Excerpts

prologue WHEN THE PHONE rang, Rachel Keats was painting sea otters. She was 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 twentyfive -- '' "She wasn't that old.'' "Okay, when you're twenty-two, you can think abouta 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 concvinced 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 and 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 asqueeze. "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 bookin 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. She had splurged last night. She shouldn't be going anywhere tonight. But last night had been for the girls and their mother. Book club was just for her. She loved the women, loved the books. Even if it added pressure to an already hectic work schedule, she wasn't missing a meeting. Hope materialized at her shoulder. "I think it's in yourstudio.'' Closing her eyes, Rachel conjured up the studio, which lay at a far end of her rambling house. She had left it for the day, then returned for an unexpected little while. And before returning? Yes, she'd had the book in her hand. She had carried it there and set it down. "Thanks, sweetheart.'' She cupped Hope's chin. "Are you okay?'' The child looked forlorn. "Guinevere will be fine,'' Rachel said softly. "She ate, didn't she?'' Hope nodded. "See there? That's a good sign.'' She kissed Hope's forehead. "I'd better get the book. I'm running late.'' "Want me to get it?'' Hope asked. But Rachel remembered what she had been drawing before the otters had recaptured her eye. She wanted to make sure that that drawing was put safely away. "Thanks, sweetheart, but I'll do it.'' When Hope looked reluctant to let her go, she begged, "Help Sam. Please,'' and set off. The book was where she had left it, on a corner of the large worktable. Hope had arrived while she was at the easel. The drawing -- a charcoal sketch -- still lay on the desk by the window. Rachel lifted it now and carefully slipped it into a slim portfolio. As she did, her mind's eye re-created the image her sliver of charcoal had made, that of a man sprawled in a tangle of sheets. Even handling the heavy paper, she felt his trim hips, the slope of his spine, and widening above it, dorsal muscle, triceps, deltoid. Had it not been for the hair, it might have been an innocent exercise in drawing the human form. The hair, though, was dark and just a little too long on the neck. The identity was unmistakable; this figure had a name. Better the girls shouldn't see. Taking care to tuck that last portfolio behind the desk, she retrieved the book and hurried back through the house. She gave the girls quick kisses, promised to be home by eleven, and went out to her car. Copyright (c) 1998 by Barbara Delinsky Excerpted from Coast Road by Barbara Delinsky All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.