Promise Me Forever (Debbie Macomber Classics)

by Debbie Macomber

  “From there to the parallel bars, the walker, and last, the cane,” he finished for her.

  “There’s a light at the end of the tunnel.”

  “I’m just beginning to see it.”

  “Good.” She smiled brightly. “I knew you would.”

  “Should I pretend I’m a dog and bark?” he asked, as he moved into the crawling position.

  “Go ahead.” Joy laughed. “It’ll give Clara a good laugh.”

  Sloan gave an Academy Award performance that left both Joy and Paul laughing.

  “Mr. Jewett’s here. I haven’t seen Dale in nearly nine months,” Clara said.

  The laughter drained out of Sloan’s face and his eyes turned icy cold. “Send him away. I don’t want to see him. Is that understood, Clara?”

  “But Mr. Jewett’s been your friend since you were a boy.”

  “It doesn’t matter. I don’t want to see anyone.”

  Joy tossed a glance to the obviously flustered Clara, then back to Sloan. Angrily, Sloan reached out from the mat and grabbed the side of his wheelchair. With a violent shove, he sent it crashing against the wall. The chair tilted onto its side and fell over.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked quietly, and knelt at his side. “Who is the guy?”

  “A friend.”

  “You have a funny way of showing it.”

  “When I want your advice, I’ll ask for it,” he growled.

  “That wasn’t advice,” Joy returned. “I was simply stating an opinion.”

  “Then keep those to yourself.”

  “Fine.” She stood and wiped the grit from her hands. Walking across the room, she uprighted the wheelchair and brought it to his side. “I want you to make the transfer yourself today.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Don’t give me that, Whittaker.”

  “What is this? Put-the-cripple-in-his-place time?”

  “Figuratively speaking, I think that’s it.”

  “Kindly leave before I say something I’ll regret later.”

  Joy’s mouth formed into a humorless smile. “Gladly.” Arms flying at her sides, she stormed into the kitchen, plopped down on a chair, crossed her legs, and took three deep breaths.

  “What’s with that man lately? Mr. Jewett and Mr. Whittaker have been friends for a whole lot of years. Friends shouldn’t treat each other like that. It’s not right, it’s just not right. But no one pays a mind to ol’ Clara. No one,” she emphasized.

  “What’s the matter with me lately?” Joy answered Clara with a question of her own. “I used to give as good as I took.”

  Clara apparently chose to ignore Joy. “I said to Mr. Jewett that Mr. Whittaker’s not feeling like himself today. That’s what I said because I know later Mr. Whittaker is going to want to see his friends again. No need to offend him. I did the right thing, didn’t I?” Clara’s look was eager.

  “You did fine.”

  Clara clucked, and a look of relief relaxed her wrinkled face.

  “Are you sure there isn’t any reason Sloan wouldn’t want to see his friend?”

  “Mr. Whittaker sent all his friends away after the accident. He didn’t want to see anyone. Mr. Jewett came around for a long time, but Mr. Whittaker wouldn’t see him. Same as now. It’s not right to treat friends like that.”

  “What’s not right?” Sloan entered the kitchen and boldly glared at the cook.

  “To send friends away,” Joy answered for Clara.

  Briefly, renewed anger flashed from his eyes. “You two are beginning to sound like henpecking wives.”

  “Mr. Jewett’s been your friend for as long as I can remember …”

  With a burst of energy, Sloan wheeled himself out of the room, apparently not wishing to become involved in an argument.

  Joy didn’t see Sloan again that afternoon. After his time with Paul, he met with his father and spent the remainder of the day in his room on his computer.

  Joy sat on the beach with L.J. until dinner, wondering if she should press this thing with Sloan. She understood what he was doing all too well. She’d done it herself. Friends, especially ones who were whole and well, were a reminder of things that would never be again. Even Danielle, her best friend since high school, the one person who knew her so well, couldn’t help or understand the adjustment Joy was making.

  In some ways Danielle hurt more than she helped. She came to visit, eager to share tidbits of news and gossip from school. Joy hadn’t wanted to know or hear any of it. School, boys, teachers were so far removed from her life then that it only served to widen the gap between them.

  Sloan met Joy that night on the veranda. She was sitting and watching the sunset, a fiery ball of orange lowering into the ocean.

  Sloan pulled up beside her. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

  Smiling, Joy nodded. “I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of looking at it. The whole world seems so peaceful and serene. It’s hard to remember the tragedies reported on the evening news when everything’s so calm here.”

  “I often feel that way, too.”

  She felt at ease with Sloan, relaxed, so unlike the way she felt during their first days of constant confrontation. Those times seemed in the distant past now. She turned to smile at him and noted the signs of stress about his mouth. His dark eyes looked tired.

  “You’re strung out from working all day,” she whispered. “You should go to bed.”

  Teasing warmth kindled in his gaze as he smiled slightly. “Now, that, my dear Joy, sounded suspiciously like an invitation.”

  The gibe was a gentle one, and Joy couldn’t take offense. “No. When I issue an invite to my bed, there won’t be need for any speculation.” Joy had hoped to sound breezy and sophisticated, but it came out all wrong. She could feel Sloan’s puzzled gaze run over her.

  “You’re blushing, which leads me to believe you haven’t had a lot of experience with men.” His short laugh was soft, almost caressing.

  Joy straightened. “I don’t like the sudden turn of this conversation,” she said stiffly. “Let’s go back to what a beautiful sunset it is.”

  “Your cheeks are nearly as bright as the sky.”

  “Would you stop?” she demanded.

  “No,” he chided, and linked his hands behind his head, obviously enjoying himself. “Why?”

  “Why what?”

  “You’re innocent … clearly you—”

  “Honestly, Sloan, you’re embarrassing me,” she said, cutting him off. “Don’t, please.” She hung her head and pretended to be studying her fingernails. The sound of his moving drew her gaze. Sloan had turned his chair around and parked himself beside her so that only a few inches separated them. A finger under her chin turned her face to him.

  “For most of my life I’ve stayed away from women like you.”

  Joy swallowed uncomfortably. His eyes were tender, infinitely gentle.

  “That was until I met you,” he went on. “I’m pleased you are who and what you are. I wouldn’t change a single thing about you.” His hand slid behind her neck, urging her mouth to his.

  Confused and unsure, Joy stiffened; she knew what would happen if she let him kiss her. It would be lighting a match to gasoline. The feelings Sloan produced in her weren’t a small spark, but a raging forest fire. She wanted him so much but at the same time was all too aware of where it would lead.

  He dropped his hand at her resistance. The puzzled look in his eyes deepened into pain. “Is it always no to every man?”

  She looked away and nodded, because speaking was almost impossible.

  “Is it the scars?”

  “No.”

  “Then why?”

  One shoulder was lifted in a halfhearted shrug, urgently hoping he’d change the subject. “I’m not exactly a sex goddess.”

  “There’s never been anyone I’ve wanted more.”

  Bounding to her feet, Joy stalked to the far side of the deck. “Stop. Please. I find this whole conversation inappropriate.”
/>   “If I promise not to mention it again, will you come back and sit with me?”

  Joy didn’t find the teasing light in his eyes encouraging. “Promise?”

  “Scout’s honor.” Solemnly, he raised his index and middle fingers.

  Joy returned to the cushioned wrought-iron chair and relaxed.

  “But then, I was never a Boy Scout,” he inserted.

  “Sloan!”

  “I promise, I promise.”

  Joy sat and brought up her knees, resting her chin on top of them. “Tell me about Jewett.” Joy could sense him drawing away from her. Not physically, but mentally.

  “He’s a buddy,” Sloan returned, in a tone that discouraged further discussion.

  “A good friend?”

  Irritably, he expelled his breath before answering: “At one time.”

  “Not now?”

  “I know what you’re doing, Joy,” he breathed impatiently. “And I don’t like it.”

  A gentle breeze ruffled the soft curls about her face, and Joy laughed lightly. “I love turning the tables on you.”

  “I don’t want to talk about Dale or any of the others.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because”—he hesitated—“because I’m not the same person I was before the accident.”

  “Dale knows that. He doesn’t need a psychology degree to realize you’ve changed,” she explained, in a patient voice. “You couldn’t help but change.”

  “The only friend I need is you.”

  “But I couldn’t possibly hope to meet all your needs.”

  He cocked his head, and a teasing smile flirted at the side of his mouth. “You could try.”

  Joy ignored the glint in his eyes. “I did the same thing to my friends. Looking back, it’s easy to see that my ego was involved, because I didn’t want anyone to see me like that. Nor did I want to hear who was going with whom and what couple had broken up. My life had gone beyond all that, and it seemed trivial and petty. They’d come with pitiful looks and talk as if I’d had brain damage.”

  “Exactly,” Sloan agreed.

  “But I didn’t consider the fact that they needed me. I was their friend, and they loved me. It hurt them to see me the way I was, and desperately my friends wanted to do something, anything, to help. For a long time I wouldn’t let anyone near me. Then one day, Dani—”

  “Dani?” Sloan questioned.

  “Danielle, for real,” Joy supplied.

  “Not the old friend Dan you had dinner with not so long ago?”

  “One and the same,” she said, with a puzzled look.

  Sloan went completely still, and she watched as the muscles worked along the side of his jaw. “You little devil. You did that on purpose.”

  Too late, Joy realized exactly what she had revealed.

  “You purposely let me assume that you were going out with a man.”

  “Yes … well,” Joy floundered.

  “I sat here half the night going crazy thinking about you in the arms of this Dan. You should suffer for what you put me through.” He wheeled around so suddenly, Joy was caught completely off guard.

  Somehow she managed to escape his grip as she scurried out of her chair. Laughing, she ran down the deck, Sloan in hot pursuit. When she’d gone as far as possible, she turned, the wood railing pressing against her back. Joy stretched out a pleading hand. “Sloan.” She couldn’t keep the laughter out of her voice.

  “Yes, my trapped little rat?”

  “Would it do any good to apologize?”

  “Not when I’ve got you where I want you.” Slowly, he advanced toward her, one inch at a time.

  “Sloan,” she pleaded a second time. Frantically, she looked around for an escape.

  “Mr. Whittaker, where are you?” Clara’s high-pitched voice could be heard coming down the hall. There was a slight hesitation as the older woman stepped onto the veranda. “Oh Mr. Whittaker, I was hoping I’d find you here.”

  “Yes, Clara, what is it?” Sloan’s voice was thick with impatience.

  “If you’ll excuse me.” Joy sauntered out of her corner and wickedly fluttered her long lashes. “It seems to have gotten a bit chilly out here all of a sudden. I think I’ll take a drive into town.”

  “Are you going to meet Dan again?” Sloan taunted.

  “Not tonight,” she said, with an exaggerated sigh. “But I think I’ll give Mark a call.”

  His eyes narrowed for an instant before a smile broke out across his powerful face. For now she would escape, his eyes were telling her, but the time was fast approaching when he would extract his due.

  “Are you ready?” Joy’s voice was soft with encouragement.

  Sloan nodded. Joy didn’t know how he could be so calm. Her stomach felt like it had twisted into double knots. Even her mouth felt dry, her throat scratchy.

  The parallel bars loomed before him. Sloan positioned the wheelchair so that he could reach up and pull himself upright.

  Joy watched him with a ballooning sense of pride. Once he was upright, he beamed her an off-center smile.

  “Well?” he probed. “How am I doing?”

  Joy shook her head, because she was afraid the lump that filled her throat would make her words sound irregular and he would know how happy this new triumph made her. This was only the beginning.

  “I don’t think I realized how tall you are,” she said at last.

  Sloan continued to work his way across the bars, each movement cautious and measured. His face was furrowed with concentration.

  “And I don’t think I’ve ever realized what an elf you are.”

  “I am not,” she denied.

  His laugh was rich and deep. He stopped when he came to the end of the long bars and awkwardly turned around.

  Joy watched him with her heart in her throat. She need not have worried; he was doing wonderfully well.

  “Joy,” he called to her, and she was immediately at his side.

  “Yes?”

  “Stand here.” He indicated a place beside the bars. When she did as he asked, he manipulated himself around so that they stood facing each other. She came to just an inch or two under his chin. “An elf,” he affirmed, “but a perfect one. Look how well we fit together.” A hand grazed her cheek and cupped her neck. “I’ve been waiting weeks to kiss you like this. Don’t deny me now.”

  Joy could refuse him nothing. Had he asked for any part of her, she would have given it to him gladly with all the love pent up inside.

  When his lips touched hers, she released a small, weak cry of happiness. The kiss was sweet and gentle and left her craving for more. Somehow Sloan managed to keep his balance as he cradled her head against his chest and pressed his face into her hair.

  “Thank you, Joy,” he murmured, and again she was reminded that his emotions were confused, interwoven with a deep sense of gratitude.

  “Has something happened to Sloan?” Margaret Whittaker rushed into the living room. Her face was pale and tight. Myron Whittaker followed, close on his wife’s heels.

  “Not at all,” Joy hurried to assure them. This whole production was Sloan’s idea, and she was reluctantly playing her role. “Please sit down.”

  Myron eyed his wife and shrugged. “You say Sloan’s fine?”

  “Yes.” For a moment she was sure her smile gave her away. “Perhaps you’d like some coffee while you’re waiting?”

  “Please,” Myron answered for them both, and stopped to run a hand across his forehead.

  Joy excused herself and rounded the corner, pretending she was going into the kitchen.

  “You should be shot for this,” she told Sloan in a heated whisper. “They’re both worried sick.”

  He was standing. The U-shaped walker accepted his weight as his hands gripped the metal bar. Joy continued to marvel at how tall he was. Tall and vital. But even the wheelchair had been unable to diminish the aura of powerful virility that was so much a part of him.

  A happy smile skittered across his face
.

  “What’s so funny?” she demanded.

  “You. I still can’t believe I let such a pipsqueak boss me around. I must have been weak in the head.”

  “Not weak,” she countered brightly, “but exceptionally smart.”

  He bent his head and kissed her lightly on the cheek. “Don’t tell me to break a leg.”

  She smiled, one that came deep from within her heart. “All right, I won’t.”

  With a slow gait, every step deliberate and practiced, Sloan moved out of his hiding position in the hall. Joy stayed where she was, the sound of his steps, the drag of the walker against the floor, magnified in the enclosed area. She didn’t need to be told the cries from Sloan’s parents were ones of surprise and happiness. In her own way, she was inexorably happy. The time was fast approaching when she must leave. Sloan wouldn’t need her anymore.

  “Clara, Clara.” Myron Whittaker’s voice boomed through the house.

  Joy stepped aside as Clara bustled out of the kitchen.

  “Bring out a bottle of my best champagne. There’s cause to celebrate again.”

  “Joy,” Sloan called to her.

  Purposely, she had stayed out of view. This was a time for family; she didn’t want to intrude.

  “Joy,” he repeated, and she stepped around the entrance to the hallway and into the living room.

  “Where did you go?” he questioned, his eyes watching her, his look vaguely troubled. “I thought you were right behind me.”

  Margaret was dabbing the corner of her eye with a scented handkerchief, and when she saw Joy she hurried across the room and hugged her tightly. “My dear Miss Nielsen, Myron and I owe you so much.”

  “Dad’s bringing out the family’s best.” Sloan’s eyes were bright with excitement.

  “Do stay, dear,” Margaret insisted. “After all, it’s you we all must thank.”

  “Nonsense.” Embarrassment heightened the natural color in her cheeks.

  Sloan wrapped an arm around Joy’s shoulders. “Mother, we owe this little pint-sized woman more than words can express.”

  A look of undisguised concern flickered briefly over Margaret Whittaker’s eyes. Joy saw it but was certain Sloan was unaware of his mother’s look.

  Myron Whittaker returned with champagne and several glasses. A great production was made out of opening the bottle. Laughter filled the room as the bubbles spilled over and foamed onto the marble floor.