Love on Call (7 page)

“Anything else?” she asked as she poured the hot liquid into a thick cup.

“Whatever the breakfast special is.”

Brad was hungry. One thing he loved about diners was that anyone could have breakfast anytime, and breakfast was his favorite meal. His life had always been erratic. There were times when he hadn't known where his next meal would come from. Even before going to medical school, he'd had to eat at odd hours. And he ate haphazardly to this day.

Simon Thalberg had been a detective on the New York City police force. Until he'd been shot in the left hand, wounded in the line of duty. Unable to continue as a street cop, he'd gone into private investi
gations. At fifty he had gray at his temples and his hair was thinning across his crown. He was the fifth investigator Brad had hired over the years to find his mother. None of the others had turned up anything. The trail was too cold. No one knew where his mother had gone that day she hadn't come back. The people who'd lived in the apartment complex no longer lived there and no one knew where they were today.

Brad opened the folder the moment the waitress walked away. Inside was a photo of a woman. He looked at it closely. It wasn't a very good picture, and he strained to see some of the mother he remembered from twenty years ago. He didn't recognize the woman. Her hair was dark brown, her eyes twinkling and a wide smile lit her face. Even the poor quality of the photo couldn't disguise the fact that she was absolutely glamorous.

“Is this her?”

The detective nodded. “She goes by the name of Sharon Yarborough. This is her high school yearbook picture. A more recent picture is behind it.”

Brad couldn't remember ever seeing his mother like this. Her smile was never this…free. This spontaneous. He recalled the strain around her mouth as if she had been trying to hid something from her son. Brad thought he should say something. He stared at the photo. He was really looking at his mother, Mariette Joyce Randall. He hadn't thought of the name Randall in years—his, his brother Owen's and hers. He'd changed his name to Clayton when he and his brother had been adopted.

After years of trying to find her, here he was, looking at the photo of the woman who was his mother. He'd never truly believed it would happen.

Brad thought he'd have a million questions, and he was sure he did, but right now he couldn't think of a single one. The lump in his throat and the pain in his chest overrode everything logical in him. He'd searched for her for so long and finally here she was, the woman who had given birth to him.

And the one who'd abandoned him to the streets. Anger scored through him like a hollow-point bullet. His hands shook and he dropped the photo on the tabletop. She looked up at him, still smiling. Brad could see his brother in her features. Owen had her eyes, her smile and that happy-go-lucky attitude that carried him through life so differently from the way Brad approached it.

“Where is she?”

The waitress returned and placed Brad's order on the table. He pushed it aside. He no longer had an appetite.

“There's a full report.” Instead of Simon telling him the details, he pulled the small folder back to his side of the table. “Eat first.”

“It must be a bad report.” Brad tried to laugh, but only a grunt came out. He set the loaded plate in front of him and started to eat.

“How are things going?” Thalberg asked.

“You don't have to make small talk for me,” Brad told him. Thalberg had worked on this case for five months. Brad hadn't counted on results, and tonight
had expected the usual monthly report saying he'd found nothing, but was trying another lead. All the others had led to dead ends.

Over the past five months the two men had started to become friends. At least they were more than acquaintances, and their relationship wasn't really that of employer and employee. Brad liked Simon Thalberg.

“I'm not trying to make small talk. Just prepare you.”

Brad stopped eating and stared at him. “Prepare me for what?”

“Is there anyone I can call…?” Simon left the question hanging. He obviously saw the effect the news was having on Brad.

Brad felt like one of the sick children he healed. He could take away their hurt, make them better, heal their physical bodies, but he could do nothing for the ache inside. Sharon Yarborough, his mother. His beautiful mother with a smile on her face and blackness in her heart….

Brad reached for the folder and Simon slid it to him once more. Brad scanned the contents. Sharon Yarborough lived in Austin, Texas. Her current address was at the Austin Rehabilitation Center.

“What's she doing in a hospital?”

“She's an invalid.”

Brad slid the more recent photo from the back of the folder. It was a police photo. He laid it next to the high school picture. The difference between the two women was marked. Only the eyes were the
same. The woman in the second photo was old, her face bruised, her hair unkempt and ragged.

“The picture is fifteen years old. It's the only one I could find.” He paused. “Brad, she's ill. She's been ill for a very long time.”

Brad closed the folder and stood up. Simon looked at him.

“Where are you going?”

“I don't know.”

The detective stood and took Brad's arm. “Promise me you'll talk to someone before you fly off to Texas?” Brad started to speak, but Simon stopped him. “Don't tell me you aren't planning to go there. I know how long you've waited, but I think you should take someone with you. Someone who can act as a buffer between you and your emotions.”

Brad immediately thought of Mallory. He put his hand on Simon's shoulder, squeezed it slightly and headed for the exit. He zipped the folder inside his jacket and felt it burning straight into his heart.

 

“Hello,” Mallory said. “We've met before, but I couldn't come over very often. I'm here now and I'll talk to you.” Her compassion welled inside her as she looked at the delicate face of a woman in her forties. She had hair a soft red color and a sprinkling of freckles across her nose. She slept peacefully in her coma world. Mallory knew it wasn't blank inside there. There were dreams, just images that came and went behind a curtain of fog. Outlines could be seen,
but images were distorted, unclear and sometimes fearful.

“It's all right.” Mallory touched her hand. “I'll tell you some of the things going on in the world. So when you wake up you'll have stayed current with the news. Not the bad news,” she amended. “That never changes.”

Mallory started talking. She told Margaret Keller about the lost child who had been found safe in Fairmont Park. She told her about the national news, what she remembered of a White House press release. Mallory knew talking about the news was good for Margaret. And she knew she was using Margaret to keep her mind off Brad. She didn't want to get involved with him, but she'd gotten used to seeing him every day, even if it was just as they passed in the hospital corridor. Since the Wayne Mason mess the nurses and doctors looked at her with a lot more respect. Except for Brad.

He taunted her. She knew a lot of it was her own fault. She read things into his actions that weren't there. But each time she saw him, all she could think of was the way she'd felt in his arms. His touch was so much more powerful than she'd ever imagined. She couldn't tell Margaret about that. She couldn't tell anyone.

“I have to go now, Margaret. I'm not supposed to be in the hospital and it's very late. You need some sleep. I'll be back soon.”

Mallory let go of Margaret Keller's hand and quietly left the room. She was cautious as she made her
way through the dimly lit corridors. She was usually quiet and careful, but she could always give an excuse for being in the hospital. With her current enforced administrative leave, she would have no ready explanation if someone caught her coming or going.

Safely back in her car, Mallory drove home. It was four o'clock in the morning when she slipped the key in the lock. She would skip the bath Brad had suggested and go straight to bed.

Mallory climbed the stairs to her bedroom. She loved the room. It used to be her parents' and it had taken her a while to get over their loss. But she'd eventually moved things around, repainted and moved from her cramped childhood bedroom into this spacious one.

She'd changed into a nightgown and was pulling the covers back on the bed when the doorbell rang. She checked her watch. Who could that be? she thought. It was nearly sunrise. Mallory thought of the sunrise when she'd been at Brad's.

The front door had two oval panels of tempered glass. Mallory stepped to the side and peered through one of them. Brad stood there. He was wearing the same bomber jacket and pants he'd had on earlier that night when he'd left.

“Brad?” she said as she opened the door. “Are you okay? Is something wrong?”

He didn't say anything, but leaned to one side. Mallory thought he was going to lose his balance. She opened the door wide and caught his arm.

“Come in.” He stumbled across the threshold and
fell into her. She smelled the liquor on his breath. “You're drunk.” She tried to push him back up on his feet.

His arms went around her. “I only had a couple,” he said in a slurred voice, leaning heavily on her. His hands moved up and down her back. “This feels good,” he said. “Like warm water.”

Mallory couldn't stop herself from pressing her body closer to his when his hands smoothed over her back and buttocks. Then she grabbed them and pulled them free. He still leaned against her, so she twisted around to get her arm and shoulder under his.

She helped him into the living room, and he dropped onto the couch as heavily as a sack of cement. Something had happened in the last few hours. He must have gotten a call from Detective Ryan. Brad respected the officer. Mallory had heard it in his voice when he'd talked of him the other night. What could have occurred?

Sitting down on the wooden coffee table, she asked, “Brad, what happened?” She reached over and touched him. He was fast asleep.

Mallory sighed. She leaned back and looked at him. She knew everyone had demons and his had come to visit him tonight. Brad worried about rumors at the hospital. Whatever had happened to him tonight was something else he didn't want to get around. But why did he keep coming to her?

There were rumors about other doctors who'd come in with liquor on their breath. Brad wasn't one of them. In fact, when she'd overhead the discussion,
no one had ever remembered seeing Brad drink anything stronger than sparkling cider. So what trauma had occurred to send him to the bottle…and back to her?

Mallory wouldn't find out tonight. She picked up his feet and removed his shoes, then raised them to the sofa. She had never done that before. For a patient, yes, but never for a man, and Brad, even in his alcoholic state, was all man. She looked at her hands, still on his legs. She felt his warmth envelop her as it always did. For a long moment she stared at his relaxed face, reveling in feelings that washed over her just looking at him. Remembering the heat that flooded through her when he smoothed his hands down her body. She sighed, wanting it again.

“What is it about you?” she asked, as if he were one of her coma patients. “Why do you make me feel like…” She stopped. He made her feel like a woman.

Mallory had never been good at relationships. She had secrets. Things she couldn't share with anyone. Relationships meant trust. Someone you could rely on, someone to share everything with. Mallory felt tears rush into her eyes. She was looking at the man she wanted to do that with, but she knew she couldn't. There were things she just couldn't tell anyone.

She got up and went to get a blanket. Holding the blanket to her, she again looked down at Brad. He was wearing his bomber jacket. She had to get it off him. Dropping the blanket on the floor, Mallory unzipped the jacket and opened the front. She saw the
folder, and when she picked it up, his warmth and scent came with it.

Mallory drew in a deep breath and opened the folder. The glamorous photo of a woman floated to the floor. Mallory sank down on the blanket and stared at her face. She picked up the photo and glanced at Brad. Then she began to read.

B
rad's feet were cold. He reached for the covers and realized he was wearing his clothes. He opened his eyes and memory hit him. He'd come to Mallory's and that was the last thing he remembered. He looked around the room. It was her living room and he was on her couch.

Sighing, he dropped his head back against the sofa. He was an idiot. What was he doing here? He'd left the diner and driven around for hours. Then he'd gone to a bar. He couldn't remember where it was, only that the music was loud, there were people everywhere and he didn't want anything to do with any of them. When he'd left, he'd driven without a destination in mind and had ended up here.

His mouth felt dry and tasted awful. He wanted
some water. And a toothbrush. Brad started to sit up, and saw Mallory sitting on the floor. Her head was pressed against the sofa and she was sound asleep. He wondered how long she had been there.

She was wearing a nightgown and had a blanket around her shoulders. He couldn't get up without disturbing her. Then he saw it—the folder lying open on the floor by her feet. The face of Sharon Yarborough stared up at him.

“Good morning,” Mallory said suddenly. Brad shifted his gaze to her. She was beautiful in the morning. Her eyes were wide and bright and she smiled.

“Isn't it more like afternoon?”

She nodded, pushing herself up straight and frowning as her muscles protested her night on the floor instead of in her comfortable bed.

“You read it?” he asked.

She looked him directly in the eye. He liked that about her. She was a straight shooter. “I read it.” She waited for him to continue, not pushing. He knew she was prepared to wait until he was ready, or accept that he wasn't going to talk about it, if that was his decision.

“She left us twenty-one years ago.”

“You and Owen?”

He nodded “It's a long story.”

“Then why don't I make us some breakfast and you can tell me all about it.”

“I need to check in with the hospital.”

She pointed to a phone as she stood up. The blanket fell from her shoulders. She wore no robe, only a
white nightgown. It was silky and flowed around her body. It looked cool, but Brad had learned that with Mallory looks were deceiving. He had the feeling that if he put his hands on the fabric it would burn him. And his hands ached to try it.

She turned and went out of the room. Brad's eyes watched her as she moved. It had been too long since he'd been with a woman, and his body was telling him so. He pulled his cellular phone from his jacket pocket and checked the screen. No calls. Thank goodness, he thought. No one at the hospital had tried to reach him during his night of self-indulgence.

He checked in, then listened to his messages. There was one from Detective Ryan. He'd picked up a twelve-year-old girl living in the warehouse district. Brad let out a breath. The child was off the streets. Ryan had taken her to the shelter and asked that Brad stop by if he had a free moment. There was no emergency. Brad also called his office. He had no appointments for today, but checked with the answering service. Thankfully, it had been a quiet night.

Hanging up, he replaced the phone in his pocket and looked for a bathroom. He found a full bath just off the kitchen. On the counter lay a set of matching towels, a new toothbrush and toothpaste. He thanked Mallory silently as he pulled the cellophane off the toothbrush, and wondered if she'd been reading his mind.

Several minutes later he walked into the kitchen, feeling more like himself. The smell of bacon made his stomach growl. He'd eaten early this morning in
the diner, but had burned off all the energy of that food with alcohol and anger.

Mallory had dressed. She was wearing jeans and a sweatshirt. She didn't have on any makeup and her hair hung about her shoulders. Brad moved toward her, wanting to slip his arms around her waist, but he stopped.

“Can I help?” he asked.

“Can you cook?” She didn't turn around as she asked the question.

“I do all right.”

She turned and smiled at him. “Why don't you make some toast? The bread is over there.” She pointed to a loaf of wheat bread on the counter.

“I was adopted,” Brad began. He concentrated on making toast as if it were brain surgery. “As I told you the other night, I was nine. I never knew what happened to her.”

He turned away from the toaster to find Mallory transferring bacon to a plate with a paper towel on it.

“I've been looking for her since she left. I hired five private investigators, but this is the first one who's had any success. I can't believe he actually found her.”

“Where is Owen?”

“He lives in Texas. As do my adopted brothers and one sister. My youngest sister lives in New York.”

“You said that before.” She took an egg from a bowl and held it up. “Scrambled?”

He nodded. She broke the eggs and used a whisk to scramble them.

“Owen and I have the same parents. We lived in Dallas. We were poor, living in one-room apartments and moving often. Owen and I rarely had time to make friends and we went to more elementary schools than I can remember. My mother worked at whatever she could get.”

“What about your father?”

He shrugged. “He left right after I was born. Neither Owen nor I can remember him, and my mother never talked about him. She had a job working at a hotel as a night maid. When we got up for school she would be there. One day she wasn't. And she never came back.”

“What happened to you two?” Brad heard the surprise in her voice.

Mallory set plates of food on the table. Brad buttered the toast and poured coffee.

“We stayed in the apartment until the police came. Then we ran away and stayed in abandoned buildings.” Brad thought of the twelve-year-old and Detective Ryan saying he'd found her and taken her to the shelter. It was the same with Owen and him. They'd been found and taken to foster care.

Mallory listened without interrupting. She ate her meal and drank her coffee while he continued. “We were lucky. We found a couple who loved children and treated us as if we were theirs. Eventually we were all adopted.”

“By the same couple?”

He nodded. “Our foster father died and we were
adopted by our mother. She took all six of us. We became a family.”

“You were lucky,” Mallory said.

He nodded. “I know that.”

“What do you plan to do with the information you have about your mother?”

Brad suddenly felt claustrophobic. He got up and carried his plate to the stainless steel sink. He set it down and turned back. Mallory swiveled in her chair to look at him.

“I don't know,” he said. “I always thought I would rush right to her and start asking questions. But now that I know where she is I'm…”

“Terrified?” Mallory finished the sentence for him. “It's like that question you don't want to ask because you're afraid of the answer.”

Brad was amazed at how quickly she understood. He didn't know what to do about Sharon Yarborough. She didn't even have the same name, and Simon had said she was ill.

“You should wait,” Mallory said. Again Brad had the feeling she could read his mind. “The report said she's ill, but with nothing life threatening. You don't want to rush into anything. If you don't have rational thought on your side, you could make matters worse.”

“You think there could be a rational explanation for her abandoning us and never finding us in twenty-one years?”

“I know it sounds unlikely, but there is always the
chance.” Her voice was soft, wistful almost, as if she was speaking from experience.

“I've waited a long time. More than half my life.”

Mallory stood up and carried her own plate to the sink. Brad moved aside to give her space. She put the plate down and looked up at him. “It won't hurt to wait a little longer. You have everything you need to know. If she moves, she can be easily found again.”

For someone on the outside, Mallory was extremely perceptive. They were standing next to each other. She faced the windows and he faced the room, but both were looking into the other's eyes. Brad remembered the gown she'd had on. Memories of running his hands over her last night came back to him. His body heated suddenly and her eyes seemed to darken, as if she'd taken a cue from him.

He wanted her, but he remembered what she'd told him. A professional relationship only. And so far he'd broken that rule. “You'd better walk me to the door,” he told her.

She moved away and he followed. He picked up his jacket and the folder.

“Thank you,” he said in the entranceway. “For more than just breakfast.”

She smiled. He leaned down and kissed her forehead. Brad felt her stiffen. He straightened, but ran a finger down her cheek.

“I owe you,” he said. “You can sleep on my couch anytime you want.”

He went down the steps. His car was parked directly in front of the house.

“Brad,” she called as he stepped off the curb. He turned back. “What are you doing tomorrow morning at 4:00 a.m.?”

“Nothing important.”

“Meet me here.”

 

Mallory pulled the truck into the parking area of the Flemington Fairgrounds in New Jersey before sunrise. Brad had showed up promptly at four o'clock with breakfast in hand. They'd left immediately, eating on the way. Still, her pickup took one of the last parking spaces. Quickly they got out and Mallory opened the back of the truck. Some balloons were already being blown up. She could hear the burners blowing hot air into the gaping cavities.

Mallory reached inside the truck to pull out the bag with her own folded balloon. Brad climbed inside the bed and tried to lift the basket and burner. “This thing must weigh a ton,” he said.

“Six hundred pounds,” a voice behind him said. “Morning, Doc.”

“Hi, Keith. Greg,” Mallory said, turning. They all climbed aboard and the four of them hoisted the heavy basket to the custom lift Mallory had had built onto the truck. It lowered the basket to the ground, where they slid it off.

“Hard to believe hot air can lift that thing,” Brad said when they'd finished.

“This is Dr. Bradley Clayton.” Mallory introduced him to the men he'd just worked with. “He's my crew for today.”

The men shook hands and nodded to each other. “Keith and Greg work the ground for a lot of the pilots and crew members. They help me with the heavy work of loading and unloading the basket and burners and inflating the balloon. They also drive the chase car that picks me up and drives me back to my truck.”

“Ever been ballooning before?” Keith asked Brad.

Brad shook his head. The two men looked at each other and walked away. “I'll check your parachute top,” Greg said.

“I must look like a greenhorn,” Brad commented wryly.

Mallory looked at him, and green was not the color she would choose to describe him. “Don't worry,” she said. “It only takes one ride to change that.”

“What's the parachute for?” Brad questioned.

“It's not the kind you jump out of planes with.” She wondered if he was sorry he'd agreed to this. “A parachute is a sealed panel at the top of the balloon. It's used to help deflate the balloon, so we can land where we want to and not crash the basket.”

Mallory had opened the huge balloon and was pulling it so it lay flat. The men at the other end helped her. Brad could see several others had joined them. This effort took a team. Brad grabbed a section near the opening and followed suit. They laid it out on the huge open space.

“How'd you get started doing this?” he asked when they finished.

“My father taught me. He used to take me up be
fore he died. He was the pilot and I was his crew.” She missed her dad. She thought of him every time she went up, wondering what he would think of her now.

“When you were what…nine or ten he took you ballooning?”

“Earlier than that. I was three the first time. We didn't go regularly until I turned seven. But I wasn't the only crew. It takes several people to launch a balloon.” She looked around. “There's a fan in the truck. It's huge and yellow. Would you get it?”

Brad jumped up onto the flatbed of the pickup and came back carrying the fan.

“I love ballooning,” Mallory said. “If you stick to the rules, it's relatively safe. Today should be a wonderful day for the air.”

Brad checked the morning sky. The sun was banishing the darkness at the horizon. “Am I your crew today?” he asked.

“You're still in therapy,” she said with a smile. “I'm taking you up to give your mind something else to dwell on.”

“Would that be my life?”

She meant him finding his mother, and knew his comment was a shield to hide his true feelings.

“It will be what you want it to be.” Mallory hadn't intended for her voice to sound seductive, but in the early morning light, with the dew still clinging to the grass, it had that quality. Brad must have noticed it, too. His eyes narrowed in keen observance.

Mallory turned away and resumed her work. “The
envelope needs filling,” she told him. “Bring the fan over and we'll fill it.”

“Envelope?”

Mallory pointed to the large, rounded portion of the balloon laying flat on the ground. “This is called the envelope. We use the fan to pump cold air into it to blow it up. When it gets to a certain level, we'll switch the frames on and the hot air will force it to rise off the ground.”

They worked quickly, filling the balloon with cold air. In minutes the eighty-story nylon circle was billowing like a huge multicolored blanket. Keith and Greg returned for the ignition. Mallory took hold of Brad's arm and pulled him a safe distance away. She gave him a crown line and told him to hold the balloon to prevent it from inflating too fast. Returning, Greg tipped the basket as the two of them turned on the burners. The flames shot thirty feet into the air and the whooshing noise prevented conversation.