Читать книгу The Would-Be Daddy - Jacqueline Diamond, Lori Copeland, Jacqueline Diamond - Страница 10

Chapter Four

Marshall inhaled the crisp sea air as he swiped his credit card in the parking meter. On a Saturday afternoon, he’d been lucky to find a space.

Seagulls mewed overhead as he descended the steps to the quay. Surf and souvenir shops lined the inland side of the wooden wharf, while small piers thrust outward into the harbor, tethered boats bobbing beside them in the water. In the breezy March sunshine, white sails filled the harbor.

To his right, past a tumble of rocks, stretched a beach dotted with a few brave sunbathers. During his teens, the beach had been popular with Marshall’s classmates, but he’d been too busy with Advanced Placement and International Baccalaureate classes to hang out at such places. However, he’d enjoyed the sounds and smells of the ocean on rare jaunts with family friends who’d owned a powerboat.

Ahead, at the Sea Star Café, outdoor diners basked in the comfort of warming devices shaped like metal umbrellas. No sign of Franca.

Inside the café, the scents of coffee and spices greeted him. Families and couples had claimed all the tables, and he was wondering if they should have chosen a less popular locale when he spotted a tumble of red-gold hair at a booth.

Hands cupped around a mug, Franca gazed out the window to her left toward the open ocean. In profile, she had a straight nose, a determined chin and long lashes. When she swung toward him, her mouth curved in welcome. She waved at almost the same moment that the loudspeaker squawked her name.

“I went ahead and ordered,” she explained when he reached her. “Hope you like pita sandwiches. You can have either the falafel and hummus or the Swiss and turkey.”

“Take whichever you prefer.” Marshall usually picked items that could be trimmed, such as sandwiches on bread. Still, he refused to become one of those fussy eaters who drove everyone around them crazy. He had even recently discovered the pleasures of pizza. “I’ll pick up the order.”

“I’ll hold down the table,” she said. “Either sandwich is fine with me.”

Marshall claimed their tray and on his return, handed her the falafel and hummus pita—definitely messier. He slid several bills across the table to cover his check. “No arguing.”

“Wasn’t going to,” she said.

He removed the plates, utensils and glasses of water from the tray, then carried it to a disposal station. “You’re always so neat,” Franca remarked.

“As opposed to?” He raised an eyebrow.

“Me.” She indicated a glop of hummus she’d spilled on the table.

“A little mess doesn’t bother me as long as it’s not mine.” Marshall had the sense he was being perpetually judged, thanks to his parents’ habitual criticism. He tried, not always successfully, to cut others more slack.

After a few bites of pita, he brought up the proposed counseling group. “Any suggestion for how to get out of this?”

“Are you sure we should?” Responding to his frown, Franca said, “This would benefit many patients. It also could reinforce Dr. Rattigan’s view of you as a key player in the department’s expansion.”

Marshall mulled the idea as he ate. Adding such a group did seem logical. “What exactly happens in a counseling group? If that isn’t a bonehead question.”

“It’s more a reflection on what medical schools teach doctors, or fail to teach them,” she said.

“I took courses in psychopathology and clinical psychiatry,” Marshall countered. “As well as serving a rotation in psychiatry.” Psychopathology was the study of the genetic, biological and other causes of mental disorders, along with their symptoms and treatments.

“Dealing with psychotics and how to medicate them?” Franca summarized.

“Basically, yes.”

“I figured.” Her nose wrinkled. “We won’t be dealing with psychotics. We’ll be helping ordinary people whose infertility creates problems for them.” Having finished her pita, she wiped her hands on her paper napkin.

Marshall reached across with his own napkin to dab the corner of her mouth. “Missed a spot.”

Startled, Franca lifted her chin, and her cheek brushed his hand. An electric tingle ran along his arm. “I could use an aide to follow me around and clean me up,” she said.

“Why bother, when I’m here?” he teased.

She smiled. “Promise you won’t do that in front of patients.”

“Promise you won’t eat a pita in front of patients.”

“It’s a deal.”

He returned to their topic. “I don’t mean to be dismissive, but why not refer troubled patients to Resolve?” The national organization assisted people coping with infertility.

“It’s a terrific group, but it’s a complement to therapy,” Franca said. “It doesn’t replace it. But I never answered your question.”

“About what happens in counseling?”

She nodded. “Infertility is a stressful experience. People often feel out of control and that they’ve failed. There’s loss and grief as well as financial concerns.” Fertility treatments could cost tens of thousands of dollars and were rarely covered by insurance. “Sharing your pain with others who are in the same boat can be a relief.”

“But why have a separate group for men?”

Franca took a sip from her mug. “Most infertility counseling focuses on the woman or on the couple’s relationship. But when the man is the source of the infertility, that can affect his feelings of masculinity and self-worth. And men in general have a harder time expressing their emotions.”

“That’s true of me,” Marshall conceded. Although he wasn’t entirely convinced, he’d run out of arguments. Moreover, an earlier comment of hers was rattling inside his head.

He’d assumed that by adopting, his parents had put to rest the issues associated with their infertility. Perhaps he’d been wrong. “Could those concerns persist after the couple adopts?”

“Certainly.” Sunlight through the window brought out the sprinkling of freckles across Franca’s cheeks. “A lot depends on the patients’ self-esteem and how they view adoption.”

“And therapy can help?” Too bad his parents hadn’t availed themselves of it. But that wouldn’t have suited their superior, stiff-upper-lip attitude.

“It isn’t a cure-all, but yes,” Franca said. “For example, adoptive parents worry whether there’ll be a temperamental mismatch and whether the child will bond with them as strongly as with a birth parent.”

“Or whether they’ll bond with the child?” Marshall asked.

“That, too.”

“You raise interesting points,” he said. “To me, therapy has always seemed unscientific, perhaps even...” He paused as a couple moved past them to claim an empty table.

“A weakness?”

“Yes.” He regarded her steadily. “I realize patients find it helpful. I’ve just never understood why.”

“I wish doctors underwent therapy the way psychologists do,” Franca said. “It’s part of our training.”

“Was it helpful to you?”

“Very.”

“In what way?”

“I learned to stop assuming I’m responsible for my mother’s happiness.” She tilted her head as she reflected. “Ten years ago, after my father died, my brother went his own way. My sister was already married and living out of state. So Mom focused her energies on me, insisting we talk for an hour every night. Sometimes she’d phone at lunch, too. It was intrusive, but I couldn’t bear to disappoint her. She’d always been more invested emotionally in her children than in my dad, despite their good relationship.”

“Why was that?” It had never occurred to him that children could be more important to a parent than the husband-wife bond.

“My mother had been married once before and had several miscarriages.” Franca hesitated, as if reluctant to confide too much. Odd, considering how readily she invited his confidences. Then she continued, “Her first husband couldn’t handle the disappointment and left. Mom never entirely recovered from that betrayal. So as you can see, I know about the fallout from fertility problems in my own family.”

“Surely things changed after she married your father, right?” He’d liked the elder Dr. Brightman when they’d met once at a campus event, although the man hadn’t spoken much. He’d puffed on an aromatic pipe and listened attentively to the conversation involving his wife, Franca and Belle.

“Yes,” Franca said. “Fortunately, there were no more miscarriages. But in a sense, I think she felt his loyalty had never truly been tested.”

An interesting insight—but not really relevant to today’s topic. “How did counseling help with your mom?”

“I had a frank talk with her about respecting boundaries,” Franca said. “I also suggested activities for her.”

“How’d she take it?”

“It upset her, and that upset me.” She sighed. “After a few rough weeks, she reluctantly joined a senior center. A couple of months later, she met a widower, and married him.”

“Is she happy?”

“Extremely.” Franca folded her hands on the table. “They moved to Reno, where his children live. She’s surrounded by grandkids, and except for the holidays, I’ve become barely more than a Facebook friend. A victim of my own success.”

That wasn’t the worst thing in the world. “If I were on Facebook, my mother would unfriend me,” Marshall muttered.

“Because of you and Nick being brothers? I don’t really understand how that happened.” Franca broke off as a server offered them each a chocolate chip cookie, courtesy of the café. “Thanks.” She set one on her napkin. Marshall accepted his and enjoyed the chocolate melting in his mouth while weighing how much to reveal.

He might as well spill it. The details would soon be all over the hospital anyway. “Nick’s parents allowed my parents to adopt me as a toddler. Upton Davis was much more successful financially, while my birth parents were nearly homeless. I gather they hadn’t planned on having two kids a year apart.”

Quentin Davis had stumbled from job to job, drinking heavily and refusing treatment for his bipolar disorder. Aunt Adina had held a series of low-paying positions, spending money whenever she had it and expecting it to fall out of the sky when she didn’t.

“How unusual that they chose to adopt the toddler rather than the baby,” Franca said.

“I presume Nick was still breastfeeding. Also, with a toddler, they had a better idea of how well the child was developing.”

“Aren’t you being a bit severe?” she asked.

“I know my parents.” Rather than elaborate, Marshall moved on. “My folks paid Adina and Quentin for an apartment and other living expenses, and insisted on secrecy in return. Until last week, I had no idea I was adopted.”

Franca rested her chin on her palm. “How’d you discover it?”

“Uncle Quentin had a crisis of conscience and decided to get it off his chest. He corralled Nick and me and dumped it on us.” Marshall pictured the graying, slightly stooped man as he’d sat at a conference table in the medical building just last Monday.

“Your mom must have been upset.”

“She implied I’m not her son anymore and refuses to have dinner with me or even talk to me.” When Marshall inhaled, his lungs hurt.

“It might be a knee-jerk reaction,” Franca said. “I can’t believe she means it.”

“She didn’t leave much room for doubt.”

“What about your birth mother? Do you have a relationship with her?”

“Aunt Adina died a couple of years ago. I never especially connected with her,” Marshall said. “But at thirty-five, I don’t suppose I need a mother.”

“Everyone needs a mother.” Reaching across the table, Franca cupped her hand over his fist. Instinctively, he relaxed beneath her touch. “Give your mom time. She’s hurting, and she lashed out at the person most closely associated with her secret—you.”

“If she refuses to see me, what am I supposed to do?” he asked bitterly.

“Write her a letter,” Franca advised. “Tell her you love her and that you’re here for her. She’s a mother, and once her initial shock eases, she’ll view things differently. Don’t let pride keep you apart.”

Pride. Marshall had plenty of that. “I suppose that’s good advice.”

Her smile froze on her face. Following her gaze, he spotted a little girl with black hair clinging to a woman’s hand as they entered.

Anguish transformed Franca’s expression, stabbing into Marshall as if the pain were his own. He’d never experienced another person’s emotions this keenly.

He didn’t have to ask what had hurt her. This must be her foster daughter.

* * *

EVERYTHING AROUND FRANCA VANISHED. All the light in the world haloed the little girl she loved.

Hard-won self-control barely held her in place. Then Jazz spotted her and the girl pelted across the restaurant screaming, “Mommy Franca!”

In an instant, the child was climbing onto her lap, hugging her. And Franca hugged back, tears flowing.

Bridget stalked toward them. Despite her jeans and cartoon-printed T-shirt, she looked older than her twenty-three years, thanks to her drug use. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“I’m sorry.” Franca struggled to catch her breath.

“Jazz, get down right now!” Bridget’s command whiplashed through the air.

“No!” The child burrowed into Franca.

Marshall sat quietly, observing. Franca felt both his sympathy and his reserve.

Around them, the café fell silent. Everyone was watching.

“Honey, you have to do what your mommy says.” Gently, Franca pried the little fingers from around her neck. “Don’t worry. I’m keeping your dolls safe and they’ll join you as soon as you have room.”

“I’m s’posed to stay with you. You promised!” The heartbreak in Jazz’s voice tore at Franca.

When she’d joyfully informed the child about the adoption, she’d never imagined that it might fall through. How could a child understand that grown-ups didn’t always have the power to keep their word?

“You live with your mother now.” Her chest tight, Franca eased Jazz to the floor. “How lucky you are. You have two mommies who love you.”

Bridget’s steely eyes lit with rage. “No, she doesn’t. She has one mother—me!”

Franca forced out the words, “That’s right.”

“Damn straight it is.” Until the man spoke, she hadn’t noticed him looming behind Bridget, his muscles bulging beneath a sleeveless T-shirt. Shaved head, coarse features and a scorpion tattoo on his neck. When had Bridget hooked up with this guy?

The notion of him having access to Jazz chilled Franca. But there were no bruises on the girl’s face or arms. She wasn’t sure whether to be grateful or dismayed that she had no grounds to call the police.

“Come on.” Bridget reached for her daughter’s hand.

The girl snatched it away. “No.”

“You heard your mother!” As if he’d been waiting for a chance to throw his weight around, the man grabbed the child’s arm. “Not another word out of you.” The man gave Jazz’s arm a yank.

“Axel,” Bridget warned.

Marshall uncoiled from his seat. He stood several inches taller, but lacked the other man’s heft. “You’re hurting the child.”

The man’s lip curled in a sneer. Then, as if becoming aware of the observers around them, he released Jazz. “Yeah, well, do what your mother tells you, kid.”

Jazz stood motionless, her tearstained cheeks a match for Franca’s. Clasping her daughter’s hand, Bridget led her along the aisle to the other side of the café.

Franca couldn’t remain there another instant. “I have to go.”

“Understood.” Marshall followed protectively as she headed for the door.

Franca supposed she ought to thank him for standing up to Axel, but she could hardly think for the noise in her head. Outside, she said a quick goodbye to him and rushed along the quay, pushing through the midday crowd.

But no sea breeze could dissipate her grief and guilt. She’d failed Jazz, regardless of where the fault lay. It burned like fire.

She lost track of Marshall until he started up the steps to the closest parking area. He paused, his forehead creased with worry. Kind of him, but this wasn’t his problem.

On Franca stumbled, toward the more distant lot where she’d left her car. She tried in vain to outrun the realization that swept over her, obliterating the destiny she’d pictured so clearly.

Franca could endure almost anything for a child in her care, but when she’d imagined relinquishment, it had been to a home where the little one could be happy and safe. Not this wrenching sense that she’d betrayed the girl’s trust.

She couldn’t go through this again, couldn’t risk letting down another child and having her heart shredded. But if she didn’t foster troubled children, what did that leave? She still wanted to be a mother.

Despite counseling fertility patients, Franca had never considered whether or under what circumstances she might give birth, because she didn’t plan to. Nor had she worried about finding the right man to be a father.

Her desire to foster children had struck a chord with her own mom. Franca was a middle child who had often gotten lost in the shuffle at home. It had been exciting and validating to see her mother’s excitement. Partly as a result, instead of dreaming about finding Mr. Right as her sister had, Franca had embraced an identity focused on motherhood.

Leaning against her station wagon, she felt confused and lost. At thirty-three, she’d believed she had a firm grasp on the future. Instead, a burning question darkened her horizon:

Now what?