Promise Me Forever (Debbie Macomber Classics) (8 page)

“You need to talk to ol’ Clara?”

“No, I’m fine,” Joy dismissed the offer. “But thanks, anyway.”

“Any time.”

The sound of Clara’s humming followed Joy down the hallway to her room. The door clicked, and she walked across the room to stand in front of the mirror. She forced herself to do an assessment of herself. Twenty-eight, never been married. Not unattractive, but certainly not beautiful. She wasn’t another Chantelle, the blonde who looked gorgeous with damp lashes. Joy’s hair was cut short and curly. With so many hours in the pool every day, it was the most practical style.

Turning sideways, she placed her hands on the undersides of her breasts and lifted them. They were probably her best feature. If it weren’t for those, most people would think she was a young boy. That was the problem with being so short. Petite, her mother claimed. Joy called it just plain stubby.

Within seconds, Joy had determined she was headed for a lot of heartache if she allowed this awareness of her feelings for Sloan to continue. In all the years she’d been working, this was the first time she had faced these feelings. A patient was a patient, and she had never allowed herself to forget the code of ethics.

The day’s session with Sloan in the pool didn’t go well. Both of them were on edge. The ability to work with each other, although grudgingly, was gone.

Sloan struggled to disguise his pain, and with every wince Joy had to force herself to continue. She didn’t need to be reminded that it hurt. She knew.

“Are you going to do the exercises today or not?” Sloan questioned in a vicious tone, angry and impatient.

“What do you think I’m doing?” she shot back. Joy realized that she hadn’t been working him as hard because his pain was affecting her.

When the next series of manipulations had been completed, Sloan was left in little doubt that she was doing her job.

Later that afternoon, Joy entered the fenced yard to see L.J. The bird hobbled to her, and Joy bent down to talk to her creature friend.

“Hello.”

L.J. squawked loudly, and Joy laughed.

“So you can talk.” She held out her bandaged hand. “Did you see what you did?”

The seagull tilted its head at an inquiring angle.

“Well, don’t worry. I know it was an accident. But it was a good lesson for us both.” She crumbled up bits of fish and some other leftovers in his dish, then stepped back. Almost immediately, L.J. began to eat. Joy stayed with him until he’d finished.

That evening she watched television with Paul, but a half-hour later she couldn’t have told anyone what she’d seen.

When she returned to her room, Joy couldn’t decide if she should play her flute or not. But music was a basic part of her life, and she didn’t know if she could go without it two nights running. Playing had always calmed her spirit and soothed her.

Her options were few. If she stayed in her room, she would be depriving Sloan of the pleasure he received when she played. It seemed almost petty to put her desire for solitude above what little enjoyment he received from life.

Dusk had cast a purple shadow across the horizon when Joy stepped onto the veranda. She paused to inhale the fresh scent of the sea and closed her eyes. The winds were whispering and gentle when she raised the musical instrument to her lips.

As always, the music flowed naturally. But tonight it was dark and deep, unlike the mellow tunes she normally enjoyed.

“You practicing for someone’s funeral?” Sloan asked, in a bitter tone.

Joy paused and lowered her flute. She’d been so caught up in the music she hadn’t noticed he’d come outside. He stayed several feet away, his profile illuminated by the setting sun.

She shook her head. “No.”

“Could have fooled me.”

Ignoring him, she played again, forcing out a lively, popular tune. Before realizing what had happened, she slipped into the intense mournful music a second time. When she recognized what she’d done, she stopped mid-measure.

“Will you play at mine?” Sloan asked, his voice a mere whisper.

“Play at your what?” She didn’t look at him, her gaze focusing on the tumbling waves that broke against the beach.

“My funeral.”

“That’s a morbid thought. You’re not going to die,” she said seriously, her own voice a soft murmur. “I won’t let you.”

His light laugh couldn’t hide the pain.

“Do you want something?” She didn’t need to explain what. When it came to painkilling drugs, Sloan was sensible. He never took anything unless the pain became unbearable. The fear of becoming addicted to the medication was always present, and he seemed well aware of the dangers.

He expelled a harsh breath before answering. “What I need is for you to kiss me better.” His voice was low and seductive.

Joy didn’t breathe; the oxygen was trapped in her lungs. Her hand tightly clenched the railing as she closed her eyes. The battle to alleviate the pain from his eyes with a gentle brush of her mouth over his was almost overpowering. The knowledge that one kiss would never be enough was the only thing that stopped her.

“Want me to call Chantelle?” A fingernail broke against the freshly painted surface of the railing on the veranda. Still, she didn’t move.

“No.” The word was released in an angry rush.

With her back to Sloan, she heard him return to his room.

Joy breathed again.

The following morning, Joy walked into the modern-style living room. “Good morning, Mr. Whittaker.”

Myron Whittaker placed his coffee cup in the saucer and stood. “Morning.”

“You asked to see me?”

“Yes, I did. Sit down, please.” He motioned with his hand to the chair opposite him.

Joy sat on the edge of the leather cushion and primly folded her hands in her lap. The Whittakers were wonderful people who loved their son and were willing to do whatever was necessary to help him return to a normal life again.

“How’s Sloan?” his father began.

“There’s been some improvement. I imagine within a few weeks he’ll be able to start work on the mats and the parallel bars. From there, it will only be a matter of time before he can advance to the walker and then the cane.”

The older man lowered his gaze. “Yes, the cane.”

Joy didn’t need to be told what Sloan’s father was thinking. “From what I can tell, your son will always have a limp. The cane will be necessary.”

Myron Whittaker glanced up, and Joy had the funny sensation that although he was looking at her, he wasn’t seeing her. “That’s not it,” he admitted absently, and shook his head. “I was remembering … thinking …” He let the rest of the sentence ebb away. “We used to play tennis, Sloan and me. Twice a week.”

Joy could see no use in dwelling on things past. “It’s unlikely that your son will play a decent game of tennis again.”

He lifted the coffee cup to his mouth, and Joy noted that it shook slightly.

“I’ve done as you suggested and brought some work from the office. Heaven knows I’m not able to keep up with it all.”

“I think bringing Sloan back into the mainstream of the business can only help,” Joy murmured.

“I was hoping to go over a few of the things with you.”

“With me?” Her gaze shot to him. “Surely you don’t expect me to discuss the business with your son?”

“To be honest, I was hoping you would bring up the subject with him. Sloan and I had a parting of ways on my last visit. At this point, I feel it would be better if we didn’t see each other for a while.”

“You can’t mean that.”

Myron Whittaker stood and paced across the marble floor. He had his back to her.

“Sloan and I have always been close. Don’t misunderstand me. I love my son.”

“I’m sure you do.”

“It hurts me to see him in that chair. There are so many things I wanted in life for Sloan, and now everything seems impossible.” He turned around. “The last time I saw Sloan we said some bitter, hard things to each other. I don’t know if it would be a good idea for me to see him now. We both need time.”

“But that’s something you don’t have,” Joy countered, and released a slow breath. “Sloan regrets what happened just as much as you. Clear the air between you, make amends. Then bring up the business aspect of your visit. If you’d like, I could tell him you’re here.”

The agreeing nod wasn’t eager. “If you think I should.”

“I do.”

Sloan was in his quarters, his head resting against the back of the chair, eyes closed.

When Joy tapped lightly on the open door, he straightened and opened his dark eyes, which narrowed on her.

“Your father’s here to see you.”

At first Sloan said nothing. “Tell him I’m busy.”

“That would be a lie.”

“When did you get so righteous?” Sloan tossed the question at her flippantly.

Joy made a show of glancing at her wristwatch. “About five minutes ago.”

Sloan ignored the humor. “I don’t want to see him.”

“He’s your father,” she reminded him.

“Do you want me to wave a banner?”

Maybe Joy wouldn’t have reacted so strongly if her own father was alive. “That comment was unworthy of you, Sloan.”

“Listen, Miss Miracle Worker. This is between my father and me. I’d advise you to keep out of it.”

“No.”

The barely controlled anger showed in the tight set of his mouth. His eyes were afire. “Stay out of this; it’s none of your business. You seem to think you’ve got me wrapped around your finger. You’re wrong. I refuse to allow you to dictate to me my personal affairs. Is that understood?” His voice gained volume with each word until the room seemed to shake with the sound. “Get out, Joy,” he warned, in a dangerous tone. “Get out, before I say something I’ll regret.”

She took a step in retreat, then stood her ground.

Sloan advanced his chair across the room until he was directly in front of her.

“He’s your father,” she murmured. “Don’t do this to him. Don’t do this to yourself.”

“Stay out of it, Nielsen,” Sloan ground out between clenched teeth.

In the past, Joy had found ways around Sloan’s pride. Now, facing his steel-hard resolve, she felt defenseless. There was nothing she could say or do.

Sloan’s father stood when she entered the living room.

“I can tell by your face what he said. Don’t bother to explain.”