Promise Me Forever (Debbie Macomber Classics)

by Debbie Macomber

  Promise Me Forever is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  2014 Debbie Macomber eBook Edition

  “The World of Debbie Macomber” by Kevin Weaver copyright © 2014 by Random House LLC Excerpt from The Inn at Rose Harbor by Debbie Macomber copyright © 2012 by Debbie Macomber

  Copyright © 1985 by Debbie Macomber

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Debbie Macomber Books, an imprint of Debbie Macomber, Inc.

  Distributed by Random House LLC.

  Debbie Macomber Books is a registered trademark of Debbie Macomber, Inc.

  Originally published in paperback in the United States by Silhouette Books, New York, in 1985.

  eBook ISBN 978-1-941824-05-4

  Cover design: Lynn Andreozzi

  Cover photograph: Masterfile

  www.debbiemacomber.com

  v3.1

  Dear Friends,

  I’ve always enjoyed writing stories revolving around a wounded hero. Promise Me Forever was written early in my career. Recently, in an attempt to update the story, I read it again and remembered what a good time I had writing it.

  I thought you might be interested to know that the injured seagull is based on a real-life incident. Our son Ted, who was about eight at the time, brought in a big grocery sack and with tears in his eyes said, “Mom, don’t you think that if you could save a life that you should?” The sack moved … in fact, it moved frantically. Inside was a crow with a broken wing. Our two boys fed and cared for Ugly Arnie, the name they gave the cantankerous crow. As I remember it, he wasn’t the least bit appreciative for all the care given him, either. And if memory serves me, he took an instant dislike to me. Still, he proved his worth and ended up in a book, a much nicer version, as a hurt seagull. I’m telling you this so you’ll realize that very little that happens in a writer’s life is ever wasted.

  I hope you enjoy reading this story. My wish is that Sloan and Joy will touch your romantic hearts.

  Getting reader mail is one of the highlights of my day. I read each and every letter that comes to me, no matter what medium. You can find me on Facebook or my website at DebbieMacomber.com or via P.O. Box 1458, Port Orchard, WA 98366.

  With warmest regards,

  Debbie Macomber

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Author’s Note

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  The World of Debbie Macomber

  Welcome to Rose Harbor Inn

  The Newcomers Guide to Cedar Cove

  Starting Now

  Blossom Street Brides

  Angels at the Table

  Starry Night

  Excerpt from The Inn at Rose Harbor

  Chapter One

  Joy Nielsen brushed a dark strand of curly hair away from her face and straightened her shoulders. She stood in front of the closed door, strengthening her resolve. She’d been told what to expect. Absently, her hand smoothed the pants of the uniform she wore as a physical therapist. This was a new case, and she couldn’t help feeling apprehensive after listening to Dr. Phelps.

  Determined, she forced a smile and opened the door. Quickly, her brown eyes scanned the interior. Although the sun was shining, the draperies were closed and the room was filled with dark shadows. A solitary figure in a wheelchair stared silently into the distance.

  With purpose-filled strides, Joy walked into the room.

  “Good morning, Mr. Whittaker. I’m your physical therapist, Miss Nielsen. I believe Dr. Phelps mentioned I was coming.”

  Silence.

  Undeterred, Joy pulled open the draperies and paused momentarily to take in the beauty of the California coast. Huge waves crashed against the beach. The sky was the bluest of blue, and not a cloud was in sight. Joy sighed with appreciation.

  “Close the draperies.” The harshly whispered words were barely audible.

  Joy ignored him. No one had mentioned her patient was so young, mid-thirties at most. His hair was dark and needed to be trimmed; his eyes were like those of a caged lion—fierce, and at the same time hopeless and angry. It wasn’t difficult to see that this man had once been vital and proud. But he was close to being broken. That was the reason she’d been hired.

  “It’s a beautiful morning. I was up at dawn and saw the sunrise.”

  “I said close the draperies.” There was no doubting the command a second time. He squinted against the light.

  “I’ll be bringing in breakfast in just a few minutes, if you’d like to get ready.”

  His mouth thinned. His two large hands rotated the chair to her side.

  “Would you like to eat on the deck?” she asked.

  Ignoring her, he leaned forward, grabbed the draperies’ pulley, and tugged them closed.

  Expelling a frustrated sigh, Joy turned to him, hands on her hips. No, she wouldn’t let this man get the better of her. It would be best for them both if he recognized early on that she wasn’t like the others.

  The room was again dim, with only a minimum of soft light. Dragging a chair to the double glass doors, she unhooked the pulley, opened the draperies, and tossed the cord so that it caught on the valance.

  “If you prefer to have the draperies closed, then do it yourself.”

  His eyes seemed to spit fire at her, but he said nothing. Although his face was covered with at least a day-old beard, Joy could see the nerve twitch in his jaw.

  “I’ll be back in five minutes with your breakfast,” she told him. She closed the door on her way out and paused to inhale a deep breath. Dr. Phelps hadn’t understated the situation; Sloan Whittaker could easily be her most difficult case.

  The white-haired woman Joy had been introduced to earlier that morning glanced up expectantly when Joy entered the large, modern kitchen.

  “How’d it go?” Clara Barnes asked.

  “Fine,” Joy assured the older woman.

  As Clara chuckled, a network of wrinkles broke out across her weathered face. “I’ve been working for Mr. Whittaker too many years to accept that. Odds are you won’t last the week.” The cheery tone carried a note of challenge.

  “I’ll last,” Joy said, as she poured a glass of juice and set it on a tray.

  A brow flicked upward approvingly. “I said to Mr. Whittaker’s mother the minute I saw you that you’d be the one to help Mr. Whittaker be his ol’ self again.”

  “He has to help himself. There’s only so much you or me or anyone can do,” Joy explained, and lifted the breakfast tray from the kitchen counter. She didn’t mean to sound rude or discouraging, but it was best to set the other woman straight. She wasn’t a miracle worker.

  “Mr. Whittaker’s mother will be here this afternoon. I know she’ll want to talk to you.”

  “Let me know when she arrives.” The swinging kitchen door opened with a push of her shoulder.

  Sloan had wheeled across his room. He glanced up when she entered. His look was hard and unwelcoming. “I’m not hungry.”

  “No, I don’t imagine you work up much of an appetite sitting in the chair, do you?”

  His eyes narrowed menacingly.

  “Well, if you’re not hungry, I am.” Joy walked onto
the veranda and set the tray on the table. She made a small production of lifting the silver-domed food warmer. A thick slice of ham, two fried eggs, and hash browns filled the plate. An order of toast was wrapped in a white linen cloth and set to the side. Joy deliberately slid the knife across the ham and lifted the first bite to her mouth. “Delicious,” she murmured with closed eyes.

  Twice she felt his gaze on her, but she said nothing. When she had finished, she stood and walked to the far side of the long deck. The view was fantastic. Sloan Whittaker must be more than bitter to block this beauty from his life. But then, she knew what it was to be immune to the lovelier things in life.

  “I’ll take the tray back to the kitchen and send Paul in to help you bathe.”

  He ignored the comment. “You didn’t drink the orange juice.” He reached up and lifted it from the tray. There was a suppressed violence about the way he handled the glass—as if he wanted to hurl it at her. “The hired help eat in the kitchen. Remember that.”

  She shouldn’t have smiled. Joy realized that too late. Without warning, he emptied the contents of the glass on her uniform. An involuntary gasp escaped as the cold liquid ran down her front. Calmly, she set the tray aside. Their eyes clashed and held as she struggled to maintain control of her temper. “I’m sure that was an accident, Mr. Whittaker.”

  “And I assure you it wasn’t.” His hard gaze held hers.

  “That’s unfortunate,” Joy returned, and without a backward glance she emptied the remains of her lukewarm coffee in his lap. Not waiting for his reaction, she took the tray. “I’ll send Paul in,” she announced crisply, and left.

  Her hands were trembling when she came into the kitchen. Sloan Whittaker’s arrogant pride was definitely going to be a challenge. But he’d learn soon enough. The display of temper pleased her. He hadn’t lost the will to fight. That was good; in fact, it was very good.

  Clara looked up from the sink, her eyes widening as she noted the juice stain.

  Joy laid the tray on the counter and smiled wryly. “I had a small accident,” she explained.

  “Sure you did,” Clara muttered with a dry laugh, and lifted the empty plate from the tray. “Well, I’ll be. Mr. Whittaker ate his breakfast,” she cried in open astonishment. “First time in six months that he’s cleaned his plate. You are a miracle, girl. What did you do?”

  Joy couldn’t put a damper on the woman’s enthusiasm. “I’m afraid that’s a professional secret, but I promise to let you in on it before I leave.”

  Smacking her lips, Clara beamed a brilliant smile. “I always said that once Mr. Whittaker started eating again he would walk. He won’t ever be strong unless he eats.”

  “I couldn’t agree with you more,” Joy replied with a soft sigh. “But after such a large breakfast you should keep his lunch light. Nothing more than broth, but do me a favor and cook his favorite meal tonight.”

  “I will, Miss, that I will.”

  Pleased with herself, Joy walked down the hall to her room. She understood Sloan’s frustration. His story was a familiar one. His car had skidded on a rain-slick road and smashed into a tree. The bare facts had been related by Dr. Phelps. Only when Joy pried further did she learn he had lain in the twisted wreck for hours in an agony beyond description before anyone found him. The initial surgery had saved his life, but in his weakened condition the operation to relieve the pressure on his spinal column had had to be delayed. Months passed before he was strong enough to endure the next difficult surgery. Now there were no guarantees. Dr. Phelps told her there was feeling in Sloan Whittaker’s legs, but the pain remained intense, and Sloan had decided to accept the wheelchair rather than endure the agony of learning to walk again.

  Joy didn’t need to be a psychologist to know that a man who resigned himself to a wheelchair had far more reason than pain. Something had happened to make him lose the will to use his legs. She’d know what it was before finishing this assignment.

  After six months, the bitterness had built a thick wall around him. It wouldn’t be easy to crack that granite fortress, but Joy was determined. She wanted to be the one to help him.

  Entering her bedroom, she paused again to take in the expensive décor. The room was decorated in a powder-blue color scheme: The wallpaper contained tiny bluebells; the azure carpet was lush and full. The flowered bedspread matched the walls and draperies. Joy had seen pictures in magazines of rooms like this, but she’d never imagined she would be sleeping in one.

  Money could buy a lot of things, and in Sloan’s case it had bought him the privilege of choosing life in a deluxe-model wheelchair.

  Opening her closet, she took out and changed into a fresh uniform. She rinsed out the juice stain in the private bath off the bedroom. Once she’d turned off the water, she could hear the angry words coming from the room next to hers. Apparently, Sloan wasn’t in any better of a mood.

  Paul had seemed the perfect type to deal with Sloan. He was an easygoing, laid-back sort of person who recognized a good thing when he saw one. His job entailed helping Sloan bathe and dress each morning, and stimulating his leg muscles with massage and lifting weights. Paul Weston was a body man, and he had been given free use of the equipment in the room off the kitchen—equipment Sloan had once used.

  Now that she was here, she’d see to it that Paul’s duties were increased. She was going to need his help. One of the first things she planned to do was get Sloan Whittaker into his swimming pool, whether he wanted to go or not. And for a time she was going to need Paul to get him there.

  She had finished reading over the medical reports kept by the previous therapists when Clara came to tell her Mrs. Whittaker had arrived.

  Glancing at her watch, Joy raised a speculative brow. “She’s early.”

  “Mrs. Whittaker’s anxious to meet you,” Clara explained unnecessarily.

  The older woman, seated on a long white sofa, was the picture of grace and charm. She was delicate and fine-boned, her hair silver and stylish. She glanced up when Joy entered the room. Joy watched as the smile died on her lips.

  “Miss Nielsen, I can’t tell you how pleased I am to meet you,” she said with a frown.

  “Is something the matter?”

  “It’s just that I expected someone older,” she admitted.

  Joy’s back remained straight as she sat across from the older woman. “I’m twenty-eight,” she said in a deliberate, casual tone.

  “But Dr. Phelps explained that …” She let the rejoinder fade into silence.

  Joy’s eyes held the older woman’s. “I can assure you that I’m perfectly qualified for the job.”

  “Oh, my dear, I didn’t mean to imply otherwise. It’s just that there is so much resting on you. I’m at my wit’s end with that son of mine. I’ve all but given up hope.”

  “To do so would be premature.”

  “Have you met Sloan?” Her eyes were anxious.

  “This morning.”

  “And?” she inquired gently.

  “And he’s bitter, resentful, in pain, mad as a wet hen at the world and everyone in it.”

  “His last therapist stayed only one day.”

  “I may not look like much, Mrs. Whittaker,” Joy strived to assure the woman, “but I can guarantee it’s going to take far more than a few angry words for me to pack my bags.”

  The woman looked relieved. “I can’t tell you how pleased my husband and I are that you agreed to take this assignment. Dr. Phelps has nothing but good things to say about you, and quite honestly I don’t know how much longer my husband can continue managing the company.”

  “Pardon?”

  Margaret Whittaker lifted a china teacup to her lips and took a sip before continuing. “I’m sorry, dear. I assumed Dr. Phelps told you.”

  “No, I’m afraid he didn’t.”

  Margaret Whittaker sighed, drawing Joy’s rich, brown eyes to the carefully disguised age lines that fanned out from the older woman’s eyes and mouth. “My husband came out of retirement a
fter Sloan’s accident. I’m afraid the pressure is more than Myron can cope with. We’ll be forced to sell the business unless Sloan can assume some of the responsibilities soon.”

  Joy frowned thoughtfully. “I’d like to talk to your husband when it’s convenient. I can’t make any promises, Mrs. Whittaker, but I would think involving your son in the business again would be in his own best interest.”

  “Yes, but …” She looked disconcerted, and Joy noted that her hands shook as she replaced the cup in the saucer. “Sloan’s convinced he will never walk again. He’s given up.”

  “Mrs. Whittaker, I think you should realize that a man like your son never gives up. Although he wouldn’t let you see it, he’s fighting. No matter what he says or does.”

  The silver-haired woman paused, her hands folded primly on her lap. “You’re very wise for your years.” She regarded Joy thoughtfully. “I apologize for doubting. I can see that you’re exactly what Sloan needs.”

  “I hope I am,” she murmured softly, “for your sake, and for Sloan’s, too.”

  The soft hum of the wheelchair sounded behind them. Sloan’s look was hooded as he moved into the room.

  “I wasn’t aware you’d arrived, Mother.” A sarcastic inflection laced his words.

  “I was introducing myself to Miss Nielsen. I hope you appreciate how fortunate we are to get her.”

  “Oh yes.” His light, mirthless laugh was filled with disdain. “About as lucky as I was the night of the accident.”

  “Sloan.” Margaret Whittaker breathed his name in protest. But his dark head had already turned away, effectively cutting off any further discussion. “You’ll have to forgive him.” Anger trembled from the sharp edge of his mother’s voice.

  Joy glanced up, surprised. She would have thought Margaret Whittaker was the type of woman who would never lose her poise. The small display of temper showed Joy how desperate the situation had become for Sloan’s mother.

  “Don’t worry, Mrs. Whittaker. I understand.”

  An hour later, Joy wandered into the kitchen. Clara was busy fixing lunch. “Mr. Whittaker’s tray’s ready. He has all his meals in his room these days.”