Coast Road by Barbara Delinsky Page A

Jill.
    "You deserve better than a guy who ducks out at the last minute, even though his reasons are good. Was it very awkward? " He was inviting her to yell at him, all the while knowing she wouldn't.
    "No. You were right. I was running around. You'd have been stranded.
    Will I see you, Jack? " "Not enough time, Jill."
    "Not even for a minute? Just a quick run in on the way to the office?
    " "I can't."
    "When will you be back again? " She had asked that question often during the past two years. Jack traveled constantly.
    Any woman he dated knew that. Jill was the first who had accepted it graciously.
    And why not? She had her own life, her own causes, her own friends, and was a mature, giving individual. He loved those things about her.
    He especially loved the fact that she made him feel wanted. He would always need that. But she didn't nag �and she wasn't nagging now, though the question sounded different this time. He could have sworn he sensed fear. It was the same fear that he had sensed a time or two before, when she alluded to a future together.
    Usually he skirted the issue by blaming his work. "You don't want to be tied to a man married to work, " he would tease. Or he would say, "Let me get through this patch, and we'll talk again, " or even, "My life isn't my own, Jill, not with so many big projects going on. " This time he simply said, "I'll be back as soon as I can. Pray for Rachel? " Knowing that, bless her, she would probably do just that, he drove to the office, but the minute he pulled into the space that he paid dearly for each month, he had the urge to back right out and leave. There were problems here, too many to label or count�none to do with economic survival, though that was what he had spent a lifetime fearing. More to do with him. He felt confused. The grogginess in his head became a buzz.
    He wanted to run, escape, flee.
    But this was his firm. As a name partner, he had a responsibility to the twenty-some-odd people that he and David employed.
    Taking the stairs two at a time, he crossed through the brick-walled foyer with only a passing nod at the receptionist. He strode down the hall, looking at none of the open cubicles lest his eye be caught, and didn't stop until he reached Tina Cianni's glass-enclosed office.
    She was on the phone. Eyes widening, she hung up within seconds.
    "What are you doing here, Jack? You're supposed to be in Monterey. " More cautiously, she said, "How is she? " "Alive. But still comatose.
    " Tina released a breath. "Well, the alive part is good. How are the girls? " "Hanging in there. What's doing? " She paused, gave him a warning look. "You don't want to know." Again? "Is it worse than a coma? " "David would say it is, " she said dryly. "Michael Flynn was supposed to have revised plans done for Buffalo last night. Calls are coming in fast and furious. Every day those windows don't go in is costing John Perry a pretty penny." Jack knew that all too well. The last time he had worked with this particular developer�on a series of housing clusters�heavy snows had brought work to a standstill at three crucial points. Each day of delay meant another day carrying the construction mortgage with interest. This time the project was an art gallery with adjoining studios, a project closer to Jack's heart than most, and the windows had come in wrong. The contractor swore he had ordered the right ones. Whether he had or not was moot. Reordering and waiting for delivery could set them back two months.
    As designing partner, Jack had done the original work. He had revised the plan to incorporate the windows as delivered. Michael Flynn, as his project manager, was supposed to see that what Jack designed was built, which meant making blueprints of Jack's revisions, getting them to Buffalo, and following them there posthaste.
    "Where is Michael? " "Home. He ran out of here at three yesterday to take his two-year-old to the doctor. She was having a massive poison ivy attack, and his