Promise Me Forever (Debbie Macomber Classics) (4 page)

“I won’t hurry,” she answered at last. “I’m not any more anxious to see you than you are me.”

“At least we understand each other.”

Joy called for Paul and swam laps as the young man helped Sloan out of the water. She again offered him privacy to salvage his pride.

Later, when she brought in his lunch, he regarded her skeptically. When she delivered the tray to the kitchen, Joy was pleased to note that he had again eaten a decent meal.

That night, after the sun set, she picked up her flute and stood on the balcony to play. A gentle breeze stirred her hair and felt like a whispered caress against her smooth skin. The sounds of the Beatles’ classic “Yesterday” filled the silence. She loved the song.

Joy paused when she finished, noting that Sloan had rolled onto the balcony and was staring into the still night.

“You can’t bring back the past,” he said. The words were filled with regret.

“No,” she agreed softly, “you can’t. Today, this minute. Now is all that matters.”

Again she played the songs she loved most. Michael Bublé and Josh Groban, mellow sounds that produced a tranquil mood within her.

She sighed as she lowered the musical instrument. The day had been full, and she was exhausted. “Is there anything I can get you before I go inside?” she asked softly, not wanting words to destroy the mood.

At first it didn’t appear that he’d heard her. He rotated the wheelchair so that he faced her. “How about new legs, Miss Miracle Worker?”

“I’m fresh out of those,” she replied evenly. “I’m afraid you’ll have to make do with the ones you’ve got.”

Joy heard him exhale and knew her comment hadn’t pleased him. After a moment, she turned away. “Good night, Mr. Whittaker.”

He didn’t reply, and Joy guessed that he wasn’t wishing her anything good.

The next week was miserable, an unceasing confrontation of wills. Sloan fought her every step of the way. Several times it was all she could do not to retaliate out of her own frustration.

She hadn’t minced words when she told him the exercises were going to cause him pain, although he never indicated that she was hurting him. He worked with her because he had no choice, and although he didn’t resist her as she manipulated his legs, he didn’t aid her, either. Some mornings after their session Joy noticed how ashen his face was as he struggled to disguise the pain. The lines of strain were deeply etched about his mouth. He rarely spoke to her, seeming to prefer sullen silence to open confrontation. Apparently, he’d learned early that the biting, sarcastic comments rolled off her as easily as the pool water, that she could give as well as she took. In some ways a mutual respect was beginning to blossom, but it didn’t lessen the intense dislike he felt for her or the frustration she experienced knowing she wasn’t reaching him or gaining his trust. Her getting him in the pool and exercising his legs was good, but she’d failed in the most important area.

Sloan came onto the balcony at night as if waiting for her music. Rarely did he comment, silently wheeling back into his room when she’d finished.

On Saturday Joy rose and dressed at the usual time. Her heart felt weighted, and she wasn’t sure why. The crisp morning air felt cool as she slipped out the back door. First she checked Long John, the seagull she’d found and was nursing. He didn’t like the confines of the fenced portion of the yard, but, like Sloan, he was trapped and unable to flee. The bird squawked and hobbled to the side of the yard when she opened the gate. Several times he had lashed out at her hand, once drawing blood. He didn’t trust her—again, like Sloan.

For six days she had worked with them both and had failed to earn more than a grudging respect. At least the bird wanted his freedom. But Sloan had no will to walk or reenter the mainstream of life. What would make a man content to sit in a chair? Perhaps this was another battle of their wills, in which he was determined to prove he didn’t need her.

Long John squawked, and Joy focused her attention on the bird. “Good morning, fellow,” she whispered. “Are you glad to see me?”

The gull stared at her blankly.

“Don’t worry, I’m not any more popular with the master, either.” She yearned to reach out and comfort her winged friend. She wanted his trust, as she wanted Sloan’s, at least enough
so that the bird would allow her close enough to touch him. But he wasn’t confident enough yet. Moving slowly, she placed a bowl of cut-up fish and high-protein gruel on the ground and filled his bowl with fresh water. On her knees, she held herself motionless for several moments, hoping he would be hungry enough to overcome his natural reserve. It didn’t take her long to realize that the bird wouldn’t eat as long as she remained in the yard.

Releasing the latch, Joy let herself out through the gate and locked it. For a time she stayed and watched, but Long John defiantly remained where he was. The pungent scent of the ocean greeted her as she walked along the shore. A gentle mist wet her face and hair, and she ran a hand along the sides of both her cheeks. Tonight she would go out, do something special. She needed a few hours of escape. An evening away would help her perspective.

As she turned and headed back for the house, a solitary figure on the balcony caught her attention. She hesitated, hands thrust deep into jeans pockets. It seemed Sloan Whittaker was watching her. Maybe he was hoping she’d leave and never return.

The morning followed its usual routine. Joy brought Sloan his breakfast.

“Good morning.” She greeted him with a smile. “You were up bright and early this morning.”

His response was muffled and gruff.

“Long John seemed to be in an identical mood when I brought him his meal.”

“Long John what?”

“The seagull,” she explained, as she set the tray on the desk.

“Good grief, don’t tell me you’ve still got that poor creature.”

“He’s improving, which is more than I can say …” She let the rest of what she was going to say fade when Clara appeared in the doorway.

“Mr. Whittaker’s here to see you.”

“Bring him in, Clara,” Sloan instructed briskly.

The older woman shifted from one foot to the other. “Mr. Whittaker said he wanted to talk to Miss Nielsen.”

Sloan’s gaze swiveled to Joy for a long, considering look. “What could my father
possibly have to say to Miss Nielsen?” he demanded.

“I’ll take notes, if you’d like,” Joy volunteered.

“Don’t bother.”

Joy felt his gaze burning into her shoulder blades as she stepped out of the room.

Even Clara seemed puzzled that the senior Whittaker sought out Joy. The question was in the older woman’s eyes as Joy took a left turn into the living room.

“Miss Nielsen.” Myron Whittaker stood and extended his hand. He was tall and as large as Margaret Whittaker was petite. His shoulders were as broad as a wrestler’s, his hair white and receding from a wide forehead. Joy’s hand met his and was clasped firmly.

“My wife mentioned that you would like to speak to me.”

“As a matter of fact, yes. I’m glad you’ve come.” She sat in the large modern chair across from the distinguished-looking man. It wasn’t hard to tell where Sloan got his compelling features. Father and son were a lot alike.

“It’s only fair to tell you how pleased my wife and I are that you’ve agreed to take on Sloan’s case.”

“I think I’m the lucky one. I’ve never had the pleasure of working in such elegant surroundings.”

“Yes, well …” The older man cleared his throat. “We want you to know we appreciate what you’ve done.”

“I haven’t done anything yet,” Joy admitted wryly. “But part of your son’s recovery will depend on you.”

“Anything.” He rubbed a hand across his face, his eyes tired.

“Part of Sloan’s therapy will be mental as well as physical. He’s got to be brought back into life, given responsibilities.” She hesitated and leaned forward slightly so that her elbows rested on her knees. “Your wife mentioned that you’ve assumed Sloan’s job in the company since the accident. In some ways this is good, but the time has come for you to return those duties to your son.”

“How do you mean?”

“Decision-making, paperwork. These are things that can be done from the house. At least come to Sloan when a decision needs to be made. Part of the problem with your son is that he feels useless. Prove to him he’s needed.”

“He is,” Myron returned forcefully.

“Don’t overpower him,” she suggested. “Start with updates and reports that will keep him in tune with what’s happening. Then gradually lead into the other matters. I don’t know that much about your business, but I’m sure you’ll know how to approach this.” Dr. Phelps had told her that the Whittakers owned a ski-equipment company. Joy had never skied, but from Sloan’s home and lifestyle, it was easy to see the business had been a profitable one.

Myron Whittaker looked down, but not before his dark eyes conveyed the toll of the last months. “I’m not sure of anything anymore.”

“Your son’s going to be fine, Mr. Whittaker.” She leaned forward and gave the elder Whittaker’s clenched fist a reassuring pat. “He’s strong-willed and determined.”

Tears glistened in the proud man’s gaze. He closed his eyes and gripped her hand with his own.

“My, my, isn’t this a touching scene.” Sloan wheeled into the room. “My physical therapist? Honestly, Father, I think you’re lowering your standards unnecessarily.”

Myron Whittaker sprang to his feet, his face twisted with rage. “You will apologize for that remark.”

Joy’s gaze swiveled from father to son. Sloan’s hands gripped the wheels of his chair until his knuckles were white. His mouth was slanted and scornful.

“Wheelchair or no wheelchair, I won’t have a son of mine make that kind of suggestion.”

“Mr. Whittaker, please.” Joy could feel the hot color explode in her face. “This isn’t necessary.”

“It most certainly is,” he barked.

How often Joy had heard that same tone of voice. Father and son shared more than looks.

Sloan’s hard gaze hadn’t relented. “I regret the implication,” he managed between clenched teeth.

“If you’ll excuse me.” Joy hurriedly left the room. Her heart felt as if she’d completed a marathon as she let herself into her quarters. Her hands shook as she slipped into her swimsuit. Her earlier decision to get out, go to a movie, anything, had been a good one. Sloan Whittaker was getting to her. Keeping a cool head with this man was essential to success.

When she slipped out of her room and into the hall, she could hear the angry exchange between Sloan and his father. Joy wanted to shout at them both. Arguing would solve nothing.
She bit into her bottom lip tightly and moved outside.

Paul was lounging in a chair by the pool when she came out. “Morning,” he said. “How’s it going?”

Joy rolled her eyes expressively, and Paul laughed. “He’s really something, isn’t he?”

“You can say that.” Her relationship with the other staff members had relaxed considerably. Almost everyone called her Joy. Since she and Paul worked directly with Sloan, she felt a certain camaraderie with him, although they rarely had time to talk for more than a few minutes at a time. “How are the afternoon sessions coming?”

Paul shrugged. “Better, I guess. At least he’s stopped yelling.”