Love on Call

by Shirley Hailstock

  Mallory sat up in bed and looked at the clock. She asked him to repeat himself because she couldn’t believe what she’d heard. Brad Clayton, the great and moody doctor asking her for help.

  “I’m at the police station,” he said.

  He wouldn’t go into why he was there or why he had no car, though he said he’d been arrested. But she hadn’t really needed an explanation, she hopped out of bed, dressed and left for the police station.

  “I’m looking for Dr. Bradley Clayton,” she told the officer at the desk when she entered the brightly lit station. The man looked up at her and down at a clipboard, apparently checking for Brad’s name.

  “He’ll be right out.”

  Mallory moved away from the glass-paneled area where he sat. As she turned she wondered if it was bulletproof. She’d never been in a police station. It looked exactly as she expected it would. This was an old building, probably built in the 1930s and serving several government functions before being converted into a police precinct. The walls were a drab gray, the furniture old but sturdy. The floors were marble, grooved in places from the thousands of feet that had crossed them in decades of use.

  A case with trophies sat across from the officer. Mallory stared into it, not reading the inscriptions, not really seeing what was there. Her mind was on Brad and how he’d come to be arrested. What was he being charged with, and more important, why had he called her?

  An electronic click that signaled the opening of a door had Mallory turning toward the sound. Brad came out. He was wearing his bomber jacket and jeans. He looked tired. She went to him as if he were a patient about to collapse.

  “Are you all right?” She took his arm. Her medical bag was in the car. He’d said it wasn’t an emergency, so she hadn’t carried it in.

  “Let’s get out of here.” He headed for the exit, and she followed him.

  “My car is over there.” She pointed to the black Saab across from the station. The car had been a graduation present to herself when she completed medical school. She’d used the last of her inheritance to buy it. If she was going to have to get to the hospital in the middle of the night, she needed to have reliable transportation, and her last car, ten years old, had conveniently died. Mallory had never thought she would need to use it to go to a police station and pick up one of the hospital’s upstanding doctors.

  “What happened?” she asked when they were in the car. Brad said nothing. Mallory started the engine, put the car in gear and stared straight ahead. The silence between them stretched until she couldn’t stand it. He made her want to scream. Still, Mallory held her temper in check.

  “Brad, where do you live?” She asked the question slowly and clearly, as if he were a child and she was trying to coax his address out of him.

  “Churchill Road, 1730 Churchill Road.”

  Philadelphia wasn’t a planned city like Washington, D.C. It wasn’t laid out numerically with avenues and streets, like Manhattan, either. One needed to know where a street was, which area of the city, in order to find it. Mallory had no idea where Churchill Road was.

  “I’ll need directions.”

  He pointed ahead, and she started driving.

  “Are you going to tell me why I had to pick you up at a police station at this hour?”

  “It was all a mistake,” he answered.

  Mallory waited for him to continue. She thought he might be angry because of whatever had happened, and she should give him time to recover.

  “You missed the turn.”

  Mallory clamped her teeth on her bottom lip to keep from saying anything. She stopped and made a U-turn, going back to the block where he’d mentioned her error.

  “Right or left?” she asked.

  “Left.”

  His tone was cryptic, and Mallory had had enough. “Who soured you on the world?” she demanded. Mallory was giving him a ride. She was tired. It was four o’clock in the morning and he wouldn’t even give her decent directions. The least he could do was tell her what had happened. “Why did you call me?” She was no longer concerned about her tone.

  “Because I thought you’d be quiet,” he retorted.

  “Well, I won’t. It’s my car and you interrupted my night’s sleep. That gives me the right to ask questions.”

  “I don’t want this all over the hospital,” Brad said in a more civil tone.

  “How do you know I won’t tell somebody?”

  “You’ve been there a year and nobody knows a thing about you.”

  Mallory wondered if that was his way of asking her questions, if people at the hospital wanted to know about her. But she wouldn’t go off on that tangent. This was about him, not her.

  “How much do they know about you, Dr. Clayton?” She paused to glance at him. “You’ve been at the hospital five years, and I’m the only person you could call in an emergency? I don’t need a picture drawn for me.”

  His jaw tightened, and she felt as if her arrow had found its mark.

  “Don’t blow this out of proportion,” he snapped. “I only need a ride, not a therapy session.”

  “Maybe therapy is exactly what you need.”

  “Turn right up here, and my house is the fifth one on the right.”

  She followed his directions. The street was narrow, with cars lining both sides and no place to park. She slowed the car and pulled up level with the house. Finding an opening she thought was a parking space, she nosed the car toward it, only to see a driveway leading to a garage.

  “It’s my driveway,” Brad said. Mallory angled the car into it and switched off the engine. She turned toward him, staring at him long and hard.

  “What?” he asked at last.

  “Answers,” she said. “Now that you’ve decided I can be trusted not to tell the staff everything I know about you, can you please tell me what happened?”

  He opened the door and got out. Mallory wasn’t sure if he expected her to leave or not. Curious, and with her temper piqued by his attitude, she got out in turn and followed him up the steps to the stoop. The prewar-era building was a brick row house, sharing common walls with its neighbors, which helped provide building space for the growing city and conservation of heating fuel.

  Brad opened the old-fashioned double doors with etched glass inlaid in their upper panels. He preceded her into the foyer and left her to close the door behind them. If he was trying to dissuade her from coming any farther, he didn’t know how stubborn she could be. Her night was already ruined. She wanted answers.

  Brad removed his jacket and tossed it on a chair in the living room. Mallory removed hers and did the same.

  “I’ll have some coffee,” she told him.

  “You don’t wait to be invited, do you?”

  “Shall I make it?” She looked around for the kitchen.

  He headed out and she followed. “I guess your personality is deceptively hidden at the hospital. Most of us think of you as quiet and docile.”

  “I am quiet and docile,” she agreed, trying to hide her smile.

  He picked up an old-fashioned coffee percolator from the stove and washed it out. She’d watched old movies where people used them, but she’d never actually seen one in operation.

  Brad filled it with water and measured coffee into a metal filter before putting it on the stove.

  “It’ll be ready in a few minutes.”

  He glanced at her, but went to the refrigerator and opened it. He studied the contents for several seconds, then closed the door without taking out anything.

  “Milk and sugar,” she said, giving him instructions on how she drank her coffee. He pulled the door open again and took out a carton of milk. Then, as if he remembered something, he put it back and took out an unopened carton.

  He drinks from the carton, Mallory thought. She smiled to herself, deciding it made him seem a little more human. She watched him as he moved about the small, high-ceilinged room. He was obviously upset about the evening. Mallory stood off to the side, allowing him a m
easure of privacy even though she was witness to his actions. He opened cabinets and doors, but took nothing from them. She recognized leashed anger. He probably wanted to hit something or hold someone. She couldn’t supply him with either outlet.

  Going to him, she took his arm. “Sit down,” she told him, leading him to a chair. “I’ll get the cups.”

  He didn’t argue. He allowed her to take over while he sat in one of the four high-back chairs surrounding the circular table. Mallory found mugs in a cabinet.

  “While you’re sitting there, why don’t you start? What did they pick you up for?”

  “Kidnapping.”

  Mallory whipped around, gripping the cups she had in her hands.

  “What?”

  “It was a mistake. I was just trying to take a girl to a shelter.”

  “Back up,” Mallory said. She put down the cups and sat across from him. “Start at the beginning.”

  He told her about his night, about leaving the hospital, feeling restless and finding himself in a run-down district of the city.

  “It was late.” He relaxed. “I saw the girl and knew she shouldn’t be on the street, especially there. I was going to take her to the shelter I help out in. But she screamed and ran away just as the police arrived.”

  Mallory knew how that could look. Night. A child on the street. A man in a car. The police had all the cause they needed.

  “Were you charged?”

  He shook his head. “I explained who I was and eventually they reached Detective Ryan.”

  “Who’s Detective Ryan?”

  “He’s a friend of mine and he knows about me and the shelter. Once they finished talking to him, I was released. But my car had already been impounded, and I can’t get it out until morning.”

  Mallory heard the gurgling of the coffeepot behind her. She ignored it. She wanted Brad to keep talking.

  “What about you and the shelter?”

  He got up and removed the pot from the stove, bringing it to the table and filling the mugs. He set the pot between them on a metal plate and added both milk and sugar to his cup. When he’d taken a sip he leaned back and looked at her.

  “The hospital is associated with the Home Society Shelter. It’s a place for homeless children.”

  Mallory knew of it. She’d also known that the hospital had some association with it, but residents weren’t part of the medical team that went there. Her concentration was on her career and the coma patients. She’d forgotten about the shelter.

  “I’m one of the primary doctors involved, and I often bring kids there who have no place else to go.”

  “Detective Ryan knows this?” It was a question, but she already knew the answer.

  Brad nodded. “We’ve both taken kids there for shelter and food.” He took a sip of his coffee, but his eyes didn’t leave Mallory. She suddenly felt heat rush through her. The sun was beginning to rise, and through the window next to Brad she could see it painting the sky above the rooftops. She looked out, to avoid his gaze and the effect it suddenly had on her.

  “Tell me more about the shelter,” she said. She really just wanted him to talk. It would get his mind off what had happened earlier and she would learn more about him.

  “It’s just a place for kids to sleep and get a good meal.”

  Mallory knew it was more than that. She also realized that Brad didn’t waste a lot of words but he often downplayed things. She was sure this shelter must mean something to him, or else why would he be so involved? What was his connection to it? Was he trying to save someone in particular?

  “Do you mostly find children on the streets and take them to the shelter?” Mallory kept her voice low.

  He looked at her as if she’d touched a raw nerve, but nodded.

  “Were you looking for someone tonight?”

  “No one in particular. There are so many. They get lost, die, never have a chance at life. I try to get them help.”

  Mallory listened to the tone of his voice, the inflection as he talked about reaching out and trying to save a child. Most people hurried past the homeless, not wanting to see them, not trying to help. Brad searched them out, trying to give them a second chance.

  “What about the little girl?”

  “She was about twelve, and dirty. She looked ill, but she was belligerent, the way a lot of them are. They have to fend for themselves, steal food, eat out of garbage cans and avoid the law—often for so long that anyone who extends a hand to them is suspect.”

  Mallory’s heart softened, both for the children and for the man in front of her.

  “Do you want to go and search for her now?”

  He shook his head. “I’d never find her during the day. These kids are night creatures, hunting in the dark for whatever they can find. During the day they stay hidden in alleys and abandoned buildings. They have a million avenues of escape, and they’re agile enough to get away from anyone looking for them.”

  When he finished speaking Mallory didn’t say anything. She recognized the voice of experience when she heard it. Brad might have been searching the streets for homeless children for years, but nothing could put that tone in his voice except having his own life touched by that same grueling education.

  “How old were you?” she asked, again keeping her voice as nonintrusive as possible.

  “Nine,” he answered without hesitation. He was no longer looking at her. His mind had gone back to his childhood, a time when he was a kid on the street. “My brother was eleven. My mother left us one day and never came back. We stayed in the apartment as long as we could. Then we slept on the street, hiding by day, eating what we could find at night. For years I searched for her.”

  His gaze came back to Mallory—direct, but not challenging. “But I never found her. I don’t know if she’s alive or dead, or why she never came back for us.” He leaned forward, his hands cradling the empty mug. “And that’s the story of my life.”

  It was obvious there was more to his life than that simple statement. His mother had left him, but he’d gone on to become a doctor. Mallory understood more about his attitude now. The huge chip on his shoulder wasn’t for the world. It was for one woman, someone he wasn’t likely to find.

  Brad touched the coffeepot, testing it for heat. Finding it to his liking, he poured another cup.

  “How do you feel now?” she asked.

  “Better,” he said.

  “See?” Mallory smiled one of her rare smiles. “Therapy does work.”

  She got up and headed for the door. The sun was tinging the sky, banishing shadows. As Mallory reached the living room, Brad called her name. She turned back as he rose from his chair and came toward her. Mallory watched him move. His stride was sure, predatory, catlike, quiet.

  She held her breath. She’d never been this affected by a man before. She lifted her head as he got closer to her, imagining her body rising to meet his, her arms clasping his shoulders, her nipples hardening against his chest.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  “What?” Mallory hadn’t heard him. She was still lost in the fantasy her mind had created.

  Brad looked at her. His eyes were softer than she was used to seeing them. He must be tired, she told herself. His guard was down. He would never look at her like that if he hadn’t had such a bad night. She reached up and smoothed her hand along his cheek. She smiled. He needed a shave.

  As she went to pull it away, he caught it and held it. Neither of them spoke. Mallory’s throat went dry. For a long moment they stared at each other while the silence screamed.

  “Get some sleep,” she said, breaking the tension. Then she turned and headed for the chair where she’d left her coat.

  “Your turn,” Brad said.

  “My turn for what?”

  “Tell me your life story.” He stood across the room where she’d left him.

  “That’s a tale for another night.” If she was lucky there wouldn’t be another night for her to share her life with him. She
pointed at the coffee cup in his hand. “You should get some sleep.”

  “Sure.” He hunched a shoulder. Mallory recognized the gesture. It was purely male, something guys learned from their fathers or from each other. When they weren’t all right they still said they were. Mallory assumed she and Brad had both revealed something of themselves to the other, and it was enough for one night.

  “I’ll be leaving then.”

  Something glimmered in his eyes, and Mallory felt that pull, that connection she’d experienced earlier in the night. She turned from it, looking about the living room. The curtains were drawn and the space was darker than the kitchen.

  Mallory was struck by the neatness of the place. It didn’t smell musty or closed in. There was a coziness about it, like a huge Christmas tree should grace the corner and a family should come down the stairs to mounds of presents. She detected little dust on the tables. There was a huge fireplace with remnants of ashes from a recent blaze. A portrait of several children hung over it and the mantel held several photos of the same people at various ages.

  “Family?” she asked, continuing to look at the portrait.

  He came up behind her. Mallory felt the heat of him as he stopped.

  “My brothers and sisters.”

  “I thought you only had a brother.”

  “We were all adopted,” he explained.

  Mallory turned before she thought about how close he was. They had been together for several hours tonight, but suddenly everything was different. Before, he had needed her. He’d needed someone to talk to, someone to share in the pain of the evening’s circumstances. Now he was a male alone with a female. Mallory felt the danger of the situation. She didn’t want to start anything she couldn’t carry through.

  Brad stared at her. She watched his eyes run over her face and shoulders. His eyes strayed downward to her breasts, which tingled as if he’d touched them, before coming back to her face. “Do you have to go in to work?” he asked.

  “I’m off today.” She should have told him something else. She didn’t need to give him any details that said she was free and available. Why, she didn’t know. He represented danger, and Mallory was good at skirting danger, staying away from it, away from men who could upset her balanced life. She was grateful that she could return home and resume her night’s sleep. She had planned to run errands this morning. The errands could wait now.