Coast Road

by Barbara Delinsky

  It was still the oldest line in the book, but she offered her hand. “Katherine Evans. I’m Rachel Keats’s friend. Have you seen her today?”

  “Early. I’ve been in surgery ever since.” He glanced at the coffee machine. “I need caffeine.” Holding up a finger, he left.

  Katherine didn’t like being told to stay put. Roy used to do that—to point out his instructions, like she couldn’t understand without a diagram—and while Steve Bauer hadn’t exactly pointed, his finger had spoken.

  Her first instinct was to get up and leave. For Rachel’s sake, she didn’t.

  “Better,” he said between sips from a steaming cup when he returned and slid into a seat. “Have you been with Rachel?”

  “Yes. She seems the same. Isn’t there anything more that can be done?”

  “Not yet. The fact is she’s not getting worse. That’s good.”

  Katherine felt a stab of annoyance. She was growing impatient, worrying about Rachel. “You people all say that, but I have to tell you, it doesn’t do anything for me. A coma seems one step removed from death. I don’t want her taking that final step.”

  “I know.” He sat back in the chair.

  She waited for him to reassure her, but he didn’t. So she waited for him to tell her how frustrating his job was, how difficult, how heart-wrenching. When he didn’t do that either, she said, “How do you stand it?”

  “Stand what? The waiting? It’s standard protocol for head injuries. Do you live nearby?”

  “Not terribly,” she said, realizing where his mind was.

  “You look familiar.”

  “You saw me yesterday.”

  “You looked familiar then, too.” He seemed genuinely puzzled. “Maybe I’m wrong. Sometimes when you see a face that sticks in your mind, you start thinking you remember it from further back. You’ve never worked here?”

  “No.” To show him how far off he was—maybe even shock him, the way she had shocked Jack McGill—she said, “I’m a hairdresser.”

  The ploy backfired. He looked intrigued. “Are you now? In Monterey?”

  She shook her head.

  “You have spectacular hair.”

  She shot a beseeching glance skyward.

  “I’m serious,” he said.

  “That’s what worries me. I’m sitting here upset because my best friend is in your hospital in a coma and there’s nothing you or your staff can do to help her, and you’re noticing my hair?”

  Smile fading, he backed off. “It was an innocent comment.”

  “It was inappropriate.”

  “No. What would be inappropriate is if I discussed the medical details of your friend’s case with you or, worse, made empty promises about her recovery. In lieu of that, I made an observation. You do have spectacular hair. Nice nails, too. How do you keep them like that if you’re washing people’s hair all day long?”

  She stared at him. “Rubber gloves.”

  “Is it your own shop?”

  It was, but she wasn’t saying so. She didn’t know why doctors felt they could ask all the questions. It was one step removed from their wanting to be called “Doctor,” while calling their patients by first name. “Where do you live?” she asked, doubting he would answer.

  But he did. “Pacific Grove.”

  Oh my. Pacific Grove was posh. Another doctor feeling the brunt of managed care? Not quite.

  “I bought a little house there seven years ago,” he said. “It’s right down the street from the water.”

  “Do you have family?”

  “One ex-wife. Plus two sons and a daughter, all grown and moved out.”

  That surprised her. Despite the graying hair, his skin was smooth. She would have put him in his mid-forties. “How old are you?”

  “Fifty-three.”

  And genetically sound, apparently. Lucky him.

  “How old are you?” he asked back.

  Feeling suddenly off balance, she sighed and rose with her tea. “Old enough to know I’d better be getting back to my friend. I don’t have long. Bye.”

  THERE WERE ten teenagers waiting for Jack when he pulled up at the school. Hope opened the door first and scrambled into the tiny backseat. “How’s Mom?”

  It was a gut-wrenching question. He kept his answer as light as he could. “Pretty good. Still asleep.”

  Samantha slipped into the passenger’s seat, pointing at the others crowding on the curb at the open door. “These are my friends—Joshua, Adam, Shelly, Heather, Brendan, Amanda, Seth, and you know Lydia. They want to know how Mom is. Did she wake up?”

  He had raised a hand in general greeting. “Not yet. But she’s okay.”

  “Is she getting better?” asked the girl leaning in closest to Samantha. He guessed it was Lydia, whom he did know, but only by name. Not that it would have mattered if he had met her before. She was a carbon copy of the other girls—snug T-shirt, slim jeans, long hair swishing with every move. Actually, Lydia wasn’t exactly like the others. She still wore braces, still looked more sweet than sophisticated. Her hair wasn’t as straight, shiny, and neat. She had natural waves. So did the other girls. Now that he looked, Samantha’s was the straightest. She was the most sophisticated-looking of the bunch.

  He wasn’t sure if that was good or bad.

  “The doctors say she’s healing,” he answered.

  “Can we visit?” asked another girl. He had no idea which name from the list was hers.

  “Maybe in another day or two.”

  A boy face materialized among the girls, looking even younger. “I’m Brendan. My mom says to tell you she’s totally on top of plans for the prom, so you shouldn’t worry about a thing. She talked with Samantha’s mom on Monday, and everything’s set.”

  Samantha pushed her friends back. “We have to go.” She slammed the door.

  “What’s set?” Jack asked.

  “Prom plans. Let’s leave. I want to see Mom.”

  He put the car in gear and pulled away from the school. “What prom is this?”

  “The one I need a dress for. I told you about it.”

  She might have, but he’d had a lot on his mind. “What prom? You’re only fifteen.”

  From behind him came a pleading explanation, clearly meant to ward off a fight, “Ninth and tenth have a prom.”

  “When?”

  “A week from Saturday,” Samantha said. “I need to buy a dress this weekend. You said you’d take me if Mom isn’t better. She should have woken up by now. This isn’t good.”

  “It isn’t?” asked Hope, no longer making peace, simply scared.

  “It’s fine,” Jack said. “The doctors are pleased with her progress.”

  “What progress?” Samantha asked.

  “Vital signs. All good.” He didn’t know what else to say. Rachel was only supposed to be in a coma for a day or two. He had thought she would have woken up by now. The wait was unsettling.

  “Daddy?” from the backseat.

  “What, Hope?”

  “What’re we going to do about my picnic? Mommy was supposed to run it, but if she has a broken leg, she won’t be able to drive, and it means going back and forth to school and calling other moms and picking stuff up and all that.”

  Jack felt a little like he was holding an armload of bricks, staggering with the addition of one, then another and another. He could handle buying a dress for the prom. All that meant was standing in a store, saying yes or no, and producing a credit card. Running a picnic was something else. It sounded pretty time-consuming to him—not to mention out of his realm—and he still had his own work to do. He could ignore that all he wanted for a day or two or three. But it was there, hanging heavy and hard in the back of his mind. It, too, was longing for Rachel to wake up.

  He figured he could fill the car with two-liter bottles of soda and get them to a designated spot, maybe even buy a couple of dozen subs. But run the whole thing? There had to be another parent who could do it.

  “I’ll call your t
eacher tonight. Do you have the number?”

  “Mommy does. And tell her about Career Day. Mommy can’t do that.”

  “What about her show?” Samantha asked.

  “What show?”

  “Mom’s supposed to have a show at P. Emmet’s. It’s a gallery here in Carmel.”

  “I know where P. Emmet’s is.” He wasn’t that far removed from the art scene. The charming little side streets of Carmel had gallery after gallery. P. Emmet’s was one of the best. He was impressed.

  “The opening is two weeks from Sunday. What if she isn’t awake by then?”

  “She’ll be awake,” he decided. The list of things Rachel was missing was getting too long. He was just a stand-in, muddling along.

  “But what if she isn’t? Or what if she doesn’t wake up until a week before? The paintings aren’t done. She was kind of freaking out about that. I think you need to talk with Ben.”

  “Ben?”

  “Ben Wolfe. He manages the gallery. He’s the one who set up the show for Mom. They’ve been dating,” she added—smugly, he thought. “Well, you are divorced. You didn’t expect that she’d sit around doing nothing, did you? You date. What does Jill say about your being down here?”

  “Jill understands that I have responsibilities,” he said. At least, he assumed that she understood. He owed her another call. He owed her lots of other calls.

  “Ben sells more of Mom’s work than any of the other galleries do. He’s giving her a solo show.”

  He whistled, doubly impressed.

  “What if her paintings aren’t done?” Samantha asked. “This is the only solo slot he has for months. She really wanted it. What do we do?” He felt another weight hit the load he held. His shoulders ached. The bricks in his arms were starting to teeter. “I’ll talk with Ben,” he said and tucked the thought away, back behind a growing need for Rachel to wake up, and fast.

  THE THOUGHT didn’t stay tucked away for long. Ben Wolfe was at the hospital when Jack and the girls arrived. He had auburn hair and wire-rimmed glasses, an average-looking man with regard to height, weight, and presence, certainly not one to catch the eye when he entered a room—certainly not the offbeat personality Jack would have guessed Rachel would go for. And she had thought Jack was conservative? Ben Wolfe was the epitome of it, but it worked for him. Between his crisp white shirt, neatly tucked into tailored gray slacks, and the reputation of the gallery, Jack guessed he had to be capable enough.

  The woman with him was something else. Everything about her screamed rebel, from the pink streaks in her hair to the half dozen earrings she wore in one lobe to her layered tank tops and skinny skirt. She was clearly an artist. Jack guessed she hadn’t hit thirty yet. He had her pegged as the sculptress in Rachel’s book group even before they were introduced.

  Ben Wolfe. Charlene Avalon. Jack nodded his way through the introductions but quickly focused on Rachel. Her face was peaceful, pale, and still. The tiny kick in his belly told him she hadn’t moved since he had seen her last.

  He touched her cheek. Then he took her hand. Holding it made him feel better, as though he had every right in the world to be there.

  The girls were beside him, staring at Rachel, unsure. To Hope, at his elbow, he said, “Want to tell her what you did in school today?”

  “I flunked a math test,” Samantha announced before Hope could speak.

  “Did you?” Jack asked in alarm, because her performance in school was suddenly his concern.

  Hope was shaking her head, saying in her timid little voice, “She just said that to see if Mommy hears. Hi, Mommy. It’s me, Hope. I’m still wearing my lucky boots.”

  “That is so dumb,” Samantha said.

  “It is not. They make me think about Sunday night. I’m wearing them until she wakes up.” To Rachel, she said, “Guinevere is at Duncan’s. I hope she’s okay.” She raised frightened eyes to Jack. “Did you call to check?”

  He should have thought of it, but hadn’t. “I figured Duncan would be out with his sheep.” He checked his watch. “We’ll try him in a bit.”

  “Charlie knows Duncan. She visits him a lot.”

  “He has a shed filled with rusty old stuff,” Charlene said. She was at the foot of the bed, her eyes not leaving Rachel for long. “He lets me take what I want for my work.”

  “You work in metal?”

  “Clay until I met Duncan. Rachel introduced us.”

  Duncan and Charlie? If Duncan was too old for Rachel, he was definitely too old for Charlie. “How did you meet Rachel?”

  “Through Eliza.”

  “Eliza?”

  “You met her yesterday,” Samantha told him, and while he didn’t remember meeting any Eliza, he knew better than to argue. There had been friends in and out. He hadn’t paid them much heed. “She owns a bakery in town,” Samantha added. “It’s French.”

  “How did your mother meet her?”

  “At the bakery,” Hope said with innocent delight. “It’s the kind of place that makes sandwiches, too. When we first moved here, we tried eating at lots of different places, but we kept going back there because Eliza made special stuff for Sam and me, and then she and Mommy used to sit talking while we helped in the kitchen.”

  “You’d hate it,” Samantha said, flipping her hair back. “There’s always a line. You’d have to wait right along with everyone else.”

  So Jack hated waiting in restaurants. Was that so bad? He hated waiting, period. You know that, Rachel, don’t you? Some tiny part of you must be enjoying this. “You didn’t really help in the kitchen, did you?” he asked. He was sure it would have been against state regulations.

  “Well, we didn’t cook,” Samantha conceded, “but we did other stuff, like fold napkins and decorate the chalk-board. Eliza’s cool.”

  Jack asked Charlie, “How did you meet Eliza?”

  “I used to work for her. I still do sometimes. Mostly I just stop in to visit. We’re friends.”

  “And she’s in this book group?”

  Charlie nodded, returning worried eyes to Rachel. “We never expected this on Monday night.” She clutched the earring that dangled lowest, a feathery thing. “She won’t like that cast. It’ll slow her down.” She looked at Jack. “Ben and I were wondering what to do about the show. You do know there’s one planned?”

  “Of course,” Jack said as though he had known about it all along. “The opening’s in two weeks. I’m guessing she’ll be awake long before then.”

  “Still, the cast’s a problem.”

  The cast wasn’t the only problem. There was also the bandaged hand. Granted, the better part of artistic talent was in the mind, but the body was the mind’s major tool.

  Jack caught Ben Wolfe’s eye. “Can we talk a minute?” Drawing Samantha into his place beside Rachel, he went into the hall. When Ben joined him there, he asked, “Any chance of delaying the show?”

  Ben shook his head. “I’ve been trying, but nothing’s working. I’ve called everyone else who’s scheduled to show, and none of them can be ready this fast. Since summer’s a busy tourist season, our inventory is at a high, which means we don’t have space to do more than one show at a time. They’re scheduled back-to-back from now through September.”

  “How many of Rachel’s pieces are ready?”

  Ben nudged his glasses higher. “I’m not sure. She promised me eighteen. Only five or six may be done, and none are framed yet.”

  Jack wondered how that had happened. In all the years of Rachel picking him up at the airport, she had never been late. Granted, there had been close calls. More than once, she had come straight from work, disheveled and reeking of paint thinner, or covered with paste from some project she had been doing with the girls, but grinning, always grinning, and definitely on time. She prided herself on being where she was supposed to be when she was supposed to be there.

  “It’s not her fault,” Ben rushed on. “She was doing us a favor, actually. Another artist was supposed to have this slot and
chose London instead. Rachel’s been selling so well that it seemed the logical choice. She likes to do the framing herself, but if push comes to shove, we can do it in the shop.” He slipped a hand in his pocket, glanced back at the room, and lowered his voice. “What’s the story? Is this long-term?”

  “Beats me. Can you do a smaller show?”

  “Yes. I’d hate to, if enough of the work is there. Maybe if I drive down and take a look at what she has, I’d get a better feel for where we stand.”

  Jack was surprised the man hadn’t already done that. If Ben and Rachel were seriously dating, he would have spent time in her studio. Jack always had. Rachel’s art was an intimate part of her, foreplay of a sort. Making love among oils had always been way up there among his list of turn-ons. That had started back in Tucson, in sweltering heat, when the smell of the oil would have been overpowering had it not been diluted by sweat and sex. At least, that was what they had told themselves. Granted, they had ceiling fans to dissipate the heat, but it didn’t hurt the desire. Nor had the arrival of children. The studio door had a lock. They used it often and well.

  “No need for you to do that,” Jack said now. Ben Wolfe was too tepid for Rachel. He would never challenge her spirit, would never want to wallow in sweat and sex and oils. He was too neat, too pale. Nothing he did in bed would match what Jack had done.

  Feeling dominant, he said, “I’ll take a look. Got a business card?” Minutes later, he had one in his hand. “I’ll let you know what I find.”

  WHAT JACK found were photographs. He came across them that evening—after cleaning up the remnants of pizza, calling Hope’s teacher to beg for help with the picnic, spending two hours at his laptop and another grappling with design problems faxed to him from Boca—when, too tired to face Rachel’s studio, he settled for searching her drawers. Cindy Winston had suggested that she might be more comfortable in familiar clothes; certainly the girls would be more comfortable seeing her in them. Given the obstacle of the cast, a nightgown made sense.

  Propriety wasn’t an issue. Rachel’s nightgowns were prim affairs. She had always been into warm flannel things, claiming that San Francisco nights were too damp to go without when she was alone in a too-big bed. Her double bed in Big Sur was small compared to the king they had shared, and it was covered by the kind of thick goose-down comforter that he had never allowed her to buy lest he roast, and even then, her drawer was filled with neck-to-ankle gowns.