Jacqueline Diamond - The Would-Be Daddy

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.

Marshall had done his best. How sad that his mother no longer wanted his help.

“You told her that you now know you’re adopted?” Nick leaned against his car.

“Uncle Quentin beat me to it.”

“How did she react?”

“Badly.” When Marshall had called Thursday night to confirm their usual dinner date on Sunday, she’d dismissed him coldly. “She said now that I’ve learned I’m not really her son, not to bother. Then she hung up.”

“That’s harsh, even for Aunt Mildred,” Nick said.

“I’ve called but all I get is her voice mail.” How could his mother reject him for something that wasn’t his fault? She was the one who should be apologizing, yet Marshall hadn’t asked for that.

To him, Mildred would always be Mom. His birth mother, Adina Davis, had died of lung cancer two years ago. Thanks to the family’s secrets, Marshall had never had a chance to know the woman who’d given birth to him except as a charming but volatile aunt.

“Give her a chance to recover,” Nick said. “She’s never been the warm, cuddly type.”

“There’s an understatement.” Might as well raise the other issue on Marshall’s mind. “I suppose your father is on the guest list.”

“Yes. Zady requested it. She’s more generous than I am after he let us down.” In addition to hiding the truth about Marshall, Uncle Quentin had abandoned his wife and son when Nick was ten. “I may tolerate his presence, but that doesn’t mean I forgive him.”

For once, the two of them agreed on something, Marshall thought. And for all that he’d lost by his parents’ deception, at least they’d been there for him.

Mercifully, neither he nor his brother showed signs of their parents’ mental instability. Although about 50 percent of the children of bipolar patients suffered from a psychiatric disorder, sometimes the odds worked in your favor.

“The important thing is that you and Zady enjoy your wedding.” Curiosity propelled Marshall to ask, “How’s Caleb reacting?”

Although his nephew’s conception four years ago had been an accident, he’d proved a blessing to Nick. Named after their grandfather, the boy had come to live with his dad after his mother’s death in a boating accident.

“He’s excited about being the ring bearer.” Nick grinned. “That’s another duty of the best man—supervising my son. Hope that’s okay.”

“It’s fine. More than fine.” Marshall had felt an immediate attachment to his nephew when they’d met a few months ago. If he had a kid, he’d relish every minute of the boy’s—or girl’s—childhood.

“I’ll email you with whatever we decide about tuxedos. I’d prefer a dark suit, but I doubt Zady will go for that,” Nick said.

“I’m sure she’ll keep me informed.” Noting the exhaustion on his brother’s face, Marshall remembered that the man had been on duty all night. “Go home.”

“Gladly.” Lifting a hand in farewell, Nick ducked into his car.

Marshall surveyed the scattering of vehicles for a familiar white station wagon. Its absence brought a pang of disappointment. What had he expected, a repeat of last night’s impromptu karaoke duet?

Recalling what the surgical nurse had said about Franca’s foster child brought a wave of sympathy. She must be grieving.