Promise Me Forever (Debbie Macomber Classics) (2 page)

Joy didn’t need to be a psychologist to know that a man who resigned himself to a wheelchair had far more reason than pain. Something had happened to make him lose the will to use his legs. She’d know what it was before finishing this assignment.

After six months, the bitterness had built a thick wall around him. It wouldn’t be easy to crack that granite fortress, but Joy was determined. She wanted to be the one to help him.

Entering her bedroom, she paused again to take in the expensive décor. The room was decorated in a powder-blue color scheme: The wallpaper contained tiny bluebells; the azure carpet was lush and full. The flowered bedspread matched the walls and draperies. Joy had seen pictures in magazines of rooms like this, but she’d never imagined she would be sleeping in one.

Money could buy a lot of things, and in Sloan’s case it had bought him the privilege of
choosing life in a deluxe-model wheelchair.

Opening her closet, she took out and changed into a fresh uniform. She rinsed out the juice stain in the private bath off the bedroom. Once she’d turned off the water, she could hear the angry words coming from the room next to hers. Apparently, Sloan wasn’t in any better of a mood.

Paul had seemed the perfect type to deal with Sloan. He was an easygoing, laid-back sort of person who recognized a good thing when he saw one. His job entailed helping Sloan bathe and dress each morning, and stimulating his leg muscles with massage and lifting weights. Paul Weston was a body man, and he had been given free use of the equipment in the room off the kitchen—equipment Sloan had once used.

Now that she was here, she’d see to it that Paul’s duties were increased. She was going to need his help. One of the first things she planned to do was get Sloan Whittaker into his swimming pool, whether he wanted to go or not. And for a time she was going to need Paul to get him there.

She had finished reading over the medical reports kept by the previous therapists when Clara came to tell her Mrs. Whittaker had arrived.

Glancing at her watch, Joy raised a speculative brow. “She’s early.”

“Mrs. Whittaker’s anxious to meet you,” Clara explained unnecessarily.

The older woman, seated on a long white sofa, was the picture of grace and charm. She was delicate and fine-boned, her hair silver and stylish. She glanced up when Joy entered the room. Joy watched as the smile died on her lips.

“Miss Nielsen, I can’t tell you how pleased I am to meet you,” she said with a frown.

“Is something the matter?”

“It’s just that I expected someone older,” she admitted.

Joy’s back remained straight as she sat across from the older woman. “I’m twenty-eight,” she said in a deliberate, casual tone.

“But Dr. Phelps explained that …” She let the rejoinder fade into silence.

Joy’s eyes held the older woman’s. “I can assure you that I’m perfectly qualified for the
job.”

“Oh, my dear, I didn’t mean to imply otherwise. It’s just that there is so much resting on you. I’m at my wit’s end with that son of mine. I’ve all but given up hope.”

“To do so would be premature.”

“Have you met Sloan?” Her eyes were anxious.

“This morning.”

“And?” she inquired gently.

“And he’s bitter, resentful, in pain, mad as a wet hen at the world and everyone in it.”

“His last therapist stayed only one day.”

“I may not look like much, Mrs. Whittaker,” Joy strived to assure the woman, “but I can guarantee it’s going to take far more than a few angry words for me to pack my bags.”

The woman looked relieved. “I can’t tell you how pleased my husband and I are that you agreed to take this assignment. Dr. Phelps has nothing but good things to say about you, and quite honestly I don’t know how much longer my husband can continue managing the company.”

“Pardon?”

Margaret Whittaker lifted a china teacup to her lips and took a sip before continuing. “I’m sorry, dear. I assumed Dr. Phelps told you.”

“No, I’m afraid he didn’t.”

Margaret Whittaker sighed, drawing Joy’s rich, brown eyes to the carefully disguised age lines that fanned out from the older woman’s eyes and mouth. “My husband came out of retirement after Sloan’s accident. I’m afraid the pressure is more than Myron can cope with. We’ll be forced to sell the business unless Sloan can assume some of the responsibilities soon.”

Joy frowned thoughtfully. “I’d like to talk to your husband when it’s convenient. I can’t make any promises, Mrs. Whittaker, but I would think involving your son in the business again would be in his own best interest.”

“Yes, but …” She looked disconcerted, and Joy noted that her hands shook as she replaced the cup in the saucer. “Sloan’s convinced he will never walk again. He’s given up.”

“Mrs. Whittaker, I think you should realize that a man like your son never gives up. Although he wouldn’t let you see it, he’s fighting. No matter what he says or does.”

The silver-haired woman paused, her hands folded primly on her lap. “You’re very wise
for your years.” She regarded Joy thoughtfully. “I apologize for doubting. I can see that you’re exactly what Sloan needs.”

“I hope I am,” she murmured softly, “for your sake, and for Sloan’s, too.”

The soft hum of the wheelchair sounded behind them. Sloan’s look was hooded as he moved into the room.

“I wasn’t aware you’d arrived, Mother.” A sarcastic inflection laced his words.

“I was introducing myself to Miss Nielsen. I hope you appreciate how fortunate we are to get her.”

“Oh yes.” His light, mirthless laugh was filled with disdain. “About as lucky as I was the night of the accident.”

“Sloan.” Margaret Whittaker breathed his name in protest. But his dark head had already turned away, effectively cutting off any further discussion. “You’ll have to forgive him.” Anger trembled from the sharp edge of his mother’s voice.

Joy glanced up, surprised. She would have thought Margaret Whittaker was the type of woman who would never lose her poise. The small display of temper showed Joy how desperate the situation had become for Sloan’s mother.

“Don’t worry, Mrs. Whittaker. I understand.”

An hour later, Joy wandered into the kitchen. Clara was busy fixing lunch. “Mr. Whittaker’s tray’s ready. He has all his meals in his room these days.”

“I’ll take it to him,” Joy volunteered. She wouldn’t avoid another confrontation.

She knocked once before swinging open the door. “Good afternoon. I imagine you’re anxious for this.”

“Then you imagined wrong.”

“Listen, Sloan, we can do this easy or we can do this hard. The decision is yours.”

“Nothing in my life’s come easy,” he returned sharply.

Joy’s laugh was filled with challenge. “You’re sitting in this showroom house with people fighting to wait on you, and you want my sympathy? You’re looking at the wrong woman.”

He tipped his head to one side and glared at her. “Get out—or I’ll throw you out.”

“If you want me to leave, you’ll have to do it physically. That’s pretty tough for a cripple.”

His nostrils flared. “Don’t be so confident.”

“Oh, I’m sure.” She tossed the words at him flippantly. “I run two miles every morning, and in addition to being in great physical condition, I could flatten you with one swift punch. Look at you,” she returned smoothly. “You’ve been sitting in the wheelchair for six months. Your muscles are weak and limp. I doubt that you could lift your own weight. But if you want to try, don’t let the fact I’m a woman stop you.”

A muscle jumped along the side of his jaw. With a violent shove, he propelled the wheelchair onto the veranda. For now, Joy recognized, he was running; he didn’t know what else to do. But the time was fast approaching when he’d have nowhere to go.

Before she left, Joy set up the meal tray. A satisfied smile spread to her eyes as she regarded the meager contents. She’d bet hard cash Sloan Whittaker was going to eat his lunch.

When she returned she noted that she’d been right. He’d devoured every bit and would probably look forward to dinner.

“I’m taking you outside now,” she told him in a silky, smooth voice.

“No, you aren’t.”

She didn’t argue. Instead, she stuck her head out the door and called Paul.

Almost immediately the muscle-bound young man stepped into the room.

“I’d like you to take Mr. Whittaker to the beach.”

“No,” Sloan shouted.

“Do as I say, Paul,” Joy encouraged.

“You so much as touch my chair and you’re fired.” The way he spoke proved that the threat wasn’t an idle one.

“She told me you’d say that.”

“Don’t do it.” The thin line of Sloan’s mouth was forbidding.

Uncertain, Paul glanced to Joy for assurance. They’d had a long talk and had reached an understanding where Sloan Whittaker was concerned.

“You can’t fire either one of us. You realize that, don’t you?” she asked, in a bored voice.

“Like hell.”

“As I understand the situation, it’s your family who hired us, and therefore we work for them. Not you.”

Joy could have kissed Paul as he effortlessly pushed Sloan out the bedroom door. Only at rare times had she seen such barely restrained rage. Sloan’s face was twisted with it as Paul directed the chair out the back door and onto the sheets of plywood they had laid on the sand to help manipulate his chair.

The day was gorgeous, and a gentle breeze ruffled the soft brown curls about her face.

“Is that all?” Paul looked to her and she nodded, indicating he could leave.

Slipping off her shoes, Joy sat on the soft beach and burrowed her feet in the warm sand. Lifting her face to the soothing rays of the sun, she closed her eyes, oblivious to the angry man beside her.

After several minutes of contented peace, she lowered her gaze and turned to Sloan. He sat erect and angry, like a prisoner of war. He
was
a prisoner, she mused.

“Tomorrow we’ll start with the therapy.”

“What therapy?”

She ignored the censure in his voice. “Your first session will be in the morning with me. I thought we’d start in the pool. Later, in the afternoon, Paul will be helping you tone up the muscles in your arms.”

His hands grabbed hold of the arms of his chair in a death grip. “What has my mother told you?” He breathed the question.

Joy let the sand drain out of her closed fist, watching it bounce against the beach. “Plenty.”

“I refuse to fall into your schemes.”

“We’ll see about that.” She rose lithely and rolled her pant legs up to her knees. The ocean was several hundred yards away, and she ran down to the water’s edge. Her big toe popped the tiny bubbles the surf produced. The sun felt soothing and warm, and she basked in the beauty of the afternoon. When she glanced back she saw that Sloan had somehow managed to turn his chair around, and with a determined effort had begun to wheel the chair toward the house.

For now she’d let him escape. His pride demanded as much.

Joy didn’t see him again until later that evening. She wasn’t surprised when Clara
proudly exclaimed that Mr. Whittaker had eaten his dinner.

The sky was pink with the setting sun when she unpacked her flute and stood on the veranda. The music flowed from her, unbound and free. There’d been a time when Joy had had to decide between a musical career and the medical profession. Once the decision had been made she had no regrets. She was a good therapist, and she knew it. Cases like these were her best—and for a reason. Absently, she stopped playing and rubbed her thigh.