The Would-Be Daddy. Jacqueline Diamond

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