The Would-Be Daddy. Jacqueline Diamond

Thursday afternoon as he reviewed the face sheet for his next patient.

      Zady’s blushed to the roots of her short reddish-brown hair. “Uh...darn. I can’t get it out of my mind. It’s ‘The Teddy Bears’ Picnic.’”

      “Not a bridal march?” he teased.

      “It’s Caleb’s favorite.” She leaned against the counter of the nurses’ station. “We were dancing to it with the tuxedo bear you gave him.”

      “I’m glad he likes the toy.” Marshall smiled at the notion of her and his nephew dancing the stuffed animal around.

      Kids were resilient, as Caleb demonstrated. The little boy had lost his mother in a boating accident last year, then adjusted to moving from his maternal grandparents’ large home to Nick’s one-story rental.

      Marshall had been surprised when his nurse, who had hardly known his cousin, agreed to move in and babysit during Nick’s overnight shifts in exchange for room and board.

      She’d explained that it was a great way to save money. Also, she’d been caring for her toddler goddaughter, Linda, for an extended period while the parents traveled on business. Zady had believed the little girl would enjoy having Caleb as a live-in playmate. Marshall, who’d stopped by with an occasional gift, had grown fond of both children.

      One example where an untraditional model of parenting had worked out. Although with Zady and Nick getting married and Linda back with her parents, both children were now in more traditional situations. So what did that prove?

      Marshall had no chance to dwell on it; his next patient was waiting. On the face sheet, the reason for the visit was listed as follow-up. Marshall had performed a vasectomy reversal on the patient eight months ago, and his sperm counts had risen and remained high since then.

      “Why does Hank Driver need follow-up?” he asked Zady.

      “He requested it,” she said. “He declined to state a reason.”

      “Guess I’ll find out.” Marshall knocked on the examining room door, waited for a “Come in!” and entered.

      A stocky man in slacks and a sport shirt swiveled toward him. “Hey, Doc.” The other man thrust his hand out and Marshall shook it firmly. He already knew the patient’s age was thirty-seven and his occupation was police detective, but he’d forgotten Hank’s disconcerting gaze, as he had one blue eye and one brown.

      “Nice to see you,” Marshall said. “What seems to be the problem?”

      Hank perched on the edge of the examining table. His light brown hair had begun to thin, but he was in good shape, without the potbelly that often signaled the approach of middle age for men.

      “Are you sure everything’s okay with my sperm, Doc?”

      At the computer terminal, Marshall brought up Hank’s records. “At your six-month checkup, your sperm count, motility and morphology were normal. Motility, you’ll recall, is the sperm’s ability to move effectively, and morphology refers to the shape. I can order a retest, but in my opinion, it’s too soon. Is there something specific that’s troubling you?”

      Just because the surgery had succeeded didn’t rule out some other medical problem. Any symptom might be meaningful.

      “My wife’s still not pregnant.” Hank blew out a breath. Twice divorced, the other man had obtained a vasectomy in the belief that marriage and fatherhood had passed him by. Then he’d fallen in love with a police dispatcher and remarried. He’d promised his new wife to do his best to reverse the procedure.

      “The average period from surgery to conception is about a year,” Marshall advised him.

      “Maybe so, but she’s thirty-five and she’s upset that it’s taking so long.”

      Marshall read over the records again. “You told me previously that she had a full workup and no problems surfaced.”

      Hank began pacing. “Sex with my wife is starting to feel like a race against time. She denies blaming me, but we can hardly talk without fighting.”

      Marshall remembered the support group. Might as well see how Hank reacted. “Have you considered counseling? The hospital is considering starting a therapy group for male infertility patients.”

      “Stop right there.” Hank scowled. “I’m not seeing some shrink.”

      “There would be a team running the sessions, including our staff psychologist and me,” Marshall said. “I’d address medical questions that might arise.”

      Hank’s expression softened. “Everybody in there would be guys?”

      “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