The Would-Be Daddy

“Yes, except for the psychologist, Dr. Brightman.”

“And you recommend this?”

Marshall had to be honest. “I’ll admit I resisted when the idea was first raised.” He recalled Franca’s statements about the benefits of therapy. “However, I understand that infertility is stressful, and stress can have a medical impact.”

“Worrying can add to the problem?”

“Yes,” Marshall said. “Counseling can help you develop tools for dealing with the pressure. However, if you’d rather, you could both participate in a couple’s group.”

“Nah.” Hank folded his arms. “I like the idea of it being all guys. Less touchy-feely stuff. When did you say this program starts?”

“We haven’t set a date,” Marshall said.

“Keep me in the loop, will you?” the patient replied.

“I will.” Marshall jotted a note in the computer. After further discussion revealed no other concerns, they shook hands and Hank went out.

Marshall hadn’t formally committed to co-leading the group. Still, the other man’s interest indicated his patients might be more receptive than he had assumed.

Lost in thought, Marshall wandered down the hall. A throat-clearing sound drew his attention to Reid Winfrey, who tilted his head toward a commanding russet-haired figure standing near the nurses’ station. “Here to see you,” the other urologist murmured.

Fertility program director Owen Tartikoff seemed affable enough as he chatted with Reid’s nurse, yet the usually relaxed, wisecracking Jeanine had gone rigid. Surely she didn’t find the surgeon that intimidating. On the other hand, Owen had once fired a nurse who’d argued with him, Marshall recalled.

“Owen.” As he stepped forward, hand outstretched, Jeanine seized the chance to vanish into the break room.

“Marshall.” Tartikoff shook his hand firmly. “I heard from Jennifer Martin that you and Brightman might be starting a men’s group. Excellent plan.”

The director didn’t beat around the bush. “I’m surprised Jennifer mentioned it.”

“Her office is down the hall from mine. I stop in to keep current on hospital news,” Owen said.

His thoroughness was impressive. Also inconvenient, from Marshall’s perspective. “I assure you, the talks have been quite informal.”

“Let’s make them formal.” A steely command underlay Owen’s words. “It’s important for Safe Harbor to stay ahead of the curve.”

Talk about tipping points—the project had just flipped from potential to inevitable. “I’ll get on it.”

“Good man.” Clapping him on the shoulder, the surgeon nodded to Reid, who’d remained on the sidelines, and strode out.

“Wow, the big man himself,” Reid murmured. “I’ll be curious about how this group pans out.”

“Me, too.” En route to his office, Marshall rejected the impulse to request a meeting with Franca over the weekend. This was business, not a personal matter, and should be conducted during regular hours. After checking his schedule, he wrote her a quick email mentioning Owen’s interest and suggesting they confer Monday morning.

Marshall didn’t usually schedule surgeries on Mondays so he could be available to patients who’d developed severe problems over the weekend. Although urology involved fewer emergencies than many specialties, they did occur, and he also sometimes received urgent referrals from other urologists due to his advanced training in microsurgery.

He sent the email and received an immediate response. Eleven a.m. Monday, my office, okay?

Marshall sent a confirmation, and squelched an impulse to inquire if she’d heard anything more about her foster daughter. Or to ask her opinion about the toast he’d begun composing for the bride and groom.

He had no reason to involve her in anything not work-related. No reason at all.

* * *

SEWING DOLL CLOTHES cleared Franca’s mind. The simple tasks of laying out fabric on her cutting board, pinning the tiny pattern pieces, and cutting and then stitching them soothed her.

She jumped whenever her phone rang, though, in case it was news about Jazz. But it was always just the usual telemarketers. She struggled to be polite with them, since she’d read that many worked from home because they were disabled.

This past week, she hadn’t been able to start on the doll clothes without breaking into tears. But over the weekend, the turmoil of the previous Saturday’s encounter had yielded at last to a resolution.

If your dreams change, change with them. Instead of agonizing, she’d sorted through her options.

At thirty-three, Franca had a good chance of conceiving, but that would decrease with every year that passed while she searched for Mr. Right. Her best choice, she decided, would be to conceive via artificial insemination. She was fortunate to work at a hospital that offered a full range of services associated with AI.

Franca had no illusions about the challenge of raising a child on her own, and she believed fathers had an important role to play in children’s lives. Too bad her younger brother, Glenn, lived in Montana and was too far away to serve as a father figure, she reflected as the sewing machine flew along a tiny seam. She planned to research the psychological implications for her baby, but other moms managed.