The Would-Be Daddy

by Jacqueline Diamond

  While he cleaned up, the little girl ate her oatmeal and fruit without further protest. She got dressed for day care promptly, too.

  Franca wasn’t naive enough to believe the storms had ended. She was grateful for the break, though. Take one day at a time, she repeated silently.

  At the hospital, eager greetings from friends brought out Jazz’s sunny side. Later, Franca got good news when she had her blood pressure checked. Despite recent events, it was within acceptable levels.

  Her nausea remained mild and she’d gained a healthy, modest amount of weight. Her assistant, Maggie, who’d been thrilled to learn of the pregnancy, recommended a visit to the Baby Bump for maternity clothes.

  “It’s early,” Franca responded as she headed into her office. “I still fit into my looser stuff.”

  “You’ll be sticking out to here before you know it. I did with my daughter.” Maggie had both a seven-year-old daughter and a teenage stepson.

  “You did a fine job of dropping the weight,” Franca replied. At nearly thirty, Maggie had a great figure.

  “I could still lose a few pounds.” The assistant shrugged. “Don’t worry. I’m not jumping into some diet fad.”

  Franca was pleased at having ducked the subject. No sense buying a bunch of clothes she’d have to donate to the thrift store if she miscarried.

  She had to stop thinking that way. A negative mind-set might affect her health. Also, she faced more urgent matters.

  Shortly after lunch came the nervously anticipated call from Bridget. “You’re out on bail?” Franca asked, after assuring her that Jazz was fine.

  “The judge released me on my own recognizance.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.” In her office chair, Franca tried to prepare for a demand to hand over the girl. She hoped Bridget grasped how hard it was on the child to be dragged back and forth. “I don’t want to pry, but are the charges against you serious?”

  Bridget didn’t flare up. Instead, she spoke candidly. “Axel got caught stealing packages off people’s porches. When the cops searched his car, they found fake IDs and other stuff.” She sucked in a deep breath. “We were stealing people’s identities online. I was dumb to let him talk me into this, but we were broke. Anyway, my lawyer says I might be able to cut a deal by testifying against him.”

  What did this mean for Jazz? Franca wondered. “A deal would let you avoid prison?”

  “That’s up to the DA.”

  “What about Axel?”

  “That’s the scary part,” Bridget said. “If he finds out I’m a witness, there’s no predicting what he’ll do.”

  Franca shuddered at the idea of that abusive man on the loose. “Isn’t he still in jail?”

  “His gang buddies might raise bail for him,” Bridget said. “I’m staying at a women’s shelter in case he gets out. Will you hold on to my daughter a while longer?”

  “Of course.” Although Marshall might not like this, he’d indicated he would let Jazz stay, at least temporarily. “Have you considered the long term, though? I’m not trying to push you.”

  The silence on the other end worried her. At last Bridget spoke. “I figured it would be easy to raise her now that she’s older, but she can be stubborn. Let me think it over, okay?”

  “Sure.”

  “Oh, I have a new phone number.” To prevent Axel from harrassing her, Franca presumed. “Ready?”

  “Yes.” As Bridget recited the number, Franca entered it in her cell.

  “I’ll be in touch soon. Tell Jazz I love her.”

  “You bet.”

  Swiveling her chair, Franca stared out the window. From five stories up on a clear June day, she had a view over the bluffs to the Pacific Ocean. Her thoughts were far from peaceful, however.

  If Axel were freed, Bridget might take her daughter and disappear, before or after the trial. Or she might agree to relinquish her permanently, in which case Franca would gain a daughter and lose the man she loved.

  She dreaded both possibilities.

  * * *

  AFTER FRANCA TEXTED that Jazz would be staying a few more days, Marshall resolved to make the best of the situation. If he tried hard enough, perhaps he’d break through the little girl’s shell and find the kind of loving spirit he treasured in Caleb and Linda. Her apology at breakfast had been a good sign.

  That evening, he offered to babysit while Franca shopped for maternity clothes. Jazz raised such a ruckus, however, that Franca took her along.

  “I’m the only stable person in her life,” she explained when he questioned her decision.

  “Aren’t you teaching her that it pays to throw a tantrum?” he asked.

  “Give the kid a break. She’s having a rough time.”

  So was Franca, he observed. However, arguing was pointless.

  At the office the next day, Zady asked Marshall to bring Franca and Jazz to a start-of-summer party she and Nick were throwing for Caleb that Saturday. “We’ve invited his grandparents and a bunch of his friends.”

  “Terrific.” Surely Jazz would enjoy a party, and seeing Marshall with Caleb might reassure Jazz that he wasn’t an ogre. “I have surgery that morning, so I’ll be late.”

  “Oh, it doesn’t start till noon. Nick works the overnight shift on Fridays and he sleeps in.”

  “That’ll be fine.”

  That evening, before Marshall could convey the invitation, Jazz refused to sit down to dinner. “I want a new dress!” She stamped her foot.

  “A girl at day care wore a pink dress similar to one she used to have,” Franca told him. “I gather it got stained and Bridget tossed it out.” To Jazz, she said, “When I have a chance, I’ll sew one for you. We can pick out the fabric together.”

  “I want it now!”

  “No, honey. Let’s eat.”

  It took ten minutes of stomping and pouting before the girl accepted defeat. During dinner, Marshall remained on edge in case Jazz knocked over her glass or otherwise created an uproar.

  However, she behaved, and went to bed calmly. “She’s behaved well this evening,” Franca said. “Maybe I should slip out and buy her the dress.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding.” Noting the concern on her heart-shaped face, Marshall understood the impulse to indulge someone you loved. But he didn’t believe that was the way to raise a child.

  “I suppose you’re right.” Franca curled beside him on the family-room sofa, her cheek on his shoulder.

  Remembering Zady’s invitation, Marshall repeated it to her. “It should be fun.”

  “I’d love to go.” Franca sighed. “I suspect a party is more than Jazz can handle at this stage, though. Any frustration will throw her off the rails.”

  Reluctantly, he agreed, and texted their regrets.

  Franca arranged for Jennifer Martin to babysit Jazz at her house during Thursday evening’s group session. The little girl jumped at the idea, excited about playing with Jennifer’s daughter, Rosalie. Her friend, being a year older, attended kindergarten rather than day care.

  At the session, the group received the happy news that Hank Driver’s wife was pregnant. “Also, we’re communicating better now,” the detective said. “She does trust me not to cheat, but she appreciated my reassurances.” He added that he’d decided to leave the men’s group. He and his wife planned to join one as a couple.

  After the session, he shook hands with Marshall and Franca. “How’s the little girl doing?”

  “Pretty well,” Marshall said.

  “I appreciate your calling me,” Franca put in.

  “This kind of situation is tough on kids.” Hank broke off as another client came up to talk to them. They had no chance to ask the detective anything more about the case.

  At home, a weary Jazz let Marshall carry her into the house. In his arms, she felt small and helpless, her face soft as she dozed.

  “Jennifer said she and Rosalie had a ball,” Franca told him on the way upstairs. He’d waited in the car while she went into Jennifer’s
house to pick up Jazz.

  Marshall gazed down at the child cradled against him. Perhaps he could grow to love her.

  On Friday afternoon, Cole Rattigan took Marshall on a private tour of the remodeled Portia and Vincent Adams Memorial Medical Building across the drive from the hospital. The new features included a curving front portico and a graceful, high-ceilinged lobby.

  The upper stories housed labs and operating suites for the men’s program. Despite the lack of carpet and furnishings, the two floors of office space were invitingly spacious.

  “It’s on track to be finished ahead of schedule,” the eminent surgeon said as they descended in the whisper-quiet elevator. “We decided to move up the official opening.” He provided a date near the end of June.

  “Isn’t that rather soon? There’s a lot of interior work unfinished.”

  “We won’t be able to move in by the opening.” The doctor finger-combed his overgrown brown hair. “But many staff members schedule vacations during July and August, and we’d like a full complement at the ceremony.”

  “That makes sense.” Marshall recalled the suggestions he’d read on the bulletin board. “Will there be a band? A light-and-sound show?” Or weird-shaped balloons?

  “Still to be determined.” Cole smiled. “Speeches! You can count on plenty of those.”

  As they left the building, it occurred to Marshall that while seeking advice, he’d never asked how Cole had won his wife, Stacy, who’d been his surgical nurse. According to the grapevine, she’d been pregnant with triplets but had initially rejected Cole’s proposal. “May I ask a personal question?”

  “Shoot,” Cole responded cheerfully.

  “You’ve heard that Franca and I are having a baby?”

  “Congratulations!”

  “She refuses to marry me,” Marshall admitted. “I could use ideas.”

  “You’re asking me?” Despite being nearly forty, Cole radiated a gleeful innocence. “I’m honored.”

  “Any tips from your experience?”

  The surgeon paused on the sidewalk. “Stace considered me clueless on how to be a husband, and she had a point.”

  “How’d you fix that?”

  “It was a steep learning curve,” the other doctor said. “I just kept plugging away at figuring out what she expected from me. I also had to accept that being a god figure in the OR didn’t mean I was one at home.”

  “So I’ve discovered.”

  “By the way,” Cole said. “If Owen Tartikoff suggests singing to her, ignore him.”

  “Why?”

  “He has a fantastic voice,” Cole explained. “Most of us are less gifted.”

  “Too late.”

  But the surgeon’s remarks echoed in Marshall’s mind. He was growing more aware of Franca’s emotions and views, and she seemed to be opening up to him. Perhaps eventually she’d accept him as being husband material, too.

  It would be easier if Jazz’s mom reclaimed her, yet the prospect troubled him. The child he’d carried to her room last night deserved a mother and a father, and showed signs of beginning to accept him. Once she adapted to their routine, she might not be so high-strung.

  At the end of the day, he was walking to his car when Zady phoned. “I’m picking up Caleb at day care. You should get over here.”

  In the background, he heard a little girl screaming, “Take me home! Our real home, not that new house!”

  He heard Franca’s voice responding. While he couldn’t discern the words, her tone was ragged.

  “I’ll be right there.” He thanked his sister-in-law and reversed direction toward the hospital.

  The day care center lay on the ground floor adjacent to the cafeteria. Near the entrance, Franca knelt beside the howling preschooler. The center’s director, Maureen Arthur, watched with folded arms, her glasses halfway down her nose.

  “We’ll go out to dinner,” Franca coaxed. “How about Waffle Heaven?”

  “No!” the red-faced girl cried. “I won’t go!”

  “You’re bribing her with junk food?” Marshall asked.

  Franca shot him a mind-your-own-business glare. “Waffle Heaven has salads.”

  “You’re rewarding misbehavior,” he said. As a psychologist, surely she knew that, but he supposed stress and emotions had the power to short-circuit rational thought.

  The day care director nodded.

  “Go away!” Jazz yelled at Marshall. “I hate you!”

  So much for warming toward him. It hurt to discover that while he’d believed they were making progress, the little girl still viewed him as the enemy.

  “We could eat at Krazy Kids Pizza,” Franca offered.

  “It’s best not to negotiate,” Maureen told her gently. “When a child throws a tantrum, try to distract her.”

  Or give her a swat on the bottom. That was what his parents would have done. Still, spanking a child who might have witnessed her mother being abused seemed like a bad idea.

  “Maybe I have a toy in here.” Franca dug through her purse.

  “I don’t want a toy!”

  Marshall addressed the child in a level tone. “This is a hospital. There are sick people here and your screaming hurts their ears.”

  Jazz appeared to be weighing his comment. Mercifully, she stopped shouting.

  Franca’s cell jingled. Plucking it from her purse, she scanned the readout. “Oh, dear. This is important.”

  “Dr. Davis and I will handle this,” the director assured her.

  “Thanks.” Franca retreated to a secluded corner.

  “Can I see them?” Jazz asked.

  Marshall focused on the child. “See who?”

  “The sick people.”

  “When you’re sick, do you want strangers coming in your room?” he asked.

  “I guess not.”

  “It appears you have this under control,” Maureen murmured. “You have a father’s instincts, Dr. Davis.”

  The compliment pleased him enormously. If only Franca had heard it, but she was absorbed in her conversation.

  * * *

  “WHEN I WAS growing up, I kept running away from foster homes,” Bridget said to Franca over the phone. “I had this fantasy about living with my mother. When I finally found her, though, she was a mess. Like I am now.”

  “That must have been awful.” Franca nearly held her breath, afraid Bridget would retract what she’d said moments earlier: that she’d decided to let Franca adopt Jazz after all.

  “I can’t handle being tied down with a kid. Maybe some moms can do that at twenty-three, but not me.” Bridget coughed. “And I’m scared.”

  “Is Axel out of jail?”

  “No, but I saw one of his gang buddies near the shelter.” Her voice trembled. “The address is supposed to be secret but... Maybe he was just in the neighborhood by accident.”

  “Did he recognize you?”

  “I can’t take that chance. I moved to another shelter, but what if he finds me again? This is no way to raise a kid.” Bridget went on to say that as soon as her legal troubles were resolved, if she didn’t land in prison, she planned to leave the area and start over. “I don’t want to haul Jazz halfway across the country. She deserves a real home.”

  Unexpectedly, doubts gripped Franca. How was she to raise two children alone, especially with Jazz lashing out? Well, she’d manage. She would never break her commitment to the little girl.

  “I can set up an appointment with Edmond.” He’d been invaluable during their previous adoption proceedings.

  “I like him,” Bridget agreed. “The sooner you can set it up, the better. And bring Jazz, will you? I want to assure her I love her, that this is for her sake.”

  “Of course. Let me call you back.”

  To Franca’s relief, she reached the attorney, who set a meeting for midday Saturday at his private office. After notifying Bridget, Franca clicked off with the most turbulent feelings she’d ever experienced.

  She stiffened her resolve. There wa
s no turning back from the path she’d set herself on, regardless of the fallout.

  Now she had to break the news to Marshall.

  Chapter Eighteen

  When Franca told him what had happened, Marshall was glad for her sake and for Jazz’s. Unless the girl’s unstable mother reneged again, Franca would finally get what she’d yearned for since that night when they had both howled their distress into the cavernous parking structure.

  Yet an icy rock formed in his chest during Franca’s summary of Bridget’s remarks. Marshall could summon only rote responses—“I see” and “Uh-huh.” Even if his coldness disappointed her, how could he explain his reaction when he didn’t understand it himself?

  A grumbling Jazz stopped playing with a tablet the day care director had lent her. “I’m hungry.”

  “We all are,” he said. And tired, and standing in a corridor within earshot of passersby. “Krazy Kids Pizza has play equipment.” Marshall often drove past the place on Safe Harbor Boulevard. “Let’s stop there for dinner.”

  “I thought you objected to bribing a child with junk food,” Franca remarked.

  “Since she’s no longer throwing a tantrum, this isn’t a bribe,” Marshall said. “It’s an executive decision.”

  “Might as well,” she conceded. “I’m in no mood to cook.”

  Since they’d arrived in separate cars, he didn’t get to listen while Franca broke the good news to Jazz.

  At the box-shaped restaurant, its interior teeth-achingly bright with primary colors, the little girl clung to Franca’s hand. If she was bursting with excitement or consumed by fear, Marshall couldn’t tell. Perhaps, like him, she was struggling to adjust to this development.

  The pizza lived up to its bad reputation: overly sweet tomato sauce and thin toppings on a cardboard crust. Jazz loved it. After downing two slices along with a few sips of juice, she dashed off to the welter of tunnels and platforms.

  His legs cramped beneath the red table, Marshall squinted in the lingering sunshine. They’d chosen an outdoor spot to be near the play equipment. It was also near exhaust fumes and traffic noise, although those shortcomings didn’t appear to bother their fellow diners. Young couples, middle-aged duos and grandparents chatted, played with their phones and watched the kids clambering about.