Promise Me Forever (Debbie Macomber Classics)

by Debbie Macomber

  “None. Why?”

  Clara’s look was disconcerting. The older woman was too observant not to notice the high color of Joy’s flushed cheeks.

  “You need to talk to ol’ Clara?”

  “No, I’m fine,” Joy dismissed the offer. “But thanks, anyway.”

  “Any time.”

  The sound of Clara’s humming followed Joy down the hallway to her room. The door clicked, and she walked across the room to stand in front of the mirror. She forced herself to do an assessment of herself. Twenty-eight, never been married. Not unattractive, but certainly not beautiful. She wasn’t another Chantelle, the blonde who looked gorgeous with damp lashes. Joy’s hair was cut short and curly. With so many hours in the pool every day, it was the most practical style.

  Turning sideways, she placed her hands on the undersides of her breasts and lifted them. They were probably her best feature. If it weren’t for those, most people would think she was a young boy. That was the problem with being so short. Petite, her mother claimed. Joy called it just plain stubby.

  Within seconds, Joy had determined she was headed for a lot of heartache if she allowed this awareness of her feelings for Sloan to continue. In all the years she’d been working, this was the first time she had faced these feelings. A patient was a patient, and she had never allowed herself to forget the code of ethics.

  The day’s session with Sloan in the pool didn’t go well. Both of them were on edge. The ability to work with each other, although grudgingly, was gone.

  Sloan struggled to disguise his pain, and with every wince Joy had to force herself to continue. She didn’t need to be reminded that it hurt. She knew.

  “Are you going to do the exercises today or not?” Sloan questioned in a vicious tone, angry and impatient.

  “What do you think I’m doing?” she shot back. Joy realized that she hadn’t been working him as hard because his pain was affecting her.

  When the next series of manipulations had been completed, Sloan was left in little doubt that she was doing her job.

  Later that afternoon, Joy entered the fenced yard to see L.J. The bird hobbled to her, and Joy bent down to talk to her creature friend.

  “Hello.”

  L.J. squawked loudly, and Joy laughed.

  “So you can talk.” She held out her bandaged hand. “Did you see what you did?”

  The seagull tilted its head at an inquiring angle.

  “Well, don’t worry. I know it was an accident. But it was a good lesson for us both.” She crumbled up bits of fish and some other leftovers in his dish, then stepped back. Almost immediately, L.J. began to eat. Joy stayed with him until he’d finished.

  That evening she watched television with Paul, but a half-hour later she couldn’t have told anyone what she’d seen.

  When she returned to her room, Joy couldn’t decide if she should play her flute or not. But music was a basic part of her life, and she didn’t know if she could go without it two nights running. Playing had always calmed her spirit and soothed her.

  Her options were few. If she stayed in her room, she would be depriving Sloan of the pleasure he received when she played. It seemed almost petty to put her desire for solitude above what little enjoyment he received from life.

  Dusk had cast a purple shadow across the horizon when Joy stepped onto the veranda. She paused to inhale the fresh scent of the sea and closed her eyes. The winds were whispering and gentle when she raised the musical instrument to her lips.

  As always, the music flowed naturally. But tonight it was dark and deep, unlike the mellow tunes she normally enjoyed.

  “You practicing for someone’s funeral?” Sloan asked, in a bitter tone.

  Joy paused and lowered her flute. She’d been so caught up in the music she hadn’t noticed he’d come outside. He stayed several feet away, his profile illuminated by the setting sun.

  She shook her head. “No.”

  “Could have fooled me.”

  Ignoring him, she played again, forcing out a lively, popular tune. Before realizing what had happened, she slipped into the intense mournful music a second time. When she recognized what she’d done, she stopped mid-measure.

  “Will you play at mine?” Sloan asked, his voice a mere whisper.

  “Play at your what?” She didn’t look at him, her gaze focusing on the tumbling waves that broke against the beach.

  “My funeral.”

  “That’s a morbid thought. You’re not going to die,” she said seriously, her own voice a soft murmur. “I won’t let you.”

  His light laugh couldn’t hide the pain.

  “Do you want something?” She didn’t need to explain what. When it came to painkilling drugs, Sloan was sensible. He never took anything unless the pain became unbearable. The fear of becoming addicted to the medication was always present, and he seemed well aware of the dangers.

  He expelled a harsh breath before answering. “What I need is for you to kiss me better.” His voice was low and seductive.

  Joy didn’t breathe; the oxygen was trapped in her lungs. Her hand tightly clenched the railing as she closed her eyes. The battle to alleviate the pain from his eyes with a gentle brush of her mouth over his was almost overpowering. The knowledge that one kiss would never be enough was the only thing that stopped her.

  “Want me to call Chantelle?” A fingernail broke against the freshly painted surface of the railing on the veranda. Still, she didn’t move.

  “No.” The word was released in an angry rush.

  With her back to Sloan, she heard him return to his room.

  Joy breathed again.

  The following morning, Joy walked into the modern-style living room. “Good morning, Mr. Whittaker.”

  Myron Whittaker placed his coffee cup in the saucer and stood. “Morning.”

  “You asked to see me?”

  “Yes, I did. Sit down, please.” He motioned with his hand to the chair opposite him.

  Joy sat on the edge of the leather cushion and primly folded her hands in her lap. The Whittakers were wonderful people who loved their son and were willing to do whatever was necessary to help him return to a normal life again.

  “How’s Sloan?” his father began.

  “There’s been some improvement. I imagine within a few weeks he’ll be able to start work on the mats and the parallel bars. From there, it will only be a matter of time before he can advance to the walker and then the cane.”

  The older man lowered his gaze. “Yes, the cane.”

  Joy didn’t need to be told what Sloan’s father was thinking. “From what I can tell, your son will always have a limp. The cane will be necessary.”

  Myron Whittaker glanced up, and Joy had the funny sensation that although he was looking at her, he wasn’t seeing her. “That’s not it,” he admitted absently, and shook his head. “I was remembering … thinking …” He let the rest of the sentence ebb away. “We used to play tennis, Sloan and me. Twice a week.”

  Joy could see no use in dwelling on things past. “It’s unlikely that your son will play a decent game of tennis again.”

  He lifted the coffee cup to his mouth, and Joy noted that it shook slightly.

  “I’ve done as you suggested and brought some work from the office. Heaven knows I’m not able to keep up with it all.”

  “I think bringing Sloan back into the mainstream of the business can only help,” Joy murmured.

  “I was hoping to go over a few of the things with you.”

  “With me?” Her gaze shot to him. “Surely you don’t expect me to discuss the business with your son?”

  “To be honest, I was hoping you would bring up the subject with him. Sloan and I had a parting of ways on my last visit. At this point, I feel it would be better if we didn’t see each other for a while.”

  “You can’t mean that.”

  Myron Whittaker stood and paced across the marble floor. He had his back to her.

  “Sloan and I have always been close. D
on’t misunderstand me. I love my son.”

  “I’m sure you do.”

  “It hurts me to see him in that chair. There are so many things I wanted in life for Sloan, and now everything seems impossible.” He turned around. “The last time I saw Sloan we said some bitter, hard things to each other. I don’t know if it would be a good idea for me to see him now. We both need time.”

  “But that’s something you don’t have,” Joy countered, and released a slow breath. “Sloan regrets what happened just as much as you. Clear the air between you, make amends. Then bring up the business aspect of your visit. If you’d like, I could tell him you’re here.”

  The agreeing nod wasn’t eager. “If you think I should.”

  “I do.”

  Sloan was in his quarters, his head resting against the back of the chair, eyes closed.

  When Joy tapped lightly on the open door, he straightened and opened his dark eyes, which narrowed on her.

  “Your father’s here to see you.”

  At first Sloan said nothing. “Tell him I’m busy.”

  “That would be a lie.”

  “When did you get so righteous?” Sloan tossed the question at her flippantly.

  Joy made a show of glancing at her wristwatch. “About five minutes ago.”

  Sloan ignored the humor. “I don’t want to see him.”

  “He’s your father,” she reminded him.

  “Do you want me to wave a banner?”

  Maybe Joy wouldn’t have reacted so strongly if her own father was alive. “That comment was unworthy of you, Sloan.”

  “Listen, Miss Miracle Worker. This is between my father and me. I’d advise you to keep out of it.”

  “No.”

  The barely controlled anger showed in the tight set of his mouth. His eyes were afire. “Stay out of this; it’s none of your business. You seem to think you’ve got me wrapped around your finger. You’re wrong. I refuse to allow you to dictate to me my personal affairs. Is that understood?” His voice gained volume with each word until the room seemed to shake with the sound. “Get out, Joy,” he warned, in a dangerous tone. “Get out, before I say something I’ll regret.”

  She took a step in retreat, then stood her ground.

  Sloan advanced his chair across the room until he was directly in front of her.

  “He’s your father,” she murmured. “Don’t do this to him. Don’t do this to yourself.”

  “Stay out of it, Nielsen,” Sloan ground out between clenched teeth.

  In the past, Joy had found ways around Sloan’s pride. Now, facing his steel-hard resolve, she felt defenseless. There was nothing she could say or do.

  Sloan’s father stood when she entered the living room.

  “I can tell by your face what he said. Don’t bother to explain.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Whittaker,” she added, in a weak voice. “I feel terrible.”

  “Don’t.” He looked away as though assessing his visit and then reached for his coat.

  “I shouldn’t have forced the issue.”

  He snapped the briefcase closed, his back to her. “Give me a call when you think …” He let the rest of the sentence trail away.

  “I will.” Joy walked with him to the front door. “I’m sure everything will work out fine.”

  Gravely, he shook his head. Not for the first time, Joy noted the tired, hurt look in his eyes.

  She stood on the front steps until his car rounded the bend in the road. Without questioning the wisdom of her actions, she marched through the house and into Sloan’s room.

  “That was a despicable thing to do.”

  “I told you to stay out of it,” he stormed back.

  “I won’t.”

  Sloan escaped onto the veranda.

  “You can’t do this to your own father. He loves you. Seeing you like this is tearing him apart.”

  “You’re right, it is,” Sloan shouted, appearing in the doorway that led outside. “Don’t you think I can see the pity in his eyes? He’s no different from anyone else. I don’t want his sympathy. I can’t stand to see him stare at me that way.”

  Some of the intense anger drained out of her. “I’d give anything to have my father look any way at me,” she whispered.

  “Don’t confuse the issue with sentimentality.”

  “Oh Sloan,” she moaned, and exhaled a wistful sigh. “Can’t you see what you’re doing? You’re driving everyone who loves you out of your life.”

  “That’s my choice,” he returned bitterly. “I can see and do as I please.”

  “But you can’t play tennis with your father.”

  The color fled from his face as his eyes hardened into cutting diamond chips. Fierce anger shot out from him. “You’re right about that, Miss Miracle Worker. I’m not going to play tennis with my father. But then, I’ll never play much of anything physical again, will I? So what’s the difference?”

  The urge to fall to her knees and hold him was so strong that it was all Joy could do to turn and walk away.

  To say Joy was miserable was a gross understatement. Paul attempted to lighten her mood by taking her out to dinner.

  “I blew it.” They sat at an umbrella table at Mobey Jake’s. The neon whale flashed directly above them.

  “Don’t be so hard on yourself, kid.”

  Joy nearly choked on a french fry. “Kid?” she repeated. “How old do you think I am?”

  The muscular shoulders lifted with a heavy shrug. “Twenty, maybe.”

  “Thanks.” Joy laughed.

  Paul laid his fish on a napkin and looked up thoughtfully. “You should laugh more often.”

  One corner of Joy’s mouth lifted in a bittersweet smile. “There’s not much excuse to laugh in this business. I wish my patients could understand that it hurts me as much as them.”

  “One patient, you mean,” Paul inserted.

  Joy looked out over the coastline instead of directly at Paul. “One patient,” she agreed.

  “Are you falling for this guy?” A frown marred his forehead.

  Paul was nothing if not blunt. Joy felt the heavy thud of her heart. It beat so loud and strong that it seemed someone was pounding on her with a hammer. She reacted that way when someone spoke candidly.

  “I hope not,” she replied truthfully. “I’ve got enough problems handling Sloan Whittaker without involving my emotions.”

  “If you need a shoulder to lean on, let me know.”

  “Thanks, Paul.” Joy meant that sincerely. She’d never worked with nicer people than Paul and Clara.

  It was dark by the time they returned to the house. Since Clara had the day off, Joy had cooked Sloan’s dinner, and she was grateful when Paul had delivered it to him. Paul and Joy had decided to eat out.

  The porch light was on, but the house was dark. As Joy let herself into her room she noticed there were no lights on in Sloan’s. Apparently, he’d opted for an early night.

  Not wishing to wake him, Joy carried her flute down to the beach. She stopped long enough to check L.J. and give him the leftover fish. The bird seemed to want out, and when Joy held open the gate, L.J. hobbled after her.

  The two found a log not far from the house. Joy sat, buried her bare feet in the sand, and began to play. For a while L.J. stayed close to her side, but it didn’t take much time for him to stray. As long as she could see him, Joy let him wander. The difficulty came when it was time to return to the house. L.J. had enjoyed his taste of freedom and wasn’t willing to go back to the small fenced area. Joy had to round him up like a sheepdog herding a stray lamb.

  Laughing and breathless, she let herself into the house.

  “What were you doing out there?”

  Sloan.

  “What are you doing up?” Joy had never known Sloan to come into the kitchen.

  “I asked you first.” The room remained dark.

  Joy’s eyes soon adjusted to the room’s interior. Only a few feet separated her and Sloan.

  “I …
I was on the beach.”

  “That much I knew.”

  “Why are you here?” Her hand gripped the knob behind her.

  “I heard you playing—”

  “I’m sorry if I woke you,” she interrupted. “I didn’t mean to.”

  Sloan wiped a hand over his brow. “I couldn’t sleep. Did you and Paul have a good time?”

  “Yes. We went to Mobey Jake’s.”

  “Bring me anything this time?”

  “No, sorry. I didn’t.”

  He dismissed her apology with a wan smile. “What took you so long coming inside? I was worried.”

  Sloan concerned about her? After this afternoon, he had all the more reason to want her out of his life. In her eagerness to mend the rift between father and son, she had only done harm. Sloan was right; it wasn’t any of her affair.

  “Joy?” He seemed to be waiting for her answer.

  “I was bringing L.J. home.”

  “You and that bird.” His mirthless laugh was filled with irony. “I was ready to call out the national guard.”

  “I’m sorry—for everything,” she muttered.

  Her apology produced a stunned silence.

  “Did I hear you right? Joy Nielsen, gutsy miracle worker, actually admitting to a fault? Are you feeling well? Do you need a doctor?”

  “I’m fine,” she said, with a shaky laugh. “Sloan, I feel terrible about today. You were right. I should never have stuck my nose where it doesn’t belong.”

  The amusement drained from his eyes. He extended a hand to her, palm open.

  Scooting out a kitchen chair, Joy sat so that their gazes were level. With appreciation for his accepting her apology, she placed her hand in his.

  “Friends?” he questioned.

  Joy nodded. “I prefer it to being enemies.”

  His hand closed tightly over hers, his thumb sensuously rotating against the inside of her wrist. “I do, too.” His eyes holding hers, he lifted her fingers to his mouth.

  Joy tugged, and immediately Sloan released her hand. The potential for danger was powerful and strong. If she let Sloan kiss her fingers, it wouldn’t be enough; she’d want to taste his mouth over hers. She couldn’t risk weeks of hard work for something as fleeting as physical attraction.