Promise Me Forever (Debbie Macomber Classics) (11 page)

“I thought the same thing,” Sloan added in a gruff whisper. His hand rested on her shoulder as if some contact with her, even the light touch of his hand against her bare skin, was necessary.

“The doctors assured my family I’d never walk again. The damage was too extensive, multiple. My father wouldn’t accept that. He insisted on a therapist.” She paused and bit into her bottom lip. “It hurt so much I thought I’d die.”

“And I had the audacity to ask what you could possibly know about pain.” His voice was filled with regret.

“You didn’t know. My mother couldn’t stand to see me suffer like that. I know it wasn’t any easier on Dad, but he was there every session encouraging me, loving me, helping in any way he could. I’d be in a wheelchair today if it wasn’t for my father.”

“You told me once the only man you’d ever made cry was your father.”

Joy nodded. “With the therapist’s help, Dad learned the manipulations and assumed some of the exercises. I wanted to give up so many times. But Dad wouldn’t let me. He prodded, pried, bribed, and when the pain was the worst he cried with me. But not once in the next two years would he let me quit.”

“It took two years for you to walk again?”

“Two of the longest years of my life.”

“I can imagine.”

“If it weren’t for the scars, I don’t think anyone would guess.”

“No. Have you ever considered plastic surgery?”

Joy stiffened defensively. “My medical bills were staggering. My family gave me back my life. The disfigurement can be hidden. No, the thought has never entered my mind.”

“I’ve offended you, and I didn’t mean to. I’d like to do that for you, Joy. My gift to you for everything you’ve done for me.”

“I haven’t done anything.”

“How can you say that?”

“Easy. Want me to do it again?”

“Joy.” He ground out her name in frustration. “Why is it every time I try with you it backfires? I think you’re wonderful just the way you are. The scars don’t bother me. Keep them, if you like.”

“I like.” She stood and brushed the sand from her clothes. “Paul and Clara will be worried. We should head back. Do you want me to push you?”

“No.”

Joy had gone several feet, but Sloan didn’t follow. When she glanced back expectantly, she saw that he hadn’t moved, his gaze resting on the rough ocean. “You coming?” she called.

He turned toward her and nodded, but it was several long moments before he did so.

By midnight the house was as quiet as a funeral parlor. Joy remained in her room reading, or at least made the pretense of involving herself with a bestselling mystery plot.

The light tap against the sliding glass door that led to the veranda startled her. She threw back the covers and quickly donned her housecoat.

“I couldn’t sleep, either.” Sloan sat outside the door. “Don’t lie and tell me you weren’t awake.”

“I was up,” Joy conceded.

“Why didn’t you play tonight?”

Since their meeting on the beach, Joy had avoided Sloan as much as possible without arousing suspicions. “I didn’t feel up to it.”

“Don’t kid yourself. You weren’t up to facing me.”

“All right,” she stormed. “I didn’t want to see you. But it didn’t do me much good, did it?”

“I can be as stubborn as you. Come out here and sit awhile.”

Joy doubted that. “It’s late.” She searched for an excuse.

“That’s never stopped you before. I bet you didn’t know I could see you out here with your flimsy silk nightgown pressed against you in the wind.”

Joy decided the best thing to do was refuse to be drawn into his game. “I’m hungry,” she said, on a falsely cheerful note. “I think I’ll fix myself a sandwich. Do you want one?”

“You know what I want,” he whispered, as he carried her hand to his lips.

“No!” She pulled her fingers free as if his touch were red hot. She didn’t know what he wanted. Didn’t want to guess, because whatever it was, her heart was willing. “I’m going to the kitchen.”

“Then I’m coming, too.”

Her heart seemed to plunge into her stomach. Was there no escape? “It’s your house,” she returned, with remarkable calm.

His laugh was short and mirthless. “At least we can agree on something.”

Joy sliced a banana into thin pieces and laid them across a thick layer of peanut butter on
bread. “Want half?”

Sloan’s look was skeptical. “Peanut butter and banana?”

“It’s good. Honest.” She handed him half and poured them each a glass of milk.

Sloan joined her at the table. “I’ve been thinking all night of ways to thank you. But I never did have a way with words.”

“Thank me?” She regarded him quizzically.

“I know what it cost for you to tell me about your accident. Even now, just talking about mine produces a cold sweat.”

The bite of sandwich nearly stuck in her throat. She swallowed around it and reached for the milk. As she stood, the chair scraped against the floor. “I think I’ll go see to L.J. before going back to my room.”

“Running, Joy?” he taunted softly.

She was glad her back was to him so that he couldn’t see the flame of color that heated her face. “You’re being ridiculous.”

“I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Good night, Sloan.”

The pause was only momentary before he whispered his own farewell. “ ’Night, Joy.”

Clara was busy in the kitchen when Joy returned from her run early the next morning. “Yum, that smells good. What is it?” Joy peeked under the lid of something cooking on the stove.

“Food. Now scat.”

With a laugh, Joy grabbed an apple off the table centerpiece and took a bite out of it. After a long run, she felt exhilarated.

“Here.” Clara stopped her. “Take Mr. Whittaker his tray, will you?”

“Already?” Sloan wasn’t normally up at this time of day.

“He’s up. He called me soon after you left.”

Clenching the apple with her teeth, Joy carried the tray down the long hallway. Her knock went unanswered. Resting the breakfast on one knee, she turned the knob and walked unheralded into Sloan’s quarters.

Two steps into the room, she stopped cold. Sloan and his father were busy going over some papers. Both father and son were so intent, neither was aware she was there.

The apple fell out of her mouth, bounced, and rolled across the floor.

Myron Whittaker glanced up from the paperwork spread on the top of the large oak desk. “Good morning, Miss Nielsen. Could you set that tray outside? I’m hoping Clara sent an extra cup. I could use coffee this morning.”

Sloan’s expression was brooding. “Joy’s my physical therapist, not a servant.”

“I … I don’t mind,” she stuttered. “Really.” She placed the breakfast tray on the veranda and came back through Sloan’s room.

“Joy.” Sloan stopped her. “Good morning.”

His smile was devastating, her answering one weak but happy. “Good morning.” A flowing warmth seeped into her limbs as she exited the room.

“Does she normally dress like that?” Sloan’s father’s words followed her into the hallway. With a half-laugh, she bit into the corner of her bottom lip. She was wearing baggy gray sweatpants and an old T-shirt.

Mindful of her appearance, she returned with the extra coffee cup and picked up the apple that had rolled halfway under Sloan’s bed. “I’ll be out of your way in a minute.”

“No problem,” Sloan assured her. She left in a rush, but not before she caught the look of concern in Myron Whittaker’s eyes as he glanced from Joy to his son.

Joy didn’t need to be told what he was thinking. Sloan’s father was worried. He didn’t want Sloan to fall in love with her—and with good reason. Joy wasn’t stupid. Myron’s picture of Sloan’s future wife was someone like Chantelle—as well it should be. Joy would never fit into the Whittakers’ world; Sloan’s wealth and lifestyle were as foreign to her as propositional calculus had been in her college days.

Later, the spray from the shower relaxed her muscles and soothed her body, but the look in Myron Whittaker’s eyes continued to disturb her. He was right—she couldn’t argue with him. Now she had to do her part to protect her heart and Sloan’s.

Father and son worked until almost noon. Joy was sitting on a stool, chatting with Clara, when Myron walked into the kitchen. He looked relaxed, pleased, his eyes smiling.

“I owe you more than words can express,” he said sincerely to Joy. “You’ve given me back my son. I’m going to see that you receive a generous bonus.”

“Please, Mr. Whittaker, that’s not necessary.” The harsh lines of strain about his eyes and mouth had relaxed. That was all the appreciation Joy wanted to see.

“Nonsense.” He dismissed her plea with a wave of his hand.

It was easy to see that arguing would do her no good. Myron Whittaker could be as stubborn as his son.

As soon as he left, Joy returned to Sloan’s quarters to take back the breakfast tray and see if he was ready for their session in the pool.

“This was your idea, wasn’t it?” he stormed, as she walked into the room.

The anger in his voice stopped her. “Yes.” She wouldn’t deny it.

“Well, all I can say is thank God. You wouldn’t believe some of the things that have been going on. How my father could make some of these decisions is beyond me.”

A tiny smile broke out across her mouth. Joy battled to suppress it.

“What’s so funny?” He didn’t sound pleased.

“Nothing. Do you think you’re going to have time to squeeze in the therapy today?”

Sloan set the papers he was working on aside. “I’ll make the time.”

Joy’s mouth fell open.

“Don’t look so shocked. You want to see me out of this thing, don’t you?” He patted the rubber on the wheel of his chair.

“I’ll get Paul and meet you in the pool.”

“See you.” He paused and glanced at his wristwatch. “Fifteen minutes?” He made it a question.

“Fine.”

Joy was doing laps when Paul delivered Sloan to the pool. Sloan sat on the edge, watching her.

“Don’t you ever get tired?” he called after a while.

Joy stopped and treaded water. “You should have said something. I didn’t know you were there.”

“You look like a sea nymph. That turquoise suit in the blue water leaves little to the imagination.” His look was absent, his words thoughtful. “The scars were the reason you were
always in the water ahead of me. It’s also why you choose to wear pants.”

Joy ignored his observations. She didn’t want to talk about herself. “Are you going to come into the water or not?”

Sloan’s smile was filled with warm amusement. “What will you give me if I do?”

“I think it’s more a question of what I’ll do to you if you don’t.” The sound of his laughter rang in her ears as she swam toward him. She stood in the shallow end. “You’re in a good mood today.”

“Yes, I am,” he agreed. “I can’t tell you how good it feels to be needed again. Just looking over some of the stuff my father brought showed me how much things have slacked off since I’ve been away.” He lowered himself into the water. “You knew that, didn’t you?”

“Everyone needs to know they’re wanted.”

“Even you?” The words were whispered on a husky breath.

“Even me,” she returned crisply. “Now, let’s get to work.”

“Always business. Don’t you ever let loose and have some fun?”

“Of course I do. In fact, I’m going out tonight.” The statement came off the top of her head. But the idea was a good one. She needed to check her apartment in Oxnard, a small town a few miles up the coast highway, and it wouldn’t hurt to call a friend and make a night of it.

Sloan’s mouth twisted, drawing in his facial features. The look in his eyes chilled her. “Anyone I know?”

“I’m sure you don’t. It isn’t like we run in the same circle, is it?”

“No, I guess we don’t,” he admitted, and stared at her.

Sloan was strangely quiet, almost brooding, for the remainder of their session. Even when she took him his lunch, he did little more than give her a polite nod of acknowledgment.