Promise Me Forever (Debbie Macomber Classics) Read Online Free Page A

didn’t alter.
    “You can go for now. I’ll see you at lunchtime.”
    “Don’t hurry.”
    The sun’s golden rays bathed his pale features. Joy realized that only a year ago Sloan Whittaker would have been sun-browned. Once he had been a compellingly handsome man, but pain had chiseled blunted, abrupt lines in his face. His dark eyes seemed to mirror the agony of the past months. Mournful and intense. Joy had seen it before, but never had it affected her like this. In some degree she gave a part of herself to each of her patients. Her greatest fear was that Sloan Whittaker would take her heart. That she couldn’t allow.
    “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