Promise Me Forever (Debbie Macomber Classics) (9 page)

“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.

Awkwardly, she stood and backed away. “Good night, Sloan. Sleep well.”

Somehow Joy managed to keep from running into her room. By the time she closed the bedroom door, she was trembling. Covering her face with both hands, she paced the carpet, her heart pounding like a trapped fledgling. Either she come to her senses or resign from this case. The matter was simple. She was a professional therapist, sensible and proficient. She knew better than to nurture this powerful physical attraction. In the end she would leave the cripple, not Sloan. But just as she recognized she must rein in her feelings, she knew she couldn’t bear to leave him now.

The next morning, Joy was in the pool doing laps when Paul brought Sloan to the water’s edge. Once placed on the side of the pool, Sloan could lower himself into the blue depths.

Treading water at the deep end, Joy waved. “I’ll be right there.”

“Don’t hurry on my account,” he shouted back.

A smile flashed from her eyes, and with even strokes Joy swam toward him.

“You look bright and cheerful this morning.” Sloan had been up, dressed, and eating breakfast by the time Joy returned from her run. Normally, he delayed starting the day as long as
possible. Joy remembered the struggle she had had just to keep his draperies open the first few days after she’d arrived. Sometimes she forgot how far they’d come. But seeing him now, she was reminded how much further they yet had to travel.

Clara hurried onto the patio. “Sorry to bother you, but Mr. Whittaker Senior is here.”

A hardness stole over Sloan’s face. “Who does he want to see this time?” The question was barely civil.

Joy bit into her lip to restrain an angry response.

Clara wiped her hands on her apron, obviously flustered. “Mr. Whittaker says he wants to talk to you.” She directed her answer to Sloan.

“Tell him I’m busy.”

“We can do this later,” Joy inserted eagerly. “I’ll come back—”

“No.” His angry shout shut her off.

“Sloan, please,” she whispered.

“Do as I say, Clara.” He directed his attention to the housekeeper, his dismissal final.

With a quick bob of her head, Clara turned and hurried toward the house.

His narrowed gaze swung to Joy. “Was this brilliant idea yours?”

Joy returned his stare speechlessly. Was Sloan implying that she had sent for his father?

“Is it?” he shouted.

“Of course not. What are you suggesting?”

“I saw the two of you together,” he hissed. “I’m not stupid. You two have something up your sleeves. Let it be known right now. I don’t want any part of it. Is that understood?” The last words were shouted.

“Something up our sleeves?” Joy echoed incredulously. “Your father is half killing himself to maintain the business.
Your
company, I might add. He’s dying in stages. In case you’d forgotten, your father’s retired.” Joy paused to draw in a breath. “Are you so self-absorbed that you haven’t stopped to think what his life has been like since your accident? Not only is he worried sick about you, but he’s taken over your position in the company—with all the stress and worries. But you, Mr. High and Mighty, you’re so caught up in self-pity, all you see is yourself.”

Sloan’s face became sickeningly pale. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Are you accusing me of lying now, too?”

“What can you expect me to think? My parents told me Harrison was in charge of the
company.”

“Have you looked at your father lately, Sloan, really looked? Can’t you see what’s happening to him?”

Sloan went completely still, like a lion alert before the attack. “If what you say is true, it’s Dad’s own fault. He should have given everything over to Harrison the way he said he was.”

“Are you really so uncaring?” His lack of concern shocked her.

His blistering-hot gaze swept over her contemptuously. “What do you know of any of this?” he shouted. “Safe and warm in your secure little world, it must be easy to sit in judgment of something you’ll never comprehend.” A muscle worked convulsively along the line of his jaw.

The desire to tell him was overpowering. “What do I know?” She repeated his question with a half-laugh. “Maybe it’s time you found out exactly what I do know.” She swam to the steps that led out of the pool. “You asked me once about pain. Believe me when I tell you I’m well acquainted with it.” She stood and placed one foot on the painted step. “You told me once you’d lain in a hospital bed wanting to die. I did more than want. I begged.”