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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 the tiny incisions. The surgery was only minimally invasive, so the patient should be able to go home later that day.
As for Marshall, he was heading home now, having completed three operations this morning. Much as he loved the two-story house he’d bought here in Safe Harbor, though, he was in no hurry to get there.
In the hallway, his footsteps dragged. Marshall needed someone to talk to, someone who could set him straight and provide perspective. Someone like Franca.
That would be a big mistake. In college, he’d recognized almost immediately that his attraction to her was wrong for them both. Instead, he’d tried in vain to fall in love with her roommate, who met all his requirements, or so he’d believed.
He’d survived for more than a decade without Franca to bounce ideas off. And he would continue to manage just fine.
At the elevators, Marshall punched the down button. A second later, the doors opened to reveal the other person he didn’t care to face right now. A man almost the same height, build and coloring as Marshall himself.
Dark circles underscored Dr. Nick Davis’s eyes from an overnight shift in Labor and Delivery that had obviously run long. He gave a start at the sight of Marshall, and for a moment, the air bristled between them.
Stiffly, Marshall stepped inside. “Hey.”
“Hey back at you,” said the cousin he’d disliked and resented all his life. And whom he’d just learned was his biological brother.
As the elevator descended, Marshall searched for a polite way to break the silence. “Rough night, Nicholas?”
“Buckets of babies.” Nick cleared his throat. “Say, I have a question.”
Marshall braced for whatever barb might come next. “Shoot.”
“Will you be the best man at my wedding?”
Chapter Two (#ulink_a06e781a-4fff-5b03-a110-14522880385b)
After meeting with a family at her private office in Garden Grove, fifteen miles north of Safe Harbor, Franca drove to her nearby home Saturday morning with her mind in turmoil. She’d insisted on retaining her old practice when she’d joined the hospital staff, partly in case the new job didn’t work out and partly because she refused to drop loyal clients.
She wasn’t sure how much good she’d done today, though; it had been an effort to concentrate on the conflict between an adolescent girl and her parents. However, they’d shown progress in their ability to set reasonable boundaries while respecting the teenager’s right to privacy.
At her apartment complex, Franca followed the walkway between calla lilies and red, purple and yellow pansies. In the spring, Jazz had been unable to keep herself from plucking the flowers until Franca explained that the blooms were for all the residents to enjoy. After that, the child had taken care to avoid picking or trampling them.
What a change from when she’d entered foster care. Jazz had lacked self-control, even for a two-year-old. Having a regular bedtime, eating three meals a day at a table and following rules about storing toys after use—everything was a fight. But beneath the stubbornness, Franca had sensed the child’s anger over having her world torn apart and her hurt at feeling abandoned. Distraught about facing trial, her mother, Bridget Oberly, had been a frequent no-show at arranged visits.
As a foster parent, it was Franca’s job to prepare the child to return to her mother’s care. The more self-sufficient Jazz became in terms of potty training and dressing, and the more she was able to obey rules, the better she’d handle her mother’s unpredictable lifestyle. Since her father had died in a gang shooting, her mom was parenting solo.
Gradually, she’d bonded with Franca, running to her for hugs and curling in her lap for story time. When Bridget agreed to an adoption, Franca had been deeply grateful.
She’d never imagined that her world could shatter so utterly.
Now she stepped inside her second-floor unit with a sense of entering paradise lost. She’d tried to enliven her simple apartment with personal touches: a multicolored comforter crocheted by her mother was draped over the couch, while on the walls, she’d hung framed photographs shot by her brother, Glenn, of the wildflowers and summer meadows near his Montana home.
At the doorway to Jazz’s bedroom, tears blurred Franca’s vision. The fairy-tale bedspread and curtains that she’d sewn herself, the shelf of books and the sparkly dolls remained unchanged, yet their princess was gone. Bridget had told Jazz she could take only a single suitcase because of their cramped unit. Franca wished she could drop by to check on the preschooler’s well-being and reassure her.
The ringing of the phone drew Franca back to the present. The caller was Ada Humphreys, owner of the Bear and Doll Boutique, where Franca had often taken Jazz to pick out toys and books.
“I just got a new catalog of doll-clothes patterns,” Ada said after they exchanged greetings. “That little girl of yours will adore them.”
Franca kept running into people who hadn’t heard the bad news. Despite a catch in her throat, she forced out the words, “Jazz is...gone.”
“Gone?” Ada repeated.
Franca summarized what had happened. “She trusted me to take care of her and I let her down.”
“I don’t mean to be nosy, but with her mother’s history of drug use, couldn’t you sue for custody?” Ada asked.
“My lawyer advised against it. He said there was no guarantee I’d win, and it might be counterproductive.”
“In what way?”
“Jazz’s mom may face retrial on the same drug charges,” Franca explained. “If that happens, it’s better for me to stay on good terms.”
“So if she’s convicted, she might relinquish Jazz to you again,” Ada said.
“Exactly.” Franca couldn’t keep the quaver from her voice. “Otherwise, my little girl could end up in the foster care system and I’d have no claim on her.”
“How awful,” Ada said. “But it’s fortunate Jazz had you during such an important part of her childhood. You’ve prepared her to succeed in school and life.” The mother of a second-grade teacher, Ada understood a lot about learning and child development.
“That’s a positive attitude.” Franca wandered into her own bedroom. On a side table, her sewing machine sat idle, threaded with pink from the Valentine’s Day dress she’d stitched for Jazz.
“I can understand you might not be making doll clothes for a while,” Ada said. “It’s too bad. Sewing is such a relaxing hobby.”
“I do enjoy it.” A puffy blue concoction on a hanger caught Franca’s eye—the bridesmaid’s dress from Belle’s wedding. Considering Belle’s usual good taste, why had she chosen such ugly gowns for her attendants?
Last month, Belle had pulled out all the stops in her wedding to a likable CPA. Franca had been glad to serve as a bridesmaid, despite the strain on her budget to pay for this awful creation, its bows and lacy trim more suitable for a Pollyanna costume than for a woman in her thirties. She wondered what the rest of the half dozen attendants would do with their froufrou getups. Donate them to charity? Use them in community theater productions? Clean the garage with them?
“Well, don’t be a stranger,” Ada said. “You never can tell when you might need a gift, or be in the mood to sew for fun.”
On a shelf, a couple of dolls that doubled as bookends caught Franca’s eye. How shabby they’d become, as had the dolls in her office. They underwent plenty of wear and tear in play therapy, where she used them along with stuffed animals, coloring materials and building blocks.
Franca hadn’t planned to drive to Safe Harbor today, but she refused to sit here and stew in her unhappiness. A visit to the Bear and Doll Boutique was exactly what she needed.
“You’re an inspiration,” she said to Ada. “My dolls deserve a new wardrobe, and I have a perfectly hideous bridesmaid dress to cut up.”
“Some of these new patterns are darling.” A bell tinkled in the background, signaling the arrival of a customer. “I’ll see you soon.”
After clicking off, Franca changed from her skirt and jacket into jeans and an old sweater. Since her hair was frizzing out of its bun, she shook it loose and ran a brush through it, which did little to tame the bushiness. But Ada wouldn’t care about Franca’s appearance, and she doubted she’d run into anyone else she knew.
Out Franca went, her mood lifting.
* * *
“BEST MAN AT your wedding?” Marshall repeated. He wasn’t ready to answer, nor to ask the question uppermost in his mind until he had a better grasp of the situation. “Have you set a date?”
“Yep, three weeks from now.” When the elevator arrived at the ground floor, Nick let him exit first. “There’s nothing like an April wedding, Zady says. Lucky for us, the Seaside Wedding Chapel had a cancellation.”
“Not so lucky for the couple who canceled, I presume,” Marshall said.
“Maybe they decided to elope instead.” How typical of Nick to look on the bright side.
As they passed a couple of nurses’ aides in the hall, Marshall heard the murmur that often greeted their rare appearance side-by-side: “Are they twins?”
He’d been irked in school by the striking resemblance between him and his cousin, who was a year younger. Wasn’t it obvious that Nick’s brown hair was a shade lighter, and that at six feet tall he lacked an inch of Marshall’s height?
Nevertheless, people considered them look-alikes. And since they were also close in age and shared a surname, teachers at their magnet science high school had often compared them academically. How unfair that Marshall had studied until his head hurt to earn top grades, while Nick, with his quick grasp of essentials and his unusually good memory, sailed from A to A.
After attending different colleges and medical schools, they’d accidentally landed at Safe Harbor Medical at almost the same time, which had created confusion among their colleagues. Good thing they specialized in different fields, Nick in obstetrics and Marshall in urology, or their patients might wind up in the wrong examining rooms. Or worse, the wrong ORs.
Nick must have heard the muttering, too. Rather than stiffening, he draped an arm over Marshall’s shoulders. “If they want to yammer about us, bro, let’s show ’em what pals we are. Okay if I mess up your hair?”
“No.” Marshall eased away from his brother.
Nick removed his arm. “Loosen up, man.”
“I’d rather not.” However, Marshall had no desire to renew the friction that had flared between them over the years. His perfectionist, high-achieving parents had encouraged him to scorn his freewheeling cousin and Nick’s irresponsible parents. They’d hidden a dark secret, though: unable to have children, Upton and Mildred Davis had adopted Marshall, their nephew, as a toddler. In exchange for their silence, Mildred and Upton promised to help pay the younger Davises’ household expenses.
That silence had lasted for nearly thirty-five years, until last Monday. Out of the blue, Uncle Quentin had confronted Nick and Marshall with the truth, explaining that he wanted to repair past wrongs. Instead, he’d simply dumped his burden on his sons, then taken off for his home a hundred and fifty miles away in Bakersfield.
Everything Marshall believed he knew about himself and his parents had been thrown into turmoil. Why had they been ashamed of his origins? Had they been so strict because they feared he’d turn out a mess like his birth parents?
As they exited the hospital via a side door, Nick asked, “Is that a no? I assure you, I have the bride’s approval.”
“Considering that Zady’s my office nurse, I should hope so.” Marshall didn’t wish to offend either his brother or the future Mrs. Davis, whom he liked and respected. Besides, being invited to serve as best man was an honor. “Of course I’ll stand up with you.”
On the path toward the parking structure, their strides synchronized. “Maybe we should rent different color tuxes,” Nick said cheerfully. “I’d hate for the bride to get confused and marry the wrong guy.”
Leave it to Nick to find humor in their embarrassing resemblance. “What exactly does a best man do?” Marshall asked. “Aside from making sure the groom shows up and doesn’t lose the ring.”
Halting in his tracks, Nick whipped out his phone. “Let’s see.”
“I didn’t mean for you to research it now.”
“We’ve only got a few weeks.” He tapped the screen.
Marshall gazed across the curved drive to the newly acquired building, where construction equipment buzzed. The Portia and Vincent Adams Memorial Medical Building—popularly referred to as the Porvamm—would provide much-needed operating suites, laboratories and other facilities for the men’s fertility program.
A little over a week earlier, two groups of doctors had nearly come to blows over how to allot the two floors of office space. Marshall and Nick had taken opposite sides, with Marshall in favor of keeping the entire Porvamm for the men’s program, while Nick and his comrades protested that they deserved a break from their cramped quarters.
Before open warfare could break out with scalpels flashing in the corridors, they’d reached a compromise. Encouraged by Zady, Marshall had proposed a concession, and last Monday the administration had agreed to assign a quarter of the offices to obstetricians and pediatricians.
“Duties of a best man,” Nick read aloud from the phone. “Serve as the groom’s adviser on clothing and etiquette. I think we can skip that part.”
“I know nothing about weddings, so I concur,” Marshall said.
“Organize the bachelor party,” his brother continued.
“Okay to video games and pizza,” Marshall said. “I draw the line at strippers.”
Nick laughed. “I’d love to see you plan a party with strippers, just to watch your face get redder than a blood specimen, but you’re off the hook. Because of the tight time frame, Zady’s skipping the bachelorette party, too.”
What other land mines lay in wait? Co-opting the phone, Marshall scanned the list. “I can make a toast at the reception, and I’ll be glad to dance with the bride and the maid of honor. Should I be squiring around the other bridesmaids, too?”
“There aren’t any.” Reclaiming the device, Nick resumed their walk toward the garage. “Just Zora as matron of honor.” The bride’s twin sister was an ultrasound technician. “You might have to ride herd on my future mother-in-law, though. She’s reputed to be a dragon.”
“You haven’t met her?” Marshall had presumed that introductions to the bride’s parents would be a priority.
“Zady doesn’t plan to invite her until a few days before the ceremony. That’s enough notice for her to fly down from Oregon but short enough to minimize the damage.” Nick shrugged. “I’ve heard many stories about the woman’s drinking and trouble-making. Zady’s plan seems sensible.”
Marshall hadn’t given any thought to what kind of wedding he’d have. If he’d ever spared a moment’s reflection on the subject, however, it wouldn’t include misbehaving in-laws. That brought up a delicate subject. “Will my mother be invited?”
“I put Aunt Mildred on the guest list.” Inside the parking structure, Nick halted beside his battered blue sedan. “Unless that’s a problem for you.”
“I doubt she’ll accept,” Marshall blurted. In response to his brother’s quizzical expression, he explained, “I tried to talk to her after Uncle Quentin dropped his bomb, and got nowhere.”
He still couldn’t refer to Nick’s father as “Dad.” That title belonged to Quentin’s older brother, who, to be fair, had been as hard on himself as he’d been on his adoptive son. A brilliant inventor of medical devices and a savvy businessman, Upton Davis had amassed a fortune. After his death five years ago of an aneurysm, he’d left half his estate to Marshall, along with a request to take care of his mother.
