. “That stupid Axel. And stupid me.” She said nothing further, probably aware that Hank was listening.

  Franca couldn’t contain her anxiety any longer. “Where’s Jazz?”

  “In her room talking to Officer Jorgas,” Hank said. “If you’ll hang on, I’ll check on the child.”

  Before he could move, however, an inner door flew open and a black-haired sprite darted out. “Mommy Franca!”

  Behind her appeared a uniformed police officer, her brown hair pulled into a bun. “She heard their voices. I couldn’t stop her.”

  “It’s okay, Jorgas,” Hank said.

  Everything else vanished from Franca’s awareness as she dropped to her knees on the carpet. She barely had time to brace before Jazz flew into her arms.

  * * *

  ON ENTERING, MARSHALL had been struck by the odors of beer and food scraps. While people might suffer financial hardship, they didn’t have to live in squalor.

  You aren’t here to judge. He shifted his attention to Bridget. Her wilted demeanor formed a contrast to the aggressive manner she’d shown several weeks ago at the café, yet in the jut of her chin he read a touchy pride. He wondered what she and her lout of a boyfriend had been involved in.

  In charged a little bundle of fear and joy. Although he couldn’t see Franca’s expression, he sensed her happiness as she hugged the girl.

  A glimpse of Jazz’s tearstained face above Franca’s shoulder wrenched Marshall’s heart. If only he could lower a shining globe of protection around them both.

  In her chair, Bridget shivered. When she glanced his way, he ducked his head to hide any hint of criticism. He didn’t want to arouse any further resentment from her.

  Franca addressed the girl in her arms. “Your mommy’s asked me to look after you for a while.”

  “I have to go with the police,” Bridget told her daughter. “I should be able to come get you soon.”

  That spelled another emotional rollercoaster for Franca, exactly what a pregnant woman didn’t need. And more disruption for Jazz.

  Marshall’s job was to soften the blows. Meanwhile, he forced himself to keep his peace.

  “Did I do something wrong?” Jazz asked her mother. Releasing her, Franca straightened.

  “Of course not.” Bridget reached out for her daughter’s hand. “Sweetheart, when grown-ups mess up, it isn’t a child’s fault.”

  To Marshall, that seemed like something Franca might say. Perhaps Bridget had learned it from her.

  Hank, who’d been talking with the other officer, swung around. At the sudden movement, Jazz shrank against her mother. “Make him go away!”

  “He won’t hurt you,” Bridget said.

  The detective squatted down to the child’s level. “Hi, Jazz. I’m Hank. You’re going home with Dr. Brightman—Mommy Franca,” he said. “While we take care of the paperwork, Officer Jorgas will help you pack, okay?”

  With a nod, Jazz went into the bedroom, followed by the uniformed woman. Hank addressed Bridget. “Please fill in Dr. Brightman about your daughter’s schedule, medical issues and habits.”

  “She’s more familiar with those than me,” the woman said. “Just show me where to sign.”

  Watching as Hank handled the paperwork, Marshall admired his patience. This was a far cry from the way TV shows portrayed law enforcement. The detective even checked that Franca had brought a car seat. Fortunately, she’d put one in Marshall’s car before they left.

  It was late by the time they hit the road. Franca sat in the rear next to Jazz, who drooped against her. The little girl hadn’t responded when Franca had introduced her to Marshall. He must seem like one more faceless adult drifting through her turbulent world. She had a lot to process, and was obviously exhausted.

  When they reached his driveway, Jazz stared at the house in confusion. “Is this a hotel?”

  “No, honey, it’s our new home,” Franca said.

  “Oh.”

  After parking in the garage, Marshall rounded the car to J
azz’s side. “Shall I carry her?”

  “Who’re you?” Jazz demanded.

  “This is my friend Marshall, remember?” Franca unbuckled the child. “He’s a doctor.”

  Jazz scowled. “I want him to leave.”

  “He lives here, too,” Franca said.

  Marshall held the car door for them. “I’m glad you’re staying with us.”

  Scrambling out of the seat, Jazz refused to meet his gaze. “Let’s get you to bed.” Holding the child’s hand, Franca took her inside. Marshall followed with the suitcase, a doll and a stuffed animal.

  He wondered how the house appeared to Jazz. Big and strange, no doubt. And from her past experience, she knew not to consider it permanent.

  His emotions were being tugged in opposite directions. While he could hardly wait for life to return to normal—the new normal in which he and Franca were lovers—he understood how upsetting it would be for Franca when and if her daughter left. Also, now that he’d visited the unkempt apartment on top of having met the brutish Axel, it troubled him to picture Jazz living under those circumstances.

  “Are you hungry?” Franca asked.

  The girl’s dark hair shook no.

  Upstairs in the playroom, Marshall set down the suitcase. Surely Jazz would relax when she found her familiar items arrayed around the space.

  Instead, her body went rigid. “Why is my stuff here?” Her voice trembled. “I want to go home!”

  Which home did she mean? Apparently Franca understood, because she answered, “When I moved here, I brought your stuff with me.”

  “I want my room!”

  Franca knelt beside her. “Honey, I live here now. This is a much nicer place. And tomorrow you can go to the hospital day care and play with your old friends. They miss you.”

  That did the trick. “Okay.”

  “Anything else I can do?” Marshall asked.

  “No, thanks. You’ve been great.” Franca’s weary smile reminded him of the tender moments that had been interrupted.

  “See you in a few minutes?” In front of Jazz, he stopped short of inviting her to his bedroom, but surely she’d be happier sleeping in his arms. And they could talk about the evening’s events.

  “It may take a while for Jazz to get settled.”

  “Of course.” He said good-night and went out.

  In his suite, Marshall left the door ajar and sat down to read a medical journal. But he couldn’t focus on the words as he listened to noises from down the hall. Franca’s soothing tones accompanied their movements as she showed the newcomer to the bathroom and took out sheets and towels.

  Would Bridget drag her daughter back and forth as she went through the legal process? It wasn’t fair to treat Franca as a free babysitter or subject a child to such uncertainty.

  The memory of that sour-smelling apartment twisted inside him. Taking in a foster child hadn’t been part of his plan, but he could never send Jazz back to that place. Marshall forced his attention on to an article about new techniques in freezing and thawing ovarian tissue. It offered the potential to preserve fertility for women facing chemotherapy.

  A shriek yanked him from his reading. Leaping up, Marshall broke into a run.

  * * *

  FRANCA WAS WELL aware that she ought to remain calm and reassuring, no matter what the provocation. That didn’t offset her physical exhaustion or today’s emotional strain.

  After reading a picture book aloud, she could barely stay awake. She was tucking Jazz into bed when, for the thousandth time, the little girl demanded to go “home” to their old apartment.

  “This is home now,” Franca snapped.

  “I won’t sleep here!” The tantrum reminded her of Jazz’s toddler days. “Take me to my mommy.”

  “Not tonight.” Franca barely refrained from pointing out that Bridget was no doubt at the police station this very minute.

  “I hate you!” the little girl lashed out, and swung her doll by the leg.

  When pain flared, Franca screamed. Instantly, she saw Jazz’s horror at inflicting injury on Franca. Then she heard heavy footsteps racing toward the playroom.

  Marshall. He’d been a pillar of strength for her, but to Jazz, he was a large, menacing stranger.

  Whatever he said or did now would make all the difference.

  * * *

  THE SIGHT OF Franca’s bleeding forehead sent rage jolting through Marshall. “What the hell?”

  On the bed, Jazz stuck out her lower lip. “My dolly hit her.”

  He took in the plastic figure the girl was clutching by its leg. “That’s a lie. You hit her.”

  “Marshall, she’s been through a lot.” Franca’s warning tone did nothing to assuage his anger.

  “Don’t make excuses for her.” Oddly, he heard his father’s voice infusing his, as if he were repeating words heard long ago, although he didn’t recall Upton Davis ever yelling at him. To Jazz, he roared, “Shame on you!”

  Her glare matched his. “Leave me alone. You’re a meanie!”

  Franca’s hand on his elbow tempered Marshall’s fury as her earlier words sank in. What did he expect from a kid who’d had such a rough upbringing? More quietly, he said, “Apologize.”

  “No!”

  Franca’s grip became insistent. “I’d like to speak to you outside.”

  His jaw clenched, Marshall accompanied her to the hall. She shut the door and led him far enough away that their voices shouldn’t carry.

  “I snapped at her, and she reached her breaking point,” Franca said.

  “That’s no excuse for hitting you.”

  “It isn’t serious.”

  “It could have been.” While Marshall didn’t wish to exaggerate, neither would he tolerate an out-of-control child who, at age four, was beyond the toddler stage. “What if she had kicked you in the stomach?”

  “She didn’t.”

  In view of the blood welling along the cut in Franca’s forehead, that failed to reassure him. “You’re in denial about how vulnerable you are. While I understand that she has to stay here for now, she’s big enough to harm you and the baby. Think about the future.”

  She stiffened, and when she tried to speak, no words emerged. Maybe she was gripped by mixed emotions, too. Being struck must have shocked her almost as much as him.

  “Let’s treat that cut.” In the bathroom, Marshall took antiseptic and an adhesive bandage from the medicine cabinet. After washing his hands, he cleaned the area around the injury and applied the bandage.

  “Will I live?” Franca asked wryly.

  “Hopefully for many years.” She still hadn’t responded to his comments. “What are you thinking?” he asked.

  “That what you and I share is precious, but I love Jazz.” She swallowed. “Don’t force me to choose.”

  “I hope it won’t come to that.” How could he risk alienating Franca? Also, she’d be in even more danger isolated with this unruly girl.

  Marshall understood the necessity of making allowances for a child in crisis. Nevertheless, he refused to abandon his basic values regarding his family, and those didn’t include tolerating physical violence. If Jazz behaved this way now, how much worse might she become around a baby, a rival for Franca’s affection?

  “It may not be our decision if her mother gets out on bail,” he said.

  “I realize that.” Franca folded her arms. “Marshall, there’s a lot about you that’s terrific.”

  “Hold on to that thought.” He didn’t ask about the “but” implied in her statement. No sense revisiting the fact that she considered him insensitive and unbending when he was only doing his best for her.

  She nodded, acquiescing. “I’d better go reassure Jazz that I’m not angry.”

  Although dubious about the risk of another tantrum, Marshall had to trust her judgment. “Call me if you need me. I promise to hang on to my temper.”

  “Will do.”

  They kissed lightly and held each other. Then she returned to the playr
oom.

  Filled with apprehension, he went to bed alone.

  * * *

  “ARE YOU OKAY, Mommy Franca?” Huddling beneath the covers, Jazz studied her anxiously.

  “Dr. Marshall fixed me up.” Franca sat on the edge of the bed.

  “My dolly was bad.” Blue eyes watched for her response.

  Marshall hadn’t been entirely wrong, Franca conceded. Jazz had picked up bad habits, such as blaming others for her actions.

  “Sweetheart, your dolly didn’t hit me. You did,” she said. “Even when you’re frustrated, it’s wrong to hurt others.”

  Jazz hugged her knees and stared fiercely at the wall.

  “When you get mad at your friends, you can’t hit them.” At day care, Jazz could be expelled if she lashed out physically.

  “I won’t.”

  “Now will you apologize?” Franca asked.

  Jazz bit her lip before saying, “What’s apologize mean?”

  She must have refused as a reflex. “It means saying you’re sorry.”

  “I’m sorry, Mommy.” The girl threw her arms around Franca and snuggled close. In a way, it reminded her of hugging Marshall a few minutes ago.

  She treasured his kindness, yet she couldn’t expect him to change his basic attitude toward parenting. Nor was it possible to transform a troubled child with a snap of her fingers. How could she care so deeply for two people who were utterly incompatible?

  If push came to shove, Franca had to choose the one who needed her most. And that was the child whose arms were wrapped around her right now.

  Her heart ached.

  Chapter Seventeen

  In the morning, Jazz demanded doughnuts for breakfast, which was what Bridget had been feeding her. When Franca refused, the little girl knocked over her glass of milk.

  Franca’s throat tightened at the sight of Marshall’s scowl. Not another showdown, please.

  Jazz righted the glass and mopped at the spilled milk with her napkin. “I’m sorry.”

  “Apology accepted,” he replied.

  That wasn’t easy for Marshall to say, Franca guessed. She was glad Jazz now understood what an apology was and when to offer one.