Читать книгу The Would-Be Daddy - Jacqueline Diamond, Lori Copeland, Jacqueline Diamond - Страница 9

Chapter Three

The rainbow colors of the toy store brightened Franca’s mood. What a joyful array of bears, dolls, accessories and children’s books, plus there was a large craft table that Ada used for classes. Although the store appeared small from the front, its depth encompassed several rooms, which was part of its charm: you never knew what delightful surprise lay around the corner.

Near the front counter, stuffed animals in fairy-tale outfits filled a shelf. A pink-gowned Cinderella pig beamed at her porcine prince. A polar bear Snow White shepherded an assembly of penguins, while a Little Red Riding Hood sheep held out her basket to a wolf in fleecy clothing.

“They’re darling!” Franca told the owner.

At the compliment, Ada tipped her head of champagne-colored hair. “I ran across them last week in the storage room. I try to rotate my stock.”

“They’re too precious to hide.” Wary of soiling the merchandise, Franca avoided picking up the wolf, despite her curiosity about how its fleecy costume had been constructed.

“I’ll fetch that new catalog,” Ada said. “Hang on.” She ducked behind the counter.

From within the store appeared a familiar dark-haired woman. As the hospital’s public relations director, Jennifer Serra Martin had interviewed Franca for the employee newsletter a few months ago. Discovering that they had a lot in common, they’d started meeting for lunch and scheduling play dates for their little girls.

“I heard about your daughter,” Jennifer said. “Franca, I’m so sorry. I can’t imagine what I’d have done if Rosalie’s birth mother had changed her mind.”

The five-year-old, a cutie with blond ringlets, trotted after her mother, clutching a panda. “Where’s Jazz?”

“I told you, Rosalie, she’s gone to live with her birth mommy,” Jennifer reminded her. “Honey, can you read a story to your new bear for a minute? I’m busy with Dr. Brightman.”

“You’re just talking!”

“Remember what I said about that?”

Rosalie screwed up her face as she searched for the answer. “Talking is how grown-ups play.”

“That’s right. And you hate when I interrupt your play,” Jennifer said.

“Okay, Mommy.” Rosalie perched on a chair and, panda in lap, picked up a picture book.

With her daughter settled, the PR director turned to Franca. “Have you thought any more about what we discussed?”

Franca’s memory yielded no clues as to what the woman was talking about. Suppressing an instinct to screw up her face like Rosalie, she asked, “What was that?”

“Ideas for new counseling groups,” Jennifer reminded her.

“Oh, yes. I’ve been reviewing possibilities.” The previous psychologist had established programs for infertile couples, for surrogate moms and for several other categories of patients. However, the hospital was expanding into many areas, and Jennifer had volunteered to brainstorm new groups with her.

“I had an idea I meant to share. Now, what was it?” Jennifer sighed. “Too bad I forgot to write it down.”

“It’ll come back to you,” Franca assured her.

“Probably at a totally inappropriate moment.” The dark-haired woman smiled. “When it does, I’ll text you immediately.”

Ada joined them with a pattern catalog. “I can order these at my discount—I’ll split the difference with you.”

“I’ll pay full price,” Franca told her. “I want you to stay in business.”

“Every little bit helps,” the older woman admitted.

Jennifer peered at the catalog. “What adorable little dresses!”

“Here’s the fabric I plan to use.” On her phone, Franca clicked to a photo of Belle resplendent in white, flanked by a half dozen attendants bedecked in frothy blue. “I’ll never wear my bridesmaid dress again.”

“Oh, dear,” Jennifer said. “Those are fascinatingly hideous.”

Ada took an amused peek. “Some insecure brides try to enhance their image by making their attendants as ugly as possible.”

Franca shook her head. “I doubt Belle did it intentionally.”

She halted as the shop’s glass door opened to admit a tall and much-too-handsome man with a shadowed expression. Even though Marshall instantly assumed a polite smile, her heart twisted. What was troubling him?

Still, his rumpled appearance from last night had yielded to smooth hair, pressed slacks and a navy polo shirt—a marked contrast to Franca’s scruffy state. She wished she hadn’t worn her oldest jeans and stained sweater. As for the condition of her hair, the less she thought about that, the better.

Distractedly, she said hello, and after Marshall exchanged greetings with Jennifer, Franca introduced him to Ada. She’d forgotten the phone in her hand until the picture caught his gaze.

“Belle got married?” His voice rang hollow.

“Last month.” Was this the cause of his distress? But that didn’t make sense after all these years.

Franca supposed she ought to mind her own business about whatever was troubling Marshall. But it wasn’t in her nature to ignore friends’ distress...even if they hadn’t consciously sought her input.

* * *

HOW IRONIC, MARSHALL mused as his pulse quickened. He’d been naive to believe himself safe from running into Franca here. Not that he was sorry.

In college, they’d frequently bumped into each other, as if drawn to the same locations. In truth, it hadn’t always been a coincidence. If he learned Franca was attending an event that interested him, he’d make a point of going, too. But there’d also been a synchronicity at work, he believed.

Now here they were. And Belle was still between them. Speaking of Belle, she appeared happy in the picture. No doubt she’d long ago forgotten her disappointment in him.

“She’s beautiful.” That was true of all brides, but especially of Belle, with her blond radiance. Yet her image failed to eclipse one particular bridesmaid. “As are you.”

Peripherally, he observed the PR director taking her little girl to the counter to pay for their purchases. He was glad not to have to include them in the conversation.

“No one could look beautiful in that dress.” Franca chuckled. “I plan to cut it into doll clothes. I’m here to pick out patterns.”

Marshall decided to explain why he’d stopped in, as well. “I figured my nephew, Caleb, might like a bear in a tux.”

“You have a nephew?” A pucker formed between her eyebrows. “But you’re an only child.”

They’d had a conversation once about the advantages and disadvantages of their situations, him as a singleton and her as the middle of three kids. How odd that the normally hyperactive hospital grapevine hadn’t yet broadcast the news to her.

“Nick and I were raised as cousins. We just learned that was a lie.” To his embarrassment, he had to clear his throat. Pull yourself together. “The short version is, we’re brothers and I was adopted by my aunt and uncle. Anyway, Nick asked me to be best man at his wedding next month, and Caleb’s the ring bearer. He’s engaged to my nurse, Zady. Nick is, not Caleb. But you got that.” He rarely stumbled over words. How embarrassing.

“Zady told me she was engaged,” Franca said. “I was honored that she asked me to save the date.”

“I see.” Up close, her cloud of reddish-blond hair made her amber eyes appear extra large, but Marshall noted there was something different. “Why did you change your hair color?”

Franca shrugged. “I was tired of feeling like Raggedy Ann.”

“I liked it.”

“You liked that I resembled a rag doll with red yarn for hair?”

“It was...you.”

“Exactly,” she said. “A mess. And I’m not fishing for compliments.”

“May I offer a word of advice?” Marshall plunged ahead before she could respond. “I realize you’re the expert on psychology, but you shouldn’t put yourself down.”

“Where’s this coming from?” Franca asked.

“From...” He broke off. In college, he’d been aware that Franca felt eclipsed by her stunning roommate. But he’d been in no position to explain that whenever he was around her, Belle faded. Nor did he wish to bring it up now.

Fundamentally, nothing had changed. Marshall had recognized from the start that his attraction to Franca was destructive. They were opposites who disagreed on many important topics, and whenever they were together for long, their arguments brought out the worst in each other.

“Never mind,” he said. “I shouldn’t have spoken.”

“Actually, you’re right,” she responded. “I was indulging in either self-pity or false modesty.”

“Nothing about you is false.” That skated too close to flattery for Marshall’s taste. He decided on a quick exit. “Good luck with your patterns.”

“Happy bear hunting.”

“Thanks.”

Before he could escape, Jennifer Martin turned from the counter and cried, “I remember!”

“Remember what?” Franca asked.

“I’ll leave you two to chat.” Marshall started to retreat.

“Wait, Dr. Davis!” Jennifer protested. “This concerns you.”

“Excuse me?”

“I have an idea for a new therapy group,” Jennifer burst out. “For men undergoing fertility treatments. How perfect if the pair of you ran it as a team!”

Teaming up with Franca to plumb patients’ emotions? The concept struck him as anything but perfect. “I’m not a counselor,” Marshall said. “Dr. Brightman is well qualified to lead such a group.”

“Men might hesitate to talk freely with a woman,” Jennifer said. “Also, while she’s a counselor, you have medical expertise. You’d be a great team.”

“She has a point,” Franca conceded.

“Any male urologist would do.” That was the best argument that came to mind. “Preferably one who has better people skills than mine.”

“Such as who?” Jennifer demanded.

Marshall’s mind skimmed over the urology staff. The head of the department, Dr. Cole Rattigan, had no spare time, since he and his wife were juggling fifteen-month-old triplets. Marshall’s suitemates were even newer to the hospital than he was and still honing their surgical skills under his supervision. It seemed wrong to pressure them into the job.

So how did he get out of this?

* * *

FRANCA SYMPATHIZED WITH Marshall’s deer-in-the-headlights reaction. However, she couldn’t dispute Jennifer’s reasoning.

“It’s worth considering,” she said. “Dr. Davis and I will discuss it.”

“Great!” Jennifer said. “Okay if I mention it to Mark?” Dr. Mark Rayburn was the hospital administrator. “Oh, and Cole, too?”

“What’s the rush?” Marshall asked irritably.

“Things are slow after the holidays. There’s not a lot happening in March. I’d love to publicize a new therapy group in the newsletter,” Jennifer explained.

“Give us a chance to consider how we might organize it and whether it fits into Dr. Davis’s schedule,” Franca said firmly. “Nice to see you and Rosalie.”

“Nice to see you, too.” To the obvious relief of her daughter, who was hopping up and down, the PR director departed.

“She doesn’t take no for an answer, does she?” Marshall growled.

“She’s not usually pushy,” Franca assured him. “But if we don’t want this foisted on us willy-nilly, we’d better present a united front.”

His jaw twitched as if he were about to dismiss the notion entirely. But Ada was observing them from the counter, and other voices were approaching from outside. “Let’s finish shopping and meet elsewhere to resolve this.”

“Good idea.” Not at her apartment, and Franca wasn’t about to suggest his place. “How about the Sea Star Café down by the harbor? I haven’t had lunch.”

“Is that still there?” Like Franca, Marshall had grown up in inland Orange County, but must have visited the harbor town over the years. “Yes, I’m hungry, too.”

Into the shop surged a couple of women shepherding children.

“See you there,” she said.

“Done.” He drew himself up to his full, rather impressive height. “Let’s get this squared away before it blows up in our faces.”

Would it be so terrible for them to coordinate a weekly group? she wondered, watching him move deeper into the store. Surely they could maintain a professional distance, despite her awareness of him as a man. And despite his disappointment in her new hair color. The picky comment reminded Franca of how exacting Marshall could be.

Franca flipped through the catalog and selected half a dozen patterns with adjustable fastenings, easy to remove for washing. After writing the pattern numbers on a notepad, she handed it to Ada.

The shopkeeper promised to order them that day. “I’ll text you when they come in.”

“Great.”

In an angled wall mirror, Franca spotted Marshall in the next room, lifting a formally dressed bear for inspection. Yearning transformed his face as he fingered the soft fur.

With a start, she recognized that look. She’d seen it on the face of her older sister, Gail, when one of their cousins had brought her baby to a family gathering. Gail had been devastated by repeated miscarriages.

Was Marshall eager to be a father? Perhaps Belle’s wedding photo had reminded him of how much he’d thrown away. But whatever promptings he experienced toward parenthood, Franca doubted he’d understand her torment over losing Jazz.

Marshall had made it clear long ago that he saw no reason to “invite trouble,” as he put it, from a foster child. For him, fatherhood meant a traditional home with two or three genetic children.

To Franca, motherhood meant loving children regardless of their origins. Despite growing up in a happy household with a psychologist father and a devoted mother, she’d had an immediate bond with the neglected and abused youngsters she’d met as a teen volunteer, along with a sense of destiny. In her twenties, she’d gone through the process to qualify as a foster mom. After caring for several youngsters, she’d given her heart to Jazz.

She had no desire to return to her lonely apartment. In contrast, eating lunch with Marshall didn’t seem so bad.

Reminded of their plans, Franca said goodbye to Ada and went out.