Promise Me Forever (Debbie Macomber Classics) (15 page)

“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.

Joy accepted the glass and stood stiffly apart from the cozy family scene by the fireplace hearth. Her smile was strained, but when Sloan’s father offered a toast, her response was genuine. She smiled warmly at Sloan, afraid her heart was in her eyes. Then, purposefully, she looked down into the sparkling liquid before taking a sip.

“This is fantastic,” Sloan said, and reached for the half-empty bottle.

“French, of course,” Myron Whittaker bragged. “Some of the world’s finest.”

“Honestly, dear, you sound like an advertisement.”

Watching the small family interact naturally with one another produced an ache Joy knew she would endure for years hereafter. She would never fit into the Whittakers’ social circle, with their wealth and position. It wasn’t difficult to tell that Sloan’s parents were concerned with their son’s obvious attraction to her. And with good cause, Joy acknowledged.

“We must have a party.” Margaret Whittaker’s words broke into Joy’s troubled musings. “Invite all your old friends.”

Joy could almost visualize all the wheels turning in his mother’s head.

“Here, of course,” she continued. “It’ll be easier for you that way. We’ll invite the Jordans and the Baxters and the Reagans and the Considines.”

“Mother.” Sloan’s sharp tone caused Margaret Whittaker to pause.

“Yes, dear?”

“There will be no party.”

“Of course there will. You’ve been out of circulation for months. People are beginning to ask questions.”

“Let them. There will be no party,” he repeated forcefully.

“But Sloan.” His mother’s eyes were soft and pleading. Joy didn’t know how anyone could refuse the woman, and she sincerely doubted that it happened often.

“I’m tired. Joy,” Sloan called for her, and held out his arm. “Help me back to my room.”

Joy set her nearly full champagne glass down on an end table and strode across the suddenly silent area.

“Don’t say it,” Sloan murmured as they reached his room and he lowered his weight into the wheelchair.

“Say what?” Joy asked, pretending not to know.

“For most of my life I’ve fallen into Mother’s schemes, but not anymore. I have nothing in common with the Baxters, or any of those people.”

Joy straightened, standing in the doorway, one hand braced against the wooden frame. “Don’t look at me. That’s your decision.”

“Then why do I feel guilty?” He slammed his fist against the rubber wheel.

“Parents have a knack of doing that to us sometimes.”

Sloan whipped a hand across his face. “I mean what I say, and Mother knows that. It’ll be interesting to see what lengths she’ll be willing to go to to get her own way. I love my mother, but I’m not a fool.”

It didn’t take even twenty-four hours for Joy to learn exactly what Margaret Whittaker had in mind. Midmorning, Clara handed Joy a phone message that asked Joy to meet Margaret Whittaker in the best restaurant in Oxnard for lunch. Joy dreaded the confrontation.

“You look nice,” Sloan commented, as she brought in his lunch tray. “Where are you headed?”

“I have an appointment in town.”

“Oh?” He arched one thick brow curiously. When Joy didn’t elaborate, he continued. “Anyone I know?”

“Honestly, who said I was meeting anyone? It could be with the dentist.” Over the years Joy had gained a certain amount of poise. She didn’t want to mislead Sloan, nor did she wish to cause ill will between mother and son.

“What time will you be back?” he questioned.

“You’re beginning to sound like my guardian,” she accused teasingly, with an underlying tone of seriousness.

Sloan reached out and took her hand, squeezing it lovingly. Even his lightest touch was enough to cause chaos with her emotions. A tingling awareness spread up her arm. “That’s the last way I want you to think of me.” He smiled at her, his voice deep and calm while his eyes shone into hers.

Joy nodded and backed away. The need to escape was growing, to the point of desperation. If she couldn’t disguise her feelings for him, then everything would be lost and she would have to leave.

Margaret Whittaker was already seated when Joy arrived.

“My dear, how nice of you to come.”

“How thoughtful of you to invite me,” Joy murmured, hating small talk and knowing she would be forced to endure at least an hour of it until Sloan’s mother came to the point of the meeting.

The waitress arrived, filled Joy’s water glass, and handed her a menu. Joy ordered almost without looking. She doubted that she’d be able to choke down anything more than a salad. Already she could feel the sensitive muscles of her stomach tighten.

“Such lovely weather this time of year, don’t you agree?” Sloan’s mother murmured the question.

“Yes.” Joy nodded. Her right hand surrounded the water glass, collecting the condensation. “May is my favorite month.”

“You’ve done remarkably well with Sloan.”

“Thank you.”

“Believe me when I say I know how difficult he can be.”

“He was in the beginning, but gradually he came to accept me as his physical therapist.”

“How much longer will it be before Sloan’s completely independent?”

“A few weeks, not much more than that.” She swallowed a sip of ice water. It slid down her throat, easing the building tightness.

“One of the reasons I invited you here today is to ask about Sloan’s social readjustment. I’m sure you’ve dealt with situations like this before.”

Joy hadn’t, but didn’t say so. “I believe that, given time, Sloan will readjust automatically.”

“I had hoped he would agree to letting me throw a party in his honor. He knows how much I love parties, and everyone has been so concerned. It seems like such a good way to help my son. Don’t you agree?”

“I really couldn’t say, Mrs. Whittaker.” Uncomfortable, Joy lowered her gaze. So this was the reason Margaret Whittaker had invited her to lunch.

“Has he mentioned the party to you?”

“Not since yesterday.”

“What did he say then?” the older woman probed.

“Mrs. Whittaker, please,” Joy said, and breathed in softly. “I don’t think it’s my place to relay your son’s feelings.”

“But I had so hoped.” She gave Joy a softly pleading glance, not unlike the one Joy had witnessed so recently.

The waitress arrived with their salads. Joy smiled her appreciation and reached for her fork. She didn’t need to take a bite to know the meal would taste like overcooked mush.

“I think that if you talked to Sloan …” Margaret Whittaker continued, her gaze centered on the meal. “What I mean to say is that I’ve noticed the way my son looks at you.”

Joy’s heart leaped into her throat. “What do you mean?”

“It’s only natural that Sloan would feel a certain amount of gratitude toward you. He respects and likes you. If you were to ask him about the party, I’m sure he would agree. Won’t you, dear?” she quizzed softly. “For Sloan’s sake?”

Joy laid the fork beside her untouched salad. “I sincerely doubt that my asking will have any effect on Sloan’s decision.”

“But you will try?” Margaret Whittaker entreated.

“Yes,” Joy agreed, nodding reluctantly, when what she wanted was to keep Sloan to herself for the rest of her life.

As Joy returned to the beach house, she knew what she had to do. Sloan’s mother had made the position clear. Joy’s responsibilities went far beyond the physical therapy Sloan required. He was almost to the point of walking on his own now. Her last duty would be to bring him back into the mainstream of life.

Hands clenching the steering wheel, Joy drove to the shoulder of the highway and stopped completely. The scenery was spectacular. Huge waves pounded the rocky shoreline. Large gulls swooped low in a sky that was cloudless. Heaving a sigh, Joy lowered her face until her brow pressed against her coiled hands. What Margaret Whittaker was really asking was that Joy relinquish her love. Of course, she had been subtle, but she was genuinely concerned that Sloan fit back into the lifestyle he had known before the accident. One that excluded Joy.