The Would-Be Daddy. Jacqueline Diamond

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      By the time she finished cleaning it up, Marshall was deep in conversation with her roommate, who’d been at her elbow. Tall and slim with ash-blond hair and tailored clothes, Belle radiated cool sophistication in contrast to Franca’s scruffiness.

      When Belle introduced them, Marshall had responded with a brief “hello” and a nod, nothing more. Okay, so I’m not his type after all, she’d thought. And had been reminded of that for the next two years as he and Belle dated.

      Yet they kept running into each other at events that would have bored her roommate: a lecture on recent archaeological finds, an experimental theater performance, a poetry reading. Afterward, she and Marshall had shared fervent discussions over coffee, discussions that only revealed their different opinions on everything from politics to the value of therapy to attitudes toward family.

      His views on child rearing were almost Victorian, while Franca had an affinity for hard-luck kids and a desire to become a foster parent. As with Jazz.

      Steeling her nerve, Franca turned left onto Safe Harbor Boulevard. No sign of Marshall’s car ahead, but then, she’d lingered for quite a while.

      She remembered Belle’s tear-streaked face when he’d broken it off with her after his graduation. Apparently Belle hadn’t met his high standards because she was struggling academically. Never mind that her troubles had stemmed from her attempt to cram in extra classes and finish early so she could move to Boston to be near him.

      Although the way he’d treated his devoted girlfriend had been cruel, it would be unfair to call him heartless, Franca reflected as she headed for the freeway and the half-hour drive to her apartment. Especially in view of his rumpled hair and distraught expression tonight.

      What could have reduced him to screaming in a parking garage? Well, one thing was certain: he wouldn’t be calling Franca Brightman, PhD, for a consultation.

      * * *

      IF LIFE WERE as precise, clean and well-structured as an operating room, Marshall would be a much happier man, he reflected the next morning as he performed microsurgery. Although he wasn’t fond of working on Saturdays, the scheduling was necessary due to the shortage of ORs. That would change once the new building opened, thank goodness.

      The patient, Art Lomax, a thirty-three-year-old ex-marine, suffered from a low sperm count and reduced sex drive. He longed to be a father and to satisfy his wife in bed. A man who’d fought for his country deserved a break, and Marshall was glad to be able to provide it.

      Seated at the console of the microsurgical system, he trained his eyes on the 3-D high-definition image of the patient’s body. Marshall enjoyed the way the controls translated his slightest hand movement to the instruments inserted into Lomax’s body. The delicate procedure, a varicocelectomy, would repair blood vessels attached to the patient’s testes, which produced both sperm and testosterone. Restoring them to normal functioning would enhance Lomax’s ability to father children and improve his sex drive, along with muscle strength and energy level.

      Around him, the surgical team functioned with smooth efficiency, from Dr. Reid Winfrey, the urologist assisting him, to the nurses who ensured that the right tools were ready to be attached to the machine’s robotic arms. The OR was a technophile’s dream. The overhead lighting generated no heat, while suspended cameras recorded the surgery for later review. An adjacent pathology lab allowed tissue to be tested during surgery so the surgeon could review the results without leaving the sterile field.

      Early in Marshall’s medical training, he’d felt uncomfortable in clinical settings because he lacked the gift of relating easily to people. The discovery of his talent for surgery had revolutionized his dreams.

      Focusing on the screen, he took little notice of the chatter among the surgical team. Then a name caught his attention.

      “Isn’t it awful about Franca Brightman’s little girl?” a nurse, Erica, commented to the anesthesiologist.

      “What about her?” The slender fellow, who sported a trim gray beard, perked up at the prospect of fresh gossip.

      “She was adopting this adorable four-year-old girl whose mom’s a convicted drug dealer,” the nurse said. “Apparently the mother had agreed to the adoption, but then she got sprung from prison due to an evidence snafu at the lab. Just like that, wham, she took the little girl away.”

      “That’s rotten.” Reid, an African-American urologist who shared Marshall’s office suite, frowned at her. The man did volunteer work with underprivileged kids, and had more than once described the harsh impact of parental drug use on children. “Surely a court wouldn’t hand a child over to a mother like that.”

      The petite blonde shrugged. “She isn’t a convict anymore, and the adoption was voluntary.”

      “How long was the girl with Franca?” asked Marshall. Belatedly, he realized he should have used the title Dr. Brightman. But it was too late, anyway, to keep their acquaintance a secret. When he’d referred several staffers and patients to Franca for consults, he’d mentioned they had a prior acquaintance.

      More than an acquaintance. Her anguish last night had shaken him. But he had no clue how to comfort anyone, especially a parent deprived of a child.

      He’d never fathomed why Franca planned to become a foster and adoptive mom to troubled kids when she could presumably bear children of her own. Sure, Marshall sympathized with the youngsters Reid counseled; he’d donated scholarship money to an organization his colleague recommended. But no matter how much he sympathized with their plight, wasn’t it natural to yearn for a little boy or girl who was yours from birth?

      “She’s been with Franca for a couple of years, half the kid’s life.” Erica peered up at the high-definition screen that showed the same image of the patient’s body Marshall was viewing on his terminal. Observing it helped the staff anticipate Marshall’s needs, plus many nurses took an interest in anatomy and physiology. “Jazz was pretty wild when Franca became her foster mom, I gather, but she was learning to trust that the world is a safe place. Until now.”

      “You seem to know a lot about it.” Marshall registered that the anesthesiologist gave him a speculative look due to his uncharacteristic show of interest, but he was too curious to care.

      “Jazz’s been attending the hospital day care center these past few months,” the nurse explained. “My son Jordan is friends with her.”

      Erica and her husband had a toddler, Marshall recalled. Recently, he’d become more aware of who had children.

      Part of the reason stemmed from learning he had a young nephew, and part of it from turning thirty-five. Many doctors delayed marriage and parenthood during their long training, but he’d moved past that stage. As his medical practice showed, men as well as women experienced a powerful urge to procreate. That was an intellectual way of rationalizing his gut-level desire to be a dad.

      But Marshall couldn’t consider fatherhood until he sorted out the shock he’d received less than a week ago. He’d never imagined that everything he thought he knew about himself could disintegrate with a single stunning revelation.

      That didn’t excuse him for howling like a banshee in his car last night. Luckily, the only person who’d overheard had been Franca, and he respected her discretion.

      With the last of the blood vessels repaired, Marshall yielded his position at the controls to Reid, who would close СКАЧАТЬ