Coast Road
Page 1
PRAISE FOR BARBARA DELINSKY, “ONE OF WOMEN’S FICTION’S TRUE MASTERS” (BookPage), AND
COAST ROAD
“A winner … . Delinsky delivers an emotion-packed journey … firmly cementing her status as a bestselling writer of top-notch books.”
—Booklist
“The road to recovery for both Jack and Rachel makes for a heartwarming story.”
—Star Tribune (Minneapolis)
“Delinsky steers clear of treacle … with simple prose and a deliberate avoidance of happily-ever-after clichés.”
—People
Be sure to read her other superb New York Times bestsellers
LOOKING FOR PEYTON PLACE
“Intriguing … . Delinsky is at her best, skillfully weaving elements of a tantalizing mystery and titillating romance in this vibrant page-turner.”
—Booklist
“All the right ingredients—romance, mystery, suspense, sisterly rivalry, and a thoroughly happy ending.”
—Publishers Weekly
“A compelling read.”
—Library Journal
THE SUMMER I DARED
“Delinsky excels at combining a compelling mystery with an insightful portrayal of captivating people facing challenges both ordinary and dramatic.”
—Booklist
FLIRTING WITH PETE
“Sophisticated and fast-moving.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Another ‘I didn’t want to put it down’ novel from Delinsky … .”
—Library Journal
AN ACCIDENTAL WOMAN
“The twisty plot and icy late-winter backdrop … will keep you chilling on a hot afternoon.”
—People
“Delinsky has strong characters in Blake, whose disability never impedes her work, and Hughes, who looks past his lover’s disability to the woman within.”
—Baltimore Sun
“A good story in an idyllic and lovingly rendered setting.”
—The Calgary Sun
THE WOMAN NEXT DOOR
“An achievement … . Adept and compelling … . One of her best books to date.”
—Booklist
“Delinsky peers into the dark corners of ideal marriages … and makes you realize that ‘the woman next door’ could be you.”
—Roanoke Times (VA)
“The Woman Next Door … will stir everyone who reads it.”
—The Anniston Star (TX)
LAKE NEWS
“[An] engaging tale.”
—People
“[Her characters] … become more like old friends than works of fiction.”
—Flint Journal (MI)
“Delinsky fans won’t be disappointed.”
—San Antonio Express-News
“Delightful … . Readers will be sorry to reach the end of Lake News and yearn for more about its cast and characters.”
—The Pilot (Southern Pines, NC)
“Delinsky plots this satisfying, gentle romance with the sure hand of an expert.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Recommended … . Lily Blake [is] a remarkable heroine.”
—Abilene Reporter-News (TX)
Books by Barbara Delinsky
The Summer I Dared
Flirting with Pete
An Accidental Woman
The Woman Next Door
The Vineyard
Lake News
Coast Road
Three Wishes
A Woman’s Place
Shades of Grace
Together Alone
For My Daughters
Suddenly
More Than Friends
The Passions of Chelsea Kane
A Woman Betrayed
Pocket Books
A Division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
1230 Avenue of the Americas
New York, NY 10020
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1998 by Barbara Delinsky
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Simon & Schuster Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020
POCKET and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available.
ISBN: 0-684-86788-5
Visit us on the World Wide Web:
http://www.SimonSays.com
contents
acknowledgments
prologue
chapter one
chapter two
chapter three
chapter four
chapter five
chapter six
chapter seven
chapter eight
chapter nine
chapter ten
chapter eleven
chapter twelve
chapter thirteen
chapter fourteen
chapter fifteen
chapter sixteen
chapter seventeen
chapter eighteen
chapter nineteen
chapter twenty
chapter twenty-one
chapter twenty-two
chapter twenty-three
chapter twenty-four
acknowledgments
Coast Road was born of three things I admire—the Big Sur coast, people with artistic ability, and men who rise to the occasion. My own instinct as a woman, plus an annual trip to Big Sur, helped with research into those things, but there were other elements of the book that required outside expertise.
I wish to thank Nancy Weinberg, nurse-educator of the Critical Care Unit at the Newton Wellesley Hospital, for the generous sharing of her time, knowledge, and imagination. Likewise, and not for the first time, my thanks to Margot Chamberlin for advice on the nuts and bolts of being an architect. For their help framing Rachel’s pieces, I thank Renata, Rob, Chris, and Steve, of the Renjeau Gallery. For her assistance, her ear, and great color, I thank Barbie Goldberg.
As with any large project, some things inevitably hit the cutting-room floor. Although none of the 1950s trivia that Elaine Raco Chase sent made it into this book, I am grateful for her tireless efforts. Nor did anything of Pukaskwa make it into Coast Road, despite the generous contributions of Margaret Carney, writer, naturalist, and friend; and Bob Reside, Park Warden, Pukaskwa National Park. I was deeply impressed with the beauty and isolation of Ontario, north of Lake Superior, and imagine that it will appear in a future book.
My book group. Ah, my book group. How long have I talked about writing its story? The full focus that I had initially intended went the way of 1950s trivia and Ontario, but what remains is true. No, no, guys. Don’t look for yourselves in any of my characters. I promised I wouldn’t, and I didn’t. I do believe, though, that you will identify with the deeper meaning of the group, as do I.
Again and still, I thank my agent, Amy Berkower, who has worked nearly as hard on this book as I have. I am also grateful to her partner, Al Zuckerman, for his gracious input, and her assistant, Jodi Reamer, for being there every single time I call. I thank my editor, Laurie Bernstein, for making me one of the pins she juggles.
As always, for their enthusiasm, support, and patience, I thank my family—my husband, Steve; my son and daughter-in-law, Eric and Jodi; and the twins, Andrew and Jeremy. Those twinges Jack feels when he thinks of family? Autobiographical all the way!
COAST ROAD
prologue
WHEN THE PHONE rang, Rachel Keats was painting sea otters. She wa
s working in oils and had finally gotten the right mix of black for the eyes. There was no way she was stopping to pick up the phone. She had warned Samantha about that.
“Hi! You’ve reached Rachel, Samantha, and Hope. We’re otherwise occupied. Please leave your name and number, and we’ll call you back. Thanks.”
Through a series of beeps, she applied a smudge of oil with a round brush. Then came a deep male voice that was too old to be calling for Samantha. Rachel would have pictured a gorgeous guy to go with the voice, but he’d said his name too fast. This man wasn’t gorgeous. He was a ticket agent, a friend of a friend, more sleaze than style, but apparently good at his job. “I have in my hand three tickets for tonight’s Garth Brooks concert,” he said. “San Jose. Goooood seats. I need to hear from you in five minutes or I’m moving down my list—” Rachel made a lunging grab for the phone. “I want them!”
“Heeeey, Rachel. How’s my favorite artist?”
“Painting. You need a credit card number, right? Hold on a second.” She put the phone down, ran through the house to the kitchen, and snatched up her wallet. She was breathless reading off the number, breathless returning to the studio. She swallowed hard, looked at the canvas on the easel and six others nearby waiting to be finished, thought of everything else she had to do in the next three weeks, and decided that she was crazy. She didn’t have time to go to a concert.
But the girls would be absolutely, positively blown away!
She threw the window open and leaned out into clear, woodsy air.
“Samantha! Hope!” They were out there somewhere. She yelled again.
Answering yells came from a distance, then closer.
“Hurry!” she yelled back.
Minutes later, they came running through the woods, Samantha looking every bit as young as Hope for once, both with blond hair flying and cheeks pink. Rachel shouted the news to them even before they reached her window. The look on their faces was more than worth the prospect of an all-nighter or two.
“Are you serious?” Hope asked. Her eyes were wide, her freckles vibrant, her smile filled with teeth that were still too large for her face. She was thirteen and entirely prepubescent.
Rachel grinned and nodded.
“Awesome!” breathed Samantha. At fifteen she was a head taller than Hope and gently curved. Blond hair and all, she was Rachel at that age.
“Tonight?” Hope asked.
“Tonight.”
“Good seats?” Samantha asked.
“Great seats.”
Hope pressed her hands together in excitement. “Are we doing the whole thing—you know, what we talked about?”
Rachel didn’t have the time for it. She didn’t have the money. But if her paintings were a hit, the money would come, and as for time, life was too short. “The whole thing,” she said, because it would be good for Samantha to get away from the phone and Hope to get away from her cat and, yes, maybe even good for Rachel to get away from her oils.
“Omigod, I have to call Lydia!” Samantha cried.
“What you have to do,” Rachel corrected her, “is anything that needs to be done for school. We leave in an hour.” She was definitely crazy. Forget her work. The girls had tons of their own, but … but this was Garth.
She returned to her studio for the hour and accomplished as little as she feared her daughters had. Then they piled into her sport utility vehicle and headed north. Having done her research during the someday-we-will stage, she knew just where to go. The store she wanted was on the way to San Jose. It was still open when they got there, and had a perfect selection. Thirty minutes and an obscene amount of money later, they emerged wearing cowboy boots under their jeans, cowboy hats over their hair, and smiles the size of Texas.
Thirty minutes after that, with the smell of McDonald’s burgers and fries filling the car, they were flying high toward San Jose.
Nothing they saw when they got there brought them down. There were crowds and crowds of fans, light shows and smoke, sets that rose from nowhere to produce the man himself, who sang hit after hit without a break, longer-than-ever versions of each, and how could Rachel not be into it, with Hope and Samantha dancing beside her? If she was conservative through the first song or two, any self-consciousness was gone by the third. She was on her feet dancing, clapping high, singing. She cheered with Samantha and Hope when familiar chords announced a favorite song, and shouted appreciatively with them at song’s end. The three of them sang their hearts out until the very last encore was done, and then left the arena arm in arm, three friends who just happened to be related.
It was a special evening. Rachel didn’t regret a minute of it, not even when Samantha said, “Did you see that girl right in front of us? The tall one with the French braid? Did you see the tattoo on her arm? The rose? If I wanted something like that, what would you say?”
“No,” Rachel said as she drove south through the dark.
“Even a tiny one? A little star on my ankle?”
“No.”
“But it’s way cool.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because she was older than you. When you’re twenty-five—”
“She wasn’t that old.”
“Okay, when you’re twenty-two, you can think about a tattoo. Not now.”
“It has nothing to do with age. It has to do with style.”
“Uh-huh,” said Rachel, confident on this one, “a style that makes a statement that you may not want to make at twenty-two, if you set your heart on a particular person or thing that doesn’t appreciate that kind of statement.”
“Since when are you worried about conformity?”
“Since my fifteen-year-old daughter is heading straight for the real world.”
“Tattoos are hot. All the kids have them.”
“Not Lydia. Not Shelly. Not the ones I see getting off the school bus.”
Samantha crossed her arms and sank lower in her seat, glowering for sure under the brim of her hat. Hope was curled up in the back, sound asleep. Her hat had fallen to the side.
Rachel put in a CD and drove through the dark humming along with the songs they had heard that night. She loved her hat, loved her boots, loved her girls. If she had to fall behind in her work, it was for a good cause.
She wasn’t as convinced of it the next morning, when the girls woke up late and cranky. They picked at breakfast on the run and even then nearly missed the bus. Rachel was wildly relieved when they made it, and wildly apprehensive when, moments later, she stood in her studio and mentally outlined the next three weeks.
She worked feverishly through the day, breaking only to meet the girls at the bus stop and have a snack with them, her lunch. Samantha was still on her tattoo kick, so they reran the argument, verbatim at times, before the girl went off to her room in a huff. Hope hung around longer, holding her cat. Finally she, too, disappeared.
Rachel spent another hour in the studio. Half convinced that the otters were done, she stopped and put dinner in the oven. When she returned to the studio, it was to fill another sort of need. But the otters caught her eye again. She gave herself another hour.
Now that the hour was gone, things were flowing. It was always the way.
One minute more, she told herself for the umpteenth time. With alternating glances at field sketch and photograph, she used the fine edge of her palette knife to add texture to the oil on her canvas. The sea otters were playing in kelp. Her challenge was capturing the wetness of their fur. She had started with raw umber and cobalt blue, and had found it too dark. Using raw umber with ultramarine blue was perfect.
“The buzzer rang, Mom,” Hope called from the door.
“Thanks, honey,” Rachel murmured, adding several last strokes. “Will you take the casserole out and turn off the gas?”
“I already did.” Hope was at her side now, studying the canvas. “I thought you were done.”
“Something wasn’t right.” She stood back for a longer view an
d was satisfied. “Better.” Still eyeing the canvas, she set her palette aside, reached for a solvent cloth, and wiped her hands. “I’ll clean up and be right there.” She looked at Hope. “Did Samantha set the table?”
“I did.”
“She’s on the phone again?”
“Still,” Hope said so dryly that Rachel had to chuckle.
She hooked her baby’s neck with an elbow and gave a squeeze. “Five minutes,” she said and sent her off.
As promised, five minutes later Rachel was in the kitchen doling out lasagna and salad. Twenty minutes after that, digesting her meal along with a blow-by-blow of the late-breaking news that Samantha had received from her friends, Rachel gave out cleanup assignments. Fifteen minutes after that, having showered herself free of paint smells and put on fresh clothes, she ran a brush through her hair. Then she paused and looked wildly around for the book she had read the weekend before.
She searched the chaos of her bedroom without success. Thinking she might have already set it out, she returned to the kitchen and looked around. “Is my book in here?”
The girls were doing the dishes, Samantha washing, Hope drying. “I’d look,” Samantha said with little grace, “but you told me not to do anything until these were done.”
Rachel shifted a pile of mail, mostly clothing catalogues addressed to the self-same woman-child. “I was referring to the telephone,” she said, checking in and around cookbooks. She doubled over to search the seats of the chairs pushed in at the table. “I remember having it in my hand,” she murmured to herself when that search, too, proved fruitless.
“You’re not organized,” Samantha charged. Rachel regularly preached the merits of organization.
“Oh, I am,” she mused, but distractedly. She went into the living room and began searching there. “I just have a lot on my plate right now.”
That was putting it mildly. With her show three weeks away and closing in fast, she was feeling the crunch. Okay. She had finally hit gold with the sea otters. But there was still the background to do for that one and six others, and eighteen in all to frame—which would have been fine if she had nothing but work to do in the next three weeks. But there was a dress to buy with Samantha for her first prom, an end-of-the-year picnic to run for Hope’s seventh-grade class, dentist’s and doctor’s appointments for both girls, a birthday party to throw for Ben Wolfe, who owned the art gallery and was a sometime date, and a share-your-career day to spend with three fifth-graders she didn’t know.